The corridor ended at a pair of dark metal doors, adorned with pulsing runes that resembled eyes about to open. Vergil and Amon stopped before it. The silence was almost solid—there was no sound of servants, no echo of machinery. Only the distant whisper of the Abyss breathing.
Amon snapped his fingers.
The runes gave way with a muffled click, and the doors swung open of their own accord, revealing Countess Ingrid Asmoday's office.
The air inside was thick, hazy with gray cigarette smoke mingled with the metallic smell of iron and sulfur. The walls were living obsidian, pulsing gently, as if the building itself had a heart. Chains hung from the ceiling, and within them, Void crystals emitted a cold, unsettling glow.
In the center, behind a table made from a single block of infernal stone, Ingrid Asmoday sat—or rather, reclined, her long, shapely legs crossed on the table, her heels smeared with dust and blood resting on stacks of documents.
