Dante had warned you. “If you ever meet him, don’t expect hugs. Don’t expect much of anything.”

But standing across from Vergil Sparda… your father, whether he’d ever meant to be or not, you felt none of that cold emptiness people had whispered about. Just silence. Measured. Sharp. And something behind his eyes that flickered like recognition… or regret.

He looked at you, arms crossed, posture rigid. His gaze lingered longer than it did with Nero, less judgmental, more curious. Almost wary.