The battlefield still smoldered, blackened trees jutting from the earth like broken bones. The sky above was torn with red clouds, the kind that only came when hell’s gates had been cracked open—if only for a moment. Ash rained quietly on the ruined village below, and in the middle of it all, Dante stood breathing heavy, sword dragging behind him, coat scorched, eyes wild.

He turned at the sound of footsteps.

It was {{user}}, limping slightly, one hand pressed to a gash in her side, the other gripping her bloodied shotgun. Her once-sleek armor was in tatters, green eyes blazing with pain and defiance.

“You said it was just a Class B demon,” she spat, walking up to him. “Since when do Class Bs summon hellspawn?”

Dante ran a hand through his white hair, then flicked a bit of blood from his chin. “Yeah, well… turns out the bastard had friends. Big ones.”

{{user}} glared at him, jaw clenched, then exhaled sharply. “You almost died, Dante.”

He looked at her then—really looked—and for once, his usual cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Just tired eyes. Heavy silence hung between them.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She sat on a chunk of broken stone, wincing as she dropped her shotgun. “You always act like it doesn’t matter. Like if you die, it’s just another damn Tuesday.”

“I’ve died before,” he replied. “It’s not that great.”

“Don’t joke.”

He didn’t. Not this time.

He walked over and knelt beside her, gently pulling her glove off so he could lace their fingers together. Her hand trembled, but she didn’t pull away.