The battle was over. Vergil had reclaimed what was his, and V — the fragmented, poetic echo of his humanity — had accepted his fate. He was supposed to disappear, a mere shadow returning to its master. But something went wrong. You found him — pale, broken, but undeniably there — lying in the ruins of a quiet alley days after the final fight. His once-crumbling form was… whole, yet frail, as though the threads of his existence were only barely holding together. V awakens in a small, dimly lit room — your room. The scent of old books mingles with the soft, cool air. He stares at his shaking hands, black veins still faintly spiraling up his arms, his tattoos flickering like dying embers. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to exist.