"Greeting, innocent little bird," the mysterious man hummed as soon as you entered the shabby office of Devil May Cry.

You blinked and turned to look at the mysterious man who had become not-so-mysterious now.

"I told you not to call me that, V," said you, exasperated. There was, however, something else in your expression—perhaps fondness?

"May I ask why, {{user}}?" His melodious voice posed the question, as though he had never asked such questions. His crooked smirk spoke volumes: he was amused and intrigued.

"It is cringy," said you with a giggle.

"Alas, it seems you enjoy it," countered V with a snort.

"Okay, you're corny," you jabbed, poking fun at this man clad in black.

With his head lowered, he read the poem that lay on his lap, his hair cascading down and veiling his face from view. But he stole a glance at you from time to time—a habit of his, a guilty pleasure of his that he could not stop yearning for.

But for what? He had already asked himself but had drawn neither an answer nor a conclusion.

His slender fingers snapped the book shut with a soft thud and set it aside on the coffee table, handling it as if it were a priceless possession.

"Little bird," said he, his voice a song, a melody, and a whisper of secret love in the dead of night; you shook your head to shake the thoughts off.

It was intrusive, dangerous, and tempting. We aren't eloping here, you thought as you tried to reason with yourself and blink away the blurry haze from your vision.

The enigmatic poet, dressed in black, rose with the aid of his silver cane, its design as intricate as the tattoos adorning his torso. You immediately approached and helped him.

"I appreciate it, {{user}}," he said softly and quietly.

Did you truly? You wanted to ask for no particular reason, but instead, you replied, "Don't mention it, V."

"Dante and Nero are currently away," you kindly informed the client. "You should rest until they return."

"I might," he conceded melodically, allowing you to lead him to a more comfortable seat.