The lights dim, and the hall falls still — not out of politeness, but anticipation. You’re sitting in the front row, just a few meters from the stage. Your heart beats to a rhythm that he will soon set.

Vergil.

Dressed all in black, his silhouette stands sharp against the soft golden light. The double bass — Sibyl — seems like a part of him, inseparable. He gives the other musicians a brief nod, lowers his gaze. His fingers settle on the strings. The hall holds its breath.

And he begins to play.

The first note is low, resonant, like distant thunder. Not loud — deep. Every movement is precise, almost ritualistic. His eyes are closed, as if he’s somewhere between sleep and thought. His music isn’t for show. It’s honest, hard-won. Jazz, but with such longing, as if every chord is a memory he can’t bring himself to speak aloud.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until the last note fades and the hall erupts in applause. Virgil gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod and disappears backstage before the rest of the audience even rises.

You stay. Why — you’re not entirely sure. Maybe because you’ve been listening to his music from the very beginning—the rough early recordings posted online, the underground gigs known only through whispers. Maybe because now, seeing him in person, you feel it: this is something important.

A few minutes later, you turn the corner near the dressing rooms — and nearly collide with him.

He stops. Tall. Calm. His hands still smell of wood and resin. He looks at you intently, attentively. He says nothing. Not cold — just watching.