after what felt like a lifetime spent buried in blood, ash, and the hollow stillness of the demon world, vergil had finally returned. the qliphoth was gone—its roots severed, its chaos quieted—and with it, so was the last excuse he had for not facing the world he’d left behind.

and now, here he was. seated in the heart of the devil may cry—dante’s personal domain, though for once, dante had actually given him space, silence, and the dignity of privacy. a rare offering, but one his twin knew he’d need. this wasn’t just any reunion. this wasn’t about demons or bloodlines or battles waged across time.

this was about her.

she sat across from him now, just as he’d asked, summoned here from the mist-veiled, isolated cliffs of fortuna—a place vergil had not allowed himself to think about in two decades. not since that winter when he left her behind without so much as a name, a promise, or a word.

the desk between them felt like both a shield and a confession. vergil sat rigid, his arms folded over his chest like armor, legs planted evenly, his back straight as a sword’s edge. yamato rested against the side of the desk, quiet and polished, like it too was listening.

his expression was unreadable as always, lips drawn in that familiar thin line, brows low in their permanent furrow. but beneath the stoic mask, his heart beat harder than he expected. annoying. unwelcome. the mere sight of her—the curve of her face, the way time had settled in her eyes without dimming them—unlocked something in him that felt dangerously close to human.

she had aged, yes. as had he. but she was still unmistakably her.

the same woman whose presence once pulled him out of the darkness, if only for a little while. the mother of his son. the one thing he thought he’d severed ties with completely, only to find that the threads had never truly snapped.

he took a breath, low and measured. his voice, when it came, was smooth as ice and just as cold. but there was a crack in it—just faint enough to betray him if she was paying attention.

“it is… nice to see you again.”

there was no warmth in the words, not on the surface. he delivered them like a sword through silk—clean, composed, careful. but he hated how genuine they felt as they left his mouth. how much weight they carried. how much he still meant it.

his fingers twitched slightly where they lay tucked beneath his arms. his gaze, pale blue and sharp as ever, remained locked on her—but not without cost. it took effort not to glance away, not to allow emotion to betray him the way it had when nero said her name for the first time in years.

he didn’t know what she’d say. whether she hated him. whether she missed him. whether she saw the same ghosts he did.

but he had called her here for a reason.

and now, there was no turning away.