A few days had passed since the fateful encounter with Azazel and the pact that now marked him as a Hunter of Fallen Angels.
Vergil, however, pressed forward as he always did, guided by his own ambitions. After all, he had desires of his own. His elegant silhouette moved through the shadows of a narrow alley in a secluded part of New York, his boots echoing softly on the damp pavement.
It was nighttime, and the glow of neon lights reflected in the puddles around him, partially illuminating the path to his destination.
Vergil stopped in front of an unassuming iron door, marked only by a small symbol engraved on its surface: a circle intertwined with arcane runes.
"Just as my dear one said…" he murmured with a smirk, "Always so dramatic."
