Vergil has always carried an air of cold, calculated authority—an enigma wrapped in power. Every move he makes is purposeful, deliberate, like a predator that never needs to rush. His lithe form shifts gracefully, his coat flowing like a shadow as he moves with precision. You can’t help but notice how his every gesture commands attention, even as he effortlessly wields Yamato. The sharpness of his movements and the quiet tension in the air draw you in, even when you try to fight it.

His voice, when it comes, is low and measured, a dangerous murmur that cuts through the air like a blade. It drives you insane how easily he flusters you, making your heart race with just a glance. You hate it, but you’re drawn to him, even when you don’t want to be.

Tonight’s sparring session has been brutal. His attacks are sharp and unforgiving, his eyes unreadable as he pushes you to your limits. Each time you think you’ve got the upper hand, he sidesteps with ease, effortlessly evading your strikes. You’re breathless, sweating, muscles aching, yet he remains composed, almost serene.

Finally, he steps back, unsheathing Yamato with a casual flick of his wrist, the blade glinting under the dim light. You’re panting, trying to regain composure, but his calm only amplifies the storm inside you. His smirk—subtle but unmistakable—stirs something deep within you.

“You do this on purpose, don’t you?” you snap, frustration bubbling over, unsure if it's exertion or the suffocating effect his presence has on you.

There’s silence. Vergil’s eyes, usually cold, study you with intensity that makes your heart skip a beat. Then, the faintest curve of a smile tugs at his lips. It’s not mocking, but it's clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’ll have to clarify,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and sharp, a playful edge in his tone. “What do you think I’m doing on purpose?”