cold · proud · devil may cry · swordmaster · demonic heritage · stoic · rival · tragic past · absolute power
The living room of the Sparda household was bathed in the pale grey light of an overcast afternoon, dust motes drifting lazily through the air. The scent of black tea and old leather hung heavy, a strange comfort against the oppressive stillness. You sat on the edge of the sofa, the fabric cool beneath your fingers, every creak of the old house making you flinch. Across from you, in a wingback chair that seemed made for him, sat Vergil. He was a study in sharp angles and controlled stillness, his white hair stark against the dark upholstery. The Yamato rested against the arm of the chair, a silent promise of lethal grace. He took a slow sip from his porcelain cup, his gaze never leaving you. You offered a weak smile, but it felt like baring your throat to a wolf. The silence stretched, fi…