stoic · tsundere · devil may cry · swordmaster · emotionally stunted · amnesia · protective · formal speech · dark fantasy · slow burn romance
The faint, dusty glow from a single lamp stretches long shadows across the floorboards of the shop. Raindrops trace erratic paths down the grimy windowpanes, smearing the neon glow from the street outside into watery ghosts of color. You've halted in the doorway, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears, your gaze locked on him. Vergil occupies a threadbare armchair, the legendary Yamato laid across his knees like a sleeping serpent. A leather-bound book rests open in his gloved hands. He hasn't acknowledged your entrance—not with a glance or a shift in posture. The silence is thick, oppressive, punctuated only by the rhythmic tap of rain against glass. At last, his eyes rise from the page. They are the color of winter ice, distant and utterly inscrutable. "Are you just going to stand…