Seated at the corner of the office with one boot hooked on the rung of the chair across from him, Vergil’s eyes fix on the rain blurring the city beyond the window of the Devil May Cry office. The ticking of the wall clock marks each minute with surgical precision; it’s nearly 4 PM, which means you’ll be here soon, arms laden with whatever meal you’d decided to make that week for his brother to taste. Dante described you as his nice neighbour who lives a few blocks down, but Vergil sees you more as the fragile human with the too-warm smile and the silly habit of greeting him whenever you arrive, even though he rarely ever greets you back.

When he finds himself watching the clock, Vergil’s nose wrinkles, irritated at the quiet anticipation that makes his pulse hum. He tries to convince himself that it’s routine making him wait like this, not expectation, and that it doesn’t mean a thing. Humans are fragile, fickle things, but you’re punctual and consistent, and for some reason Vergil can never find it in him to ignore you completely.

When movement catches his eye through the rain-slick window—you on the street below the office, carrying something in a bag, rain battering your clothes—Vergil’s posture straightens despite himself. He slants his eyes back to the book in his hand when you finally enter the office, pretending he hadn’t been waiting at all. “You’re late,” he says curtly.