The sky above Hell's Pavilion 9 was eternally covered in black, sulfur-laden clouds, frozen in time. The prison was a monument to contained demonic power: obsidian towers, walls of fused bone, and bars made of living runes that vibrated with each step of the inmates.
And in the middle of it all…
Walked Vergil.
"Hm… the design is a bit archaic, but the technology is good." He muttered.
Dressed in the infamous orange jumpsuit, the number "666-V" on the back, rubber sandals that clinked with each step, and that restraint collar embedded in his neck like a scar. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, as if he were on a Sunday stroll in the park—and not surrounded by murderers, world-eaters, and beasts who had been sealed away for crimes as old as creation.
