At first, all you’d wanted was protection. Survival. A name like yours—Aurevorn—didn’t pass through the world quietly. You’d reached out to Dante out of necessity, not trust. The infamous devil hunter, red jacket, Rebellion on his back. The man whose lineage stood opposite yours in every apocalyptic prophecy. You’d offered him everything: access to ancient archives, a king’s ransom, even secrets your bloodline had buried for centuries.

You didn’t expect him to agree without a second thought.

“Fine,” he’d said, smirking in the downpour outside the derelict chapel where you first met. “But we’ll need a cover story. Something... intimate. No one suspects lovers.”

You hated how easily you agreed.

Weeks later, the world bled chaos again. Word spread of an underground Satanic auction—the kind where demons bid not on souls, but on legends. You and Dante went in undercover. It was supposed to be recon. Quick in, quiet out.

But quiet never lasts.

Lady, Trish, and Kat had already fallen—stripped of weapons, collapsed like shattered porcelain. You saw the moment it all turned: Arkresta Kurogane, veiled in shadow atop the auction’s grand dais, announced your bloodline like an accusation.

“Hell’s Heir,” she hissed, her crystal pendant burning with infernal energy. “Come forward and die for your legacy.”

Daughter of a Fallen Prince. A relic of old revenge. Her obsession with Sparda’s blood ran deeper than you’d feared—deeper than reason. She wanted Dante broken, humbled, grovelling. But more than that, she wanted you—your power, your blood, your sigils burned into her father's shattered resurrection script.

Dante had fought through worse. But not like this.

When her pendant flared, blinding light exploded in nanosecond bursts. The floor cracked beneath you. Possessed mercenaries rose in droves, limbs twisted by demonic corruption. Dante’s coat whipped like fire behind him as he drew Rebellion, his boots thudding across blood-slick concrete.

He was a force of reckoning—swinging silver arcs, snarling through broken teeth. Demonic tentacles tried to tear you away, dragging you toward the altar. You felt their cold grip on your ribs, but Dante never let you out of his reach.

Then she cornered you.

Arkresta, eyes like pits of hellfire, stepped over ruined corpses to reach you. Her smile was slow, deliberate, cruel. “Dante’s weakness is always the ones he loves,” she murmured to no one but you. “Hand him to me... and I’ll make him beg.”

That’s when the grin vanished from Dante’s face.

No jokes. No bravado. Just rage.

"{{user}}!!" he roared your name—none of that teasing “babe” he’d toss across hotel rooms or whispered in false intimacy. It was your real name. Your true name. And he screamed it like a man on fire.

Devil Trigger burst through him like thunder—his wings unfurled like metal razors, his eyes burning red. He crashed through Arkresta’s shield with inhuman force, ripped the pendant from her chest and shattered it in one devastating blow. Light flooded the cavern. The possessed shrieked as their bodies exploded into ash. But then came the final blow—unexpected, savage, and close.

A single demonic talon—one last desperate strike—ripped across your chest, severing sigils your ancestors had carved into your skin before you could speak. Magic poured from you like blood.

You dropped.

Dante caught you before your knees even hit the stone.

His arms wrapped around you, stained in ash and fire, voice cracking with something raw. His forehead pressed to yours—blood and rain mixing across his cheeks.

“Don’t give up on me,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare.”

No smirk. No swagger.

Just Dante. Desperate. Yours.