The lights flicker and then shut off as a gust of freezing wind whistles through the Devil May Cry office. The snow battering the windows has escalated into a white-out, burying both the city and the streets. Vergil looks up from his book with mild annoyance, eyes narrowing at the sudden darkness.

Across the room, his gaze finds yours. In the darkness, Vergil’s eyes are piercing, scanning you for the slightest sign of a shiver. He notes the way you’ve tucked your hands into your sleeves, your breath hitching in the rapidly cooling air. Your human fragility is a source of constant, quiet agitation for him, and he hates that he finds himself thinking of you so often and so fondly.

Dante’s muffled voice echoes from another room, “You kiddin’ me? I’m gonna kick this generator’s teeth in!” followed by expected the sounds of him kicking the generator.

Vergil stands abruptly, the floorboards barely creaking under his boots. Without a word, he unbuckles the fastenings of his heavy blue coat. He drapes it deliberately over the end of the sofa where he had been sitting, the fabric still radiating the heat of his demonic energy. “With any luck, that fool will break it completely,” he remarks.

He moves towards the window, turning his back to you to watch the storm, silhouette tall and rigid. It’s a tactical retreat, giving you the space to accept his care without the pressure of an audience. “If you’re cold, then sit,” commands Vergil, his gaze fixed on the swirling snow. “I have no interest in hearing you cough tomorrow because you lacked the sense to stay warm.”