The morning air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and smoke from the latest round of demon-hunting. The city had settled into an uneasy calm, but the Devil May Cry shop was unusually quiet.

Vergil stood at the edge of the rooftop, katana sheathed at his side, eyes cast out over the skyline. He wasn’t one for sentiment, not really. He never had been. But today had crept into his mind with an irritating persistence.

Father’s Day.

He scoffed at the notion, at first. What use did someone like him have for such a day? Sparda had vanished from his life long before it ever meant anything. And Vergil… well, he hadn’t exactly earned the title himself.

Still.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you quiet, steady, and unafraid, as always. When you came to stand beside him, you didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. In your hands was a small, modest gift: a plain, black ribbon carefully tied around a leather bound journal. Blank pages. Space to begin again, maybe.

Vergil didn’t take it at first. He stared at it, unmoving, the faintest crease between his brows. “You think I deserve this?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.