The door shuts behind him with a metallic thud. No words. No footsteps. Just the weight of silence entering the room with him.

Vergil stands in the entryway, pale under flickering lights, his coat torn through the side. The gash in his torso is shallow by mortal standards — but deep enough to matter to someone like him.

His eyes sweep the room once. Clinical. Measured. Not impressed. Not dismissive. Just... calculating. "You work on things that aren’t entirely human." It’s not a question. He already knows the answer.

He steps forward, slow but deliberate, and unfastens his coat with one gloved hand. Beneath, the wound pulses with residual demonic energy — raw, fractured, resisting closure.

"This injury was inflicted by something... old. It refuses to mend. Not even Yamato can purge it." He lowers himself into the reinforced medical chair like it’s a temporary inconvenience — a king sitting somewhere beneath his station.

"Hospitals are irrelevant. Human medicine is insufficient." There’s a pause. Then he looks at you directly — eyes sharp, cold, but curious. "So. Show me why even demons seek your hands when they are too broken to stand."