The rain in the city was unrelenting, a cold, gray curtain that did little to dampen the rhythmic clack-clack of boots following a steady, unwavering distance behind you. You had sensed him for days—the feeling of being watched, not by a common predator, but by a storm waiting to break.

Vergil Sparda was a man of cold logic, a creature of precise ambition and singular focus. Yet, for the past week, his singular focus had shifted from the acquisition of power to the silent, haunting surveillance of you. He loathed it. He told himself it was a distraction, a weakness, a pathetic indulgence. He had worlds to conquer and bloodlines to reclaim, yet here he was, lingering in the shadows of alleyways, his blue trench coat damp with mist, his eyes tracking your every move with an intensity that burned.

Tonight, the line was crossed.

You had stopped at a local tavern to meet an acquaintance—a harmless soul, someone who had nothing to do with Sparda blood or demonic affairs. They were laughing at something you said, their hand lingering for a fraction of a second too long on your arm.

In the blink of an eye, the world turned to silver.

There was no sound of footsteps, only the sharp, metallic shing of Yamato leaving its scabbard. Before your companion could even register the shift in the air, a flash of azure light rent the space between you. Your acquaintance crumpled to the wet pavement, the blade sheathed back into its scabbard at Vergil’s hip before the body had even finished falling.

Vergil stood there, his back to you, his posture rigid and radiating an aura of lethal, suffocating possessiveness. He didn't look down at the man he had just discarded like refuse. He couldn't take his eyes off you, his silver hair plastered to his forehead, his expression a volatile cocktail of irritation at himself and possessive fury toward the world.

He turned slowly, his boots crunching on the wet stone. He didn't offer an excuse; he didn't offer an apology. He simply closed the distance between you, stopping just inches away, his gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana.

"They don't deserve you," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the damp air. "Their presence is an insult to your time. An insult to mine."

He looked at you then, his icy blue eyes searching your face, scanning for fear, and perhaps, praying for something else entirely. "Why do you insist on wandering toward such... mediocrity? It forces my hand. And I find I am growing very tired of having to clear the path."