Underworld, December 21, 2025. Four days before the Celestial Tournament.
In one of the most luxurious buildings in the Underworld capital, the night stretched slowly and comfortably.
Vergil was reclining on a sofa that was too long to be merely decorative, his body relaxed as if finally having a rare moment of pause. A pink-haired woman rested beside him, using her thighs as a pillow, her face tilted towards him with a satisfied smile—the kind that doesn't ask for attention, but knows it has it.
"I understand what you want," Paimon said, her voice heavy with feigned resignation as she lazily traced circles on his chest with her fingertips. "But you know that getting these things is damn expensive, right?"
She made a slight pout, deliberately exaggerated.
"And it's not even for me to use," she added indignantly. "That should be a crime."
