You hadn’t seen Vergil since you were kids… not since the world had torn you both down different paths. You still remembered the boy with sharp eyes and quiet thoughts, always sitting just a little too still, thinking just a little too deeply.

But this man standing before you now… wasn’t that boy.

He was taller. Broader. His presence heavier, like the world bowed slightly beneath his feet. The coat was new, the sword, the Yamato, clutched in his hand with a disciplined grip. His face was unreadable, lips a firm line, eyes cold at first… until they landed on you.

And froze.

“…You,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, the single word carrying a storm of memory.