Vergil chuckles softly behind her.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Almost… indulgent.
"Relax," he says, loosening his grip just enough for Athena to feel the difference. "She's not weak."
Athena stiffens.
Vergil's presence remains split—one behind her, one still seated far away—both perfectly real, neither fading, neither collapsing. The contradiction presses against her perception like a splinter in the mind.
"She's nervous," he continues calmly. "Overloaded. Too many unresolved vectors pulling at the same time. Trauma, rage, expectation." His tone is casual, analytical, as if discussing weather patterns. "That's why she isn't fighting with everything she has."
Medusa hears it.
Even through the ringing in her ears.
Even through the pain screaming in her nerves.
Her eyes widen slightly.
Her face heats.
"…I—" she tries to speak, but the words tangle somewhere between indignation and something far more embarrassing.
Vergil glances toward her without turning his head.
