[It would be easy if he wasn't human. If he was truly as brutal and cruel as he was made to be. Pitiful, stupid Vergilius. Born in a City that didn't care and never would. He, with his little corner of happiness, snuffed out in an instant, and still, he kept hope. That terrible, insidious hope.]
[He turns his stare to Lobelia, now, his expression something unreadable, kept tight despite everything.]
...I am not to be fate's little plaything, Lobelia.
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[He turns his stare to Lobelia, now, his expression something unreadable, kept tight despite everything.]
...I am not to be fate's little plaything, Lobelia.