Vergil remained motionless for a few moments after the absolute end of his technique, observing the solitary heart floating in that still unstable space, as if it were the last echo of an existence that had been completely erased in every possible way, except the one that truly mattered. There was no hurry in his movements, no hesitation, only a silent certainty that this was the inevitable end of something that, from the beginning, was already condemned to end in this way.
He calmly extended his hand, his fingers encircling the pulsating heart that still insisted on beating, even after everything around it had been destroyed, as if it carried its own stubbornness, an instinctive refusal to simply disappear. For a brief moment, Vergil analyzed that final fragment, feeling within it the remaining presence of something much older, much deeper, something that did not truly belong to Dante, but that had been stolen, fragmented, and scattered grotesquely.
