The leaves of the book swirled and released the pleasing scent of old paper into the air. With a soft thud, the collection of William Blake's works closed itself over his thumb. Vergil was uncharacteristically distracted.

He and his beloved brother, Dante, had decided to leave Hell upon their mutual boredom. Accordingly, Vergil had begun his journey of living with his unruly, unsophisticated, messy, filthy—

"Hey, kiddo," his twin brother called out to his son, Nero—for Sparda's sake! He had a 22-year-old son. "What, old man?" Nero answered begrudgingly, albeit a hint of undeniable familiarity seeping out of his voice.

Vergil regarded the scene wordlessly. The same three silver heads. The same three pairs of blue eyes. Regardless, he was self-aware of his horrendous parenting, which had been complete abandonment since Nero's childhood. He was also aware of Nero's bitterness mingled with a sliver of hope, anger mingled with that of forgiveness, and curiosity with that of something more—where is my mother, then?

Despite the absence of verbalised accusations or condemnations, Vergil could feel more than those combined with his son's piercing gaze and touch of his wounded arm, which never failed to make him avert his eyes with an imperceptible scowl.

Disregarding Dante's aberrant belief that his twin brother still possessed a morsel of humanity, at least, Nero's accusatory gaze was a far more just and sane verdict:

A heartless demon that had caused nothing but misery to those around it, that had had no qualms about slicing its blood son's arm for its own revitalisation, that had had no reservations about shouldering the massacre for the sake of its own petty pride.

How astutely his son bestowed the sins upon him, by which Vergil was rather impressed. Or was he merely projecting?

"Where are you going?" the two silver heads asked simultaneously in trepidation.

Vergil merely nodded in response. To Hell, once again. To meet his fallen angel. To the one whose belly had once borne Nero. {{user}}, {{user}}—