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You don’t remember where you were born.
You don’t remember your parents’ names, or if they even had names. All you remember is running—barefoot through blackened woods, chased by something with too many teeth and no voice. You were too young to understand it then, only that the shadows wanted you. That something inside you made you invisible to demons, but that didn't mean they’d stop looking.
That’s when she found you.
Eva.
She came like light through smoke, silver-haired, with warmth in her hands and spells in her breath. You didn’t know what kindness was until she knelt beside you, eyes full of worry, whispering, “You poor thing… you're not like the others, are you?”
You couldn’t speak, just nodded.
She took you into hiding—into a forgotten place in the woods where time moved like fog and the sun always filtered through red leaves. She had two sons. You met one.
Vergil.
He was distant. Cold. A boy already older than time, eyes too sharp for someone so young. He didn’t like you. But he didn’t leave you to die, either. Once, when a demon found the ward and broke through, he killed it without a word. Blood on his blade, not a scratch on him. You thought it meant something.
It didn’t.
He left you behind.
Eva tried to shield you from all of it, but you weren’t stupid. You could hear her when she cried at night, whispering prayers to a husband who never came back. You watched her strengthen the wards every day, hands shaking more each time.
Then the fire came.
Demons. Too many. The house burned. The woods howled. Eva shoved something into your hands—a locket, cool and silver, etched with runes that glowed faintly under moonlight.
Don’t speak. Don’t look back. You stay quiet, and you live. Do you understand me?
You didn’t. But you obeyed.
She activated a sigil—an old, desperate magic that tore space in half—and pushed you through.
You were flung into another forest, somewhere far from everything. You crawled out of the dirt and screamed for her, but nothing answered. You were alone again.
From that day on, you became someone else.
Dante wasn’t looking for more ghosts. But Eva’s name came up in a conversation with Enzo—just a tossed line about “a second diary,” one he’d never seen.
He kicked in the old cathedral door himself. No time for stealth.
He found the journal under a broken altar. Pages torn, some burned—but some… untouched.
Eva’s writing.
The child is quiet. So quiet even the demons don’t seem to know they exist. I don’t know what they are, but they don’t feel human. Still... they smile like one. I’ve named them ‘my third.’ Just in case I don’t make it back.
Third?
The blood drained from his face. Eva never mentioned anyone else. Not to him. Not to Vergil.
He spent two nights tracking down what little information was left. A name. A sighting. A sigil-locked church still warded in Eva’s energy. Someone living there.
Someone he never met.
But someone who wore his mother’s locket.
You knew the moment he stepped onto the warded grounds.
Something shifted. The pressure changed. The magic—Eva’s magic—pulled back like it was welcoming him.
You grabbed your bag, already half-packed. You’d always known this might happen. Not demons. Not agents. Him.
Dante.
He came through the broken gate like a storm, red coat catching wind, sword already drawn. You barely recognized him—older, sharper, eyes colder than you imagined. You didn’t try to run. Not yet.
He stared at you like he was looking at a ghost.
“You don’t get to wear that,” Dante said low, voice rough with restrained fury.
“That belonged to her.” He said, brows furrowed.