[ Vergil's expression fell for a split second before he composed himself, running a hand though his hair to push it from his face. He kept his tone even, even though an infurno was starting to boil within.]
Always like him to run. [ He's not the one whose been running all his life, thats Vergil.] Was it a woman?
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Always like him to run. [ He's not the one whose been running all his life, thats Vergil.] Was it a woman?