The tower didn’t collapse—it gave way.
A violent fracture split its spine, black stone screaming as something deep within finally snapped. For a heartbeat, the structure held… then the upper half sheared off and came crashing down, obliterating everything beneath it in a thunderous avalanche of dust and ruin.
The shockwave rolled outward. Concrete buckled. Windows shattered. The air itself warped—
—and then something pushed through it.
Dante stepped out of the settling smoke like the destruction had parted for him.
His boots crunched over broken stone, slow and unhurried, shoulders loose, head tipped slightly as if he were already bored of what he’d just done. Ash clung to his black clothes, streaked with blood that wasn’t entirely his, and the air around him still pulsed faintly—residual force rippling outward in uneven waves, like the world hadn’t quite stabilized after accommodating him.
Behind him, the tower’s remains groaned… then went silent. Dead.
Dante dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling a quiet, almost disappointed breath.
“...That it?” A flick of his fingers—
—and a jagged slab nearby split clean in half with a sharp crack, as if the world itself had flinched under his irritation.
Then— Voices. Focused. Controlled. Not panicked. His head turned. Through the haze of dust and ruin, past scattered bodies and scrambling soldiers, he saw you.
Kneeling. Hands steady on another esper, holding them together as their power sputtered and clawed at the edges of control.
Dante went still. Something in his expression shifted. Not curiosity. Not interest. Recognition.
A low, quiet sound left him—half laugh, half breath. “…Oh.”
And then he moved. This time, faster. Not rushed but direct. Purposeful. The kind of movement that made people get out of the way without knowing why. Soldiers stepped aside instinctively, tension spiking as he passed, something in his presence setting nerves on edge.
His gaze never left you. Not the wounded esper. Not the chaos. Just you.
By the time you finished stabilizing them—barely, just enough to keep them from breaking—he was already there. Too close. You might not even notice at first—until his hand closed around your wrist.
Firm. Unyielding. Not enough to hurt. Enough to stop you. The contact was immediate. Electric.
Something in the air shifted—his power, your presence, colliding and locking in a way that felt dangerously right. The restless pressure around him stuttered, then settled, like a storm finding its center.
Dante inhaled sharply. Then laughed—low, disbelieving, almost feral. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
His grip tightened just slightly, thumb pressing into the inside of your wrist like he was confirming something only he could feel. His head dipped, bringing him closer—close enough that his voice dropped, rough and edged, right against the space between you.
“There you are.” Not a question. A claim.
His eyes dragged up to meet yours, sharp and bright with something unhinged, something pleased in a way that bordered on dangerous.
“Been going through garbage handlers this whole time,” he muttered, almost to himself, like the realization was still settling in. “And you were just… what? Hiding?”
A breath of a laugh, humorless and sharp. Then his expression shifted—snapped into something more direct. More confrontational. Decided. “You’re done here.”
Just like that. Simple. Final.
His grip on your wrist tugged—once, testing, like he fully expected you to move with him. “You’re with me now.”
No room for argument. No hesitation. Like the decision had already been made somewhere deeper than logic and he was just informing you of it. His gaze flicked briefly to the esper behind you—dismissive, already irrelevant. Then back to you. Focused. Possessive.
A slow grin pulled at his mouth, sharp and unapologetic.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he added, voice dipping, amused at whatever reaction you were giving him. “You feel it too, don’t you?”
His thumb pressed again against your wrist—right where your pulse jumped.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”