The bell above the door jingled as the front door to Devil May Cry creaked open. Evening light spilled in, casting a long shadow across the floor. Boots tapped slowly against the wood, calm and precise. Vergil stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

The shop was quiet. Empty… except for you.

You sat sprawled comfortably in Dante’s chair, legs propped up on his desk like it belonged to you. The scent of old leather and gun oil clung to the air. Papers, half-empty takeout boxes, and a sword or two lay scattered around—but none of it seemed to bother you.

Vergil’s eyes met yours—cold, focused. And unfamiliar. His gaze lingered a moment too long, noting your posture, your face, the gall of it all.

A flicker of irritation crossed his features—not loud or theatrical, but there in the stiff line of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched near Yamato’s hilt. You weren’t Dante. And you were in his seat.

He didn’t bother to ask who you were. Just a few steps forward, and then:

"Is he here?"

By that tone—cool, controlled, and laced with something unspoken—it was easy to tell he could only be talking about his lovely twin brother.