The White Rabbit’s lab is exactly what Dante expected. And that’s the problem.

It’s too clean. Too quiet. Everything’s in its place—like someone knew he’d come snooping and made damn sure there’d be nothing obvious to find. But Dante’s been doing this long enough to know: the quieter it is, the louder the secrets.

He steps inside, boots echoing across the tile, coat fluttering behind him like he’s walking into a final boss fight instead of a science fair from hell. His eyes sweep the room—glass tubes bubbling with things that shouldn’t be breathing, notes scribbled in a code only mad geniuses and actual demons would understand.

“Well, this doesn’t scream ‘completely ethical research,’” he mutters, grabbing a clipboard and flipping through it with exactly zero interest in the science. “Lot of big words. No pictures. Must be important.”

He sets it down, then moves toward a metal door with heavy locks, tapping it with the flat of Ebony like he's knocking on a coffin lid.

“Now what do you have behind curtain number two?” He listens. Hears something—a whir, maybe. Breathing? Could be a generator. Could be worse.

He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks.

“Man, you’d think if you were building nightmare fuel, you’d at least try to be subtle about it.”

As he moves deeper, his eyes linger on a tank filled with something—vaguely humanoid, floating like it’s asleep but twitching just enough to be wrong. Dante stares at it for a moment. His fingers twitch toward his guns. He doesn’t draw. Not yet.

“Whatever you are, buddy... hope you’ve got a snooze button.”

He keeps walking. Doesn't rush. Doesn't need to. The lab's secrets are buried, yeah—but they’re not as hidden as the White Rabbit thinks. And Dante? Dante’s good at digging up the ugly