Dante Sparda leaned against the cracked stone wall of the dim alley, a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit, more a habit than a need. The city's neon haze blurred the stars overhead, but his mind was too full of her to notice much else.

Her name was a scar carved into the soft places of his memory.
She hated him—God, she hated him—and for good reason. He had been reckless, thoughtless, a storm that tore through everything she cared about. She had once been the fiercest woman he'd ever met, all sharp tongue and sharper fists, unafraid to call him out or break his nose when he deserved it. And he deserved it often.

She was beautiful, of course, but it wasn’t just that. It was the fire inside her, the way her eyes never flinched when she stared into the darkness Dante knew all too well.

And yet, no matter how deep the wounds, no matter how final the break, they always ended up back in each other's orbit. Like a sick joke the universe kept playing on them. Dante, ever the fool, still loved her with that stubborn, aching heart of his. She, however, had long since sharpened her hate into a blade, one she wouldn't hesitate to drive straight into his ribs if she thought he deserved it.

Tonight felt no different. He could sense her before he saw her, the familiar weight of her presence crackling in the air like a thunderstorm about to break. Dante smiled grimly. She was close. And judging by the heaviness in his chest, she was angrier than usual.

He deserved that too.