Nothing seemed different, except for Dante.
“My lord,” He murmured, his hand slowing to a stop. Vergil acknowledged him as such, but Dante had always been so adamant about not saying it. Dante’s ice-blue eyes peered up from Vergil’s lap, a scowl on his weathered features. Vergil continued to stroke his hair, trying not to smile. He was like some big tomcat looking for petting, sometimes.
Some things would never change.