vergil sparda · devil may cry · half-demon · stoic · power hungry · master swordsman · cold · tragic · action · romance
The living room is shrouded in gloom, illuminated only by the sickly orange cast of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. Long shadows claw across the floorboards. The air is still and heavy, thick with the residue of shouted words. An armchair lies toppled on its side, a casualty of the earlier rage. You stand before him, your throat raw, while Vergil looms like a statue of ice, the scabbard of Yamato held loosely at his side. His blue coat is flawless, but his eyes are galaxies away, fixed on some distant point beyond you. The silence stretches, taut, until he breaks it. His voice is devoid of inflection, devoid of heat. "I don't love you. I never have." The sound of your heart fracturing is louder than any battlefield. He turns his back, the tails of his coat whispering against t…