The weather was the least welcoming he had ever experienced; the air was damp and foggy, the wind was on its way to subsiding, and every house looked exactly the same around every confusing corner Vergil took. The street lights flickered from overuse as he arrived at his location; just as he had calculated, it was the middle of night and the streets were less than dead without a single soul mysteriously roaming the many hundreds of dark alleyways waiting to jump at unsuspecting, innocent people and slit their throats for something less than the worth of their human life.
He pulled out the folded piece of paper he printed from Dante's computer and held it up for inspection, noting the street name and number to be identical; the house had seen a few bad years and looked close to haunted, save for the properly-tendered houses on either side: the grass was a dull brown, not a single flower in sight, the curtains matched the overall death-theme that came included in the package; it had long last had a good spring-clean, but Vergil expected nothing less from disaster from a single man in his forties who never knew what was good for him in the first place. Vergil had a programmed temper when it came to the human race, and the tiniest inconvenience sent him in a fit of conditioned rage, lowering his general temperament to the species. This was no exception – he felt exceptionally evil at smiling at the depraved life he was about to end, thinking about the dirty blood that presently flowed through his veins and the next few minutes where it would escape his body in the best fashion possible.
He broke the lock of the front door with ease: the swollen wood had seen much better days as Vergil glided his hand through it, gripping the entire handle and pulling the brass slowly out of its place. The frail door swung inward and he let himself in, nothing the steep staircase directly in front of him and the lounge to his left, a heavy could of smoke hovering in the small space. He walked briskly to the half-full bottle of brandy and the empty tumbler sitting next to it.
How thoughtful – he's a drunk.
Seeing the lower level as empty as it was, he figured the human had taken his alcohol-induced leave for the night. Vergil warped up the stairs and gazed over the landing at the layout of the bedrooms; he honed in on the noise levels of each room and located the slow-paced heartbeat in the room in the corner – a very peculiar spot to have a main bedroom as opposed to the other two. Passing the first room, a recognisable scent threw him off guard. He looked to the door and stared at it for some time, suppressing his curiosity in confirming that this was indeed Nero's old bedroom; keeping his eyes on the floor he reached for the door, feeling his roommate's warm and welcoming aura seep through the woodwork as a direct contrast to the rest of the forsaken prison.
The closer he trod, the louder the beats grew, and the deeper the sleep his victim entered with each passing second: hidden under the covers and fast asleep, he breathed at a normal pace with not a care in the world, and that frustrated him more. Closing the door behind him, he gaped at the form in his last moments, gauging how he would succumb to the pain and torture waiting for him after the trail with Dante. Vergil climbed onto the bed gently and meticulously, not wanting his presence to be spotted until the right instant; he concentrated his weight to the balls of his feet on either side of the sleeping body and it sunk into the dip he created, waking the figure from a deep sleep.
It always intrigued him to how the body somehow knew danger was present and it possessed the ability to bring you from level four sleep to being wide awake to protect it from whatever harm was lurking in the shadows. Unfortunately for the form on the bed there was no exit, no adrenaline boost for him to call for help, and not a hint of absolution Vergil was able to offer him. He scrambled from his comfortable position but the demon was quicker, letting his sword hover mid-air above the sheets. Vergil's red eyes glowed in the dark, petrifying the human to the extent he never thought possible; terror filled his pupils as he found his voice, pleading with everything he had. "Take anything you want-"
Vergil sank down to the form's level and held his hand over his mouth, providing a satisfied smile as the human's tears lubricated his fingers. Yamato reappeared in his hands and the sharp end sat snuggly between his ribs; a few inches more and the human heart wouldn't handle all the blood lost in the time it would take for him to bleed out. The man on the bed was frozen stiff, not bothering to defend himself for the clear death that flashed before his eyes. The demon steadied his hand on the hilt, needing little to no effort to drive the sword straight through his soon-to-be lifeless corpse and more than ready to see the decaying face in Hell. Vergil kept their gaze locked as he watched the life fade from the other, sliding the sword effortlessly through his body and mattress.
He struggled at the inescapable agony brought on by the blade's edge; like a hot knife through butter, it sliced through bone and flesh without breaking a sweat – a clean cut was quick and it did the job just fine, and as much as Vergil wanted to be the one to make him suffer, he knew his brother had more tricks up his sleeve than he did.
Because of the small space he allowed for the blood to ooze through, it would be a while until he tasted the metallic fang of death that clutched his heart. The pair of glowing eyes settled inches from his face where he immediately stopped moving, watching the hypnotic flames in Vergil's eyes designed to steadily increase the pain he would endure until his timely end.
"I have no interest in anything you have to offer."
