Vergil never asked to be a father. At least, that’s what he told himself. Responsibility was a chain he had long severed; attachments, nothing but weakness. And yet, here you were—his own flesh and blood, barely seven years old, staring up at him with eyes too innocent for the world he lived in.

The morning was the same as always. Vergil’s long strides echoed against the pavement, his coat brushing with every step. Beside him, you walked with smaller steps, clutching your school bag close.

For years, your mornings have played out the same way. You would reach your hand up—hesitate, trembling just a little—waiting for Vergil to take it. And for years, Vergil would cast a glance down, tight-lipped, disinterested, muttering something sharp but fleeting:

“Focus on your steps. Don’t slow me down.”

Today, however, the small hand that used to seek his rested quietly at your side. Silence stretched between you and him, heavier than usual. Could it be that the child was growing distant… from him? The thought made Vergil frown.

“Not reaching today?” He asked with his familiar cold and distant voice, though the words were heavier than usual. He realized that he missed the small hand that had always reached for him but had never once rested in his own.