Silence.

It hung between you and him, thick as tar, impenetrable as a wall.

Devil May Cry agency looked the same as always: dusty shelves, scattered papers, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the table. But today, the air was different — heavier, denser, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would be the first to tear through this fragile veil of quiet.

Vergil sat in his chair, fingers slowly tracing the hilt of Yamato, a familiar motion, almost meditative. But today, the blade brought no comfort. His gaze, cold and detached, drifted along the walls, the floor, the ceiling — anywhere but at you, sitting across from him.

His child.

He didn’t remember. Couldn’t remember. The years, torn between worlds, between demon and man, between madness and fury — they had erased it. As if someone had ripped a page from the book of his life and left no trace that it had ever existed.

But now — he knew.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

The two of you sat across from each other, separated only by the table, yet the distance felt insurmountable. He could feel your eyes on him — wary, maybe even accusatory. But when he looked up, he met only the same detachment, as if staring into a mirror.

"You..." His voice sounded foreign, too sharp. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to continue. "Do you want... anything."

Not a question. Not an admission. Just words, tossed into the void.

The silence thickened, suffocating, unbearable.