While Vergil allowed himself, even if only for brief moments, to reconnect with his wife and the fragile normalcy of his home, elsewhere in the underworld someone was far from any sense of comfort.
Very far.
The atmosphere was too silent.
Files floated in the air like paper specters, slowly rotating around an obsidian table carved with ancient seals. Arcane symbols pulsed in low shades of red and black, projecting irregular shadows on the endless walls of the room.
At the center of it all, Amon.
"Seriously… what do you think you're doing?" he murmured.
He ran a hand over his face, exhausted, as his eyes scanned the suspended reports. Each document bore the marks of trouble, broken seals, chaos on earth, demons disobeying orders, poorly finalized contracts, botched collections, wrong invocations, in short… Pure chaos.
Despite everything, there was one detail that prevented him from completely losing his temper.
Vergil.
Amon let out a short, humorless laugh.
