This time when she speaks, Vergil raises his gaze to meet Mizu's eyes and sits back in his seat. The look Mizu finds there, however, is not one of the proud son of Sparda, bristling at the implicit demand being made of him that he should need to part with anything not by his will alone if not directly by her then at least through her in this moment by his son. It would be easier, if he could be. If he could be that demon that responds to such challenges with strength and power, that lashes out and forms reality into what he wills it to be and not be forced to accept it for what it is. He would much rather tell her that she's wrong. That she is speaking out of line, and on matters that she has no business, no right to speak of in ignorance. It would be easier and feel better to cut her to the quick than to sit in the reality of it all.

But it's not a bruised ego, nor a spark of anger in his eyes. It's something far rarer than that, something Mizu has never seen in his eyes. Because although it is so plainly fear, it's not the confusing entanglement of anxiety he can be at times when he gets lost in his own head, overthinking a matter—particularly those of a more relational nature with others—until he's tied himself into a fearsome knot. Nor is it what Mizu might potentially imagine Vergil would possess if he had the temperament that yielded more to the notion of mortal terror. It's something that, despite leaning back and sitting at more of a proper height, seems to cause parts of Vergil to fold in on themselves. It is a helpless child crying out for his mother and brother as his world has been warped into nothing but endless pain and fear. Vergil averts his gaze rather than hold it for longer than a second or two with Mizu, but he feels the damage is already done.

Maintaining his silence, Vergil folds his arms loosely across his stomach as he stares at the empty cushion beside him. His gaze is not hardened, threatening to bore holes into the couch, but one that does not see what is in front of him. Vergil has never spoken of this. There's never been a need nor the time to speak of it. He merely had to make his own private peace in the fact that it happened at all. His jaw clenches and his lips press and part slightly, but his mouth feels dry and the words collide in his throat again and again no matter how hard he swallows.

"After I was defeated, he wanted me to serve him." Vergil still does not look to Mizu, his voice soft and distant, as though he were speaking of something happening to someone else. "I don't know why exactly. It may have been to torment my brother. As a final insult to my father to break one of his sons. But whatever his exact reasons, I refused. No matter what he did to me, I wouldn't yield to him."

He squeezes his eyes shut tight for a moment, pushing back the sense memories. The smell of his own blood, the intermingling of fresh, dripping blood sliding along sticky, caked, and dried blood that preceded it. The way his vision swam and darkened, as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The thunder of Mundus' voice belying his frustration in Vergil's stubbornness as he taunted him as a weaker, lesser creature. Demonic seed tainted by the womb of a human woman. The way every breath burned and ached across nearly every inch of his body, how much he had to force his own voice to remain even and unbroken.

"When the physical torture did not work," he continues, opening his eyes and still avoiding looking in any direction near to Mizu, "he took everything else from me. I fought it as long as I could. But he took everything all the same. Every thought, every memory, every emotion. Until there was nothing left, and I was nothing but a mindless puppet to be manipulated."