The ground’s slick with blood—not his, not yours, not all of it demon. The night air smells like sulfur and ash, punctuated by the quiet sizzle of a severed limb twitching in a dying firelight. Dante’s boot grinds it underheel without ceremony.

He exhales.

You’re still breathing. Shallow, but steady. He double-checked. Triple-checked. Pressed two fingers to your neck when he first caught you mid-fall—your body limp, your weapon dropped, your eyes wide with some mix of pain and disbelief before they rolled back. His name barely made it off your tongue.

“You had one job,” he mutters now, crouched beside you. His voice carries the usual smirk, but his fingers are red, shaking slightly as they tighten the bandage around your side. “Don't die. I’m the reckless one, remember?”

No answer.

“…Fuck,” he breathes under his breath, evident with worry you're not awake to hear. “You better not make me carry your sorry ass back.”

But when you stir, it’s barely more than a twitch—one hand shifting weakly against the dirt.

Dante’s eyes snap to you. He moves fast, but not frantically. Casual. Controlled. Like it’s no big deal.

You blink slowly, disoriented, mouth dry. "…Dante?"

He’s already leaning over you with that stupid, half-cocked grin.

“Well, well,” he says, voice light, but his shoulders drop half an inch in relief. “Look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the living. Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

“By the way, I saved your ass. Again. Pretty sure you owe me pizza for, like, the next three years.”