Virgil stumbled through a moonlit forest with no wildlife, for they all fled in his presence. Each step–moving as though he were drunk–rustled grass. That and his labored and angered breath were the only things he heard. His vision was blurred, yet he looked onward with distant hate in his blood-stained eyes. His heart did not ache; there was a gaping hole where it used to be. The moonlight made such a thing painfully visible, as if the cosmos itself mocked his suffering. He walked until his legs began giving out, and so he leaned forth with his forearm resting against a tree.

Staring at the grass, Virgil withdrew to his thoughts. Hate-filled thoughts. He did not blame Cain for what happened– he blamed Michael. It was his fault. Had his leader just listened, he would not have ended up this way. The rest of his group probably died. His brothers. The only ones he'd grown a bond with. Gone.

And it was Michael's fault.

He was tired. Tired of losing. Tired of fighting to survive. Tired of people he knew dying. Tired of demons. Tired of it all. His breathing became more and more intense until his thoughts boiled over and all he could muster was one word:

"FUCK!"

With rage filling his shout, Virgil punched the tree he leaned on with all his might. He expected it to not move, but it splintered entirely. Its wooden contents were scattered across the grass– only a jagged stump remained. Shock replaced Virgil's anger and he looked down at his hands.

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"Hello, Virgil," a voice called out.

He immediately drew his blade and aimed it at the voice's source– a white-haired demon clad in black-and-white robes with a partial mask made entirely of bones, revealing only one dark eye.

"What do you want, Deimos?"

"Cain's plan worked. You no longer have your heart," Deimos answered with a soothingly smooth tone.

"What do you want?"

"Why hide who you are?"

Virgil's grip on his blade tightened– he would not stand to listen to nonsense.

"We know what you are. You know what you are. You surely know of your fate."

"No, I don't," Virgil retorted in-between labored breaths, "I'm free to make my own decisions."

"What childish beliefs. There is a destiny for us all, and every action we take is a step towards fulfilling it. There is nothing we can do about it."

Virgil responded with slightly quieter breathing.

"You, Virgil," Deimos spoke while pointing an accusatory finger, "are destined to lead demonkind upon losing your heart and turning your back on humanity."

Normally, he would have vehemently rejected Deimos's words, but Virgil's hate of Michael burned within his mind. He did not need to think. He embraced who he was now. He would join demonkind. He stumbled forth–towards Deimos–as a symbol of such.

"I don't believe in fate, but I've already fulfilled mine," Virgil responded, forever sealing his future. "I have one question, however. Why me? Who am I, really?"

"You will find out in due time. For now, follow me."

"To where?"

"To the Plagued City. You must meet your people, of course."

And so fates would intertwine at the city of decadence, for Michael, Lucius, Noel, Vera, Miyazaki, Virgil, and Deimos all convened towards it. Michael made the tough choice to leave the civilians–and all his dead men–behind at the walled city. He knew the people would not be safe forever, but he did it for the sake of the ones he had left.