The infinite white remained silent for a few seconds after Vergil's words faded into the conceptual void of that reserved space. There was no wind, echo, or any ambient noise there. Only presence. Only thought. The kind of place where even emotions seemed sharper than they should be.
Metatron stood motionless before him, his long, light hair floating gently like threads of light suspended in invisible water. His multiple halos swirled slowly behind his head, emitting delicate luminous patterns reminiscent of celestial gears in constant calculation. The supreme scribe did not avert his gaze once while Vergil spoke of Lucy. In fact, he seemed to listen with a dangerously genuine interest.
