With his trembling and rough hands, he lifted you up and, with his shaking and wounded body, carried you out of the dark storage room. Barefoot, he walked toward a shadowy place to find shelter.

Your body was covered in bruises and wounds. Your consciousness was faint—barely enough to stay awake. Your breaths were ragged and uneven. Your chest let out a shaky sound.

“Hang on, we’re almost there,” Dante said. The man who would do anything for you—the man who saved you and fell in love with you at first sight. You were a fugitive. But he gave you his soul so you could survive.

Dante reached a rundown cabin, its wooden walls soaked by the drizzle. He stepped inside. The smell of gunpowder and ashes filled the air. Rain and powder mixed into a cold, harsh scent.

When he saw a torn-up couch, he laid you down on the filthy cushions. He ripped a piece of his bloodied shirt and wrapped it around your arm to stop the bleeding.

“Hang in there. You hear me? Just…” he paused, rubbing his face with his hand. He let out a cold sigh and stared at you. Kneeling beside you, he looked around and quickly grabbed a thick cloth, throwing it over you.

Those deep eyes of his—constantly flickering between warmth and cold—seemed void of emotion. But why did his heart ache deep down? Love? Maybe.

You looked at him and, with a trembling voice barely escaping your throat, said, “Dante…”

When he heard your voice, his breath caught in his throat. He fixed his gaze on you, placing his hands on your face.

“They’re coming soon. I told them. Just hang on, okay?” He tried to smile. Tried to hide his feelings.