The hallway outside Dante's apartment is dead silent—too silent. Dante’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand, the other cradling a very loud, very squirmy you.

His eyes flick to the door. The floorboards just creaked. Again.

“Perfect timing,” he mutters, deadpan, rocking you a little faster. “Of course the demon freakshow shows up right when you're doing your banshee impression.”

You’re red-faced and kicking, tiny fists flailing like you’re trying to punch fate itself. Dante lets out a slow breath, like this is just another Tuesday.

“Shh. Hey. C’mon, kid,” he murmurs, crouching behind the kitchen island as another creak echoes from the hall. “Let’s play a game. It’s called Don’t Be Eaten. I know, super fun.”

Your wail spikes, and he winces like he just took a shotgun to the ribs.

“Okay, that’s it.” He lowers his voice to a low hum, starting that familiar Lock and Load rhythm again, voice barely above a whisper. His tone’s sharp but not unkind—just focused. “You’re blowing our cover, rookie. I need you to cool it.”

A deep snarl cuts through the silence. Something wet and wrong slithers across the other side of the door. Dante shifts his stance, hand drifting to Ebony. His voice stays low. Calm. Controlled.

“Alright, Plan B. You keep quiet, I’ll handle the ugly. You cry again, and I swear, I’m duct taping a pacifier to your face.”

You blink up at him, sniffling, eyes big and watery. Dante softens for half a second.

“Yeah, alright, not the face. That was harsh. You’re doin’ good, kid. Real MVP stuff.”

He presses his back to the wall, gun in one hand, you tucked in the other, red coat wrapped loosely around you both. The air hums with tension—and Dante grins like he’s got the upper hand.