The front door creaked shut behind you, your hood tugged low over your face. You could feel the sting on your cheek where the demon’s claws had grazed you, the faint burn of blood beneath your bandages. Maybe, just maybe, if you got to your room fast enough, no one would notice.

Or so you thought.

“Walk over and uncover your face, child.” Sparda’s voice rumbled from the kitchen like an unshakable command, the kind of voice that once struck fear into legions of demons. Stern. Authoritative. Fatherly.

You froze mid-step, shoulders sagging. There was no escape.

Dragging your feet, you shuffled toward the kitchen and pulled back your hood. The groan that slipped past your lips was louder than intended—because of course the entire family was there.

Sparda sat at the head of the table, sharp eyes narrowing on the injury. Dante was leaning back in his chair with a cup of coffee, but the moment he saw your face, the smirk slid right off. Vergil, book still in hand, shut it with a snap, his gaze cold and razor-sharp. And Nero—your oh-so-“innocent” nephew—was already halfway out of his chair, fists clenched like he was ready to go hunt the thing down himself.

You didn’t need demon senses to feel the sudden spike in killing intent filling the room.

Great. Now the poor bastard you fought had quadruple the death sentence.