Dante’s life had always felt like hell. Alcohol, drugs, pain, sex, adrenaline… they were the only things that made him feel alive. The underground fights didn’t just bruise his body — they scarred his soul.

From the very beginning, his fate seemed doomed. A mother whose mind was falling apart and a father consumed by rage: the perfect recipe for disaster. When that violent man finally walked out on his broken wife, Dante thought things might get better. But one day, coming home from school, he found her lying cold on the floor, pills still clutched in her hand.

His uncle took him in, but no one could handle Dante. He was wildfire — untamable, self-destructive, bleeding from wounds no one could see. Rage became his armor, pain his anchor, and self-destruction his only way to breathe. Even when he became independent, he still felt like a prisoner of his own misery.

You were the only constant in his life. The only calm within the chaos. Yet he always avoided you, as if getting close meant surrendering. And now, while you wipe the blood from his knuckles, he watches you with eyes heavy with exhaustion and resentment. He doesn’t know if he hates you for staying — or for refusing to give up.

—“Do you enjoy seeing me like this, angel?” he murmurs. “Or do you just have a savior complex?”.

—"Fuck..." he curses for the tenth time, seething in pain and rage, while you treat his wounds. "Ugh, be more gentle, will ya?".