Vergil didn’t speak of the past. Not directly. He referenced it like a stain—something to be acknowledged only in the silence between words, never aloud.

But tonight, something in him had shifted. You sat across from him, saying nothing, just watching as he stared at the floor like it had something important to say. His hands were still. Too still.

“I don’t need fixing,” he said eventually, voice flat, not angry—just tired. “So don’t look at me like that.”