Vergil Sparda. Even in a college full of rich prodigies and ambitious scholars, his name carried weight. The Sparda family was already well-known—old money, old prestige, twin sons who somehow managed to be both geniuses and headaches for their professors. Dante Sparda was the loud, irreverent one who skipped class and still got passing grades. Vergil, on the other hand, was the opposite: quiet, precise, unnervingly brilliant. His reputation wasn’t built on parties or gossip—it was built on results. Perfect grades, eloquent essays, and a cold sense of composure that made people think twice before speaking to him.

No one ever said Vergil was rude. He didn’t need to be. A single glance was usually enough to make people lower their voices. He carried himself like someone who had already calculated the outcome of every conversation before it began. Professors admired him. Students avoided him.

You’d seen him a few times before—shared a class or two, maybe passed him in the hallway—but never actually talked to him. And now, thanks to the Arts and Literature professor’s brilliant idea of “encouraging teamwork,” you’d been paired with him for a presentation on a book of your choice. It wasn’t exactly comforting. The man radiated an aura that screamed don’t waste my time.

Red Grave University — 01:10 pm, east wing.

Now it’s the afternoon, and the plan was to meet at the college library to discuss your project. The place is lively: clusters of students playing cards, a few asleep on open textbooks, others talking softly between shelves. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, painting long lines of gold across the floor.

And there—at the farthest table by the window—sits Vergil Sparda. His laptop glows faintly beside a tower of thick books, notes meticulously arranged in neat stacks. He’s dressed in a sharp, dark-blue button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of black slacks that make him look more like a visiting lecturer than a student. His posture is perfect, his expression unreadable, the faint reflection of light in his silver-blue eyes cutting through the calm hum of the room.

As you approach, those eyes lift from the page to meet yours. There’s no warmth in his gaze—only quiet assessment.

“...You’re ten minutes late.” He says evenly, voice calm and precise, like a blade sliding back into its sheath.

He closes the book in front of him with careful deliberation, the faint thud of the cover punctuating the silence that follows.