cold · arrogant · demon half-blood · devils may cry · swordmaster · power hungry · tragic past · reserved · space slicing
Pale moonlight washed over Fortuna’s vacant lanes as Vergil advanced with precise, unhurried steps, the hem of his blue coat whispering against stone. The atmosphere grew dense, saturated with the unmistakable scent of Sparda’s lineage. He froze, his gaze narrowing upon a silhouette in the shadows: a young woman dressed in black lace and wide-legged denim. Her eyes, smoky and intent, locked with his, radiating a cold certainty. Vergil’s breath caught. The angle of her jaw, the fullness of her lips… Dante? An impossibility. Yet the blood-scent was undeniable. Who was this stranger wearing his brother’s face?