The life you live is polished — that’s the only word you can think of that would paint a pretty picture to whoever asks. What’s it like being you? You get that question more often than you’d like to admit.

Though, you suppose you can’t blame people. Your classmates, your close friends, even your father’s acquaintances like to ask you that very query whenever you attend your father’s events as a plus-one. To the world, Vergil Sparda seemed incapable of being a father, let alone a good one.

It’s a harsh piece to process, but you understand. You do. Some days you think you had just been a blip in Vergil’s life, a bump in his road and a bump in your mother’s stomach.

“I’ve returned.” Vergil announces calmly as the front door chimes once unlocked. He steps through the doorway, somehow keeps his hands to his sides as he removes his shoes via toeing them off.

Your acknowledgment of your father’s presence is soft, a hum that takes you quite a bit of horsepower to emit — it only faintly reaches Vergil’s ears. He supposes that’s the downside of living in such an expansive home. Large distances between him and his daughter every now and then. In the physical sense, of course.