"Looks like they're gone." Vergil murmured, his low voice echoing faintly off the concrete walls stained with mold and decay.
The silence in the abandoned tunnel was thick, almost solid - as if time had stopped there, smothered between the dead tracks and the stories no one wanted to remember.
He walked with slow steps, his boots echoing in the shallow, dirty puddles of the old New York subway. There was something lonely about that moment, but it wasn't ordinary loneliness - it was the kind of isolation that only someone with too much power and too little patience knew.
The search was getting tiresome.
Using the memory fragments he had stolen from Alex's corpse, Vergil had been scouring every marked spot, every place that perhaps - just perhaps - still housed a member of the so-called Faction 6.6.6.
That was the name. It sounded theatrical, almost childish...
