The environment had changed without anyone having touched anything.
It wasn't a visible transformation, no cracks in the walls or grotesque distortions in the surrounding space, but still… something was different. The very atmosphere of the room seemed denser, as if the air had gained weight, as if each particle were being compressed by a presence that didn't need to expand to be felt. It was a kind of silent, constant pressure that didn't crush—but made it clear that it could.
And at the center of it—
Vergil remained standing.
Momentary.
His eyes were lowered, fixed on his own right hand, which remained open in front of his body, his fingers slightly flexed as if he were testing something he hadn't yet decided to name. There was no hurry in his movements, nor any trace of external unease, but this wasn't ordinary calm—it was analysis. Deep. Precise. Almost surgical.
Because what was happening to him…
Wasn't simple.
Before, his existence was already an anomaly.
