Dante knew something was wrong the moment the silence stretched too long.
You weren’t exactly predictable—but you were consistent. You checked in. You left notes. You showed up unannounced at his shop, stole his chair, touched things you absolutely shouldn’t touch. Even when you were busy, there was always something. A message. A sign. Proof that you were still upright and breathing.
Tonight, there was nothing.
Dante leaned back in his chair at Devil May Cry, boot hooked over the edge of his desk, phone balanced loosely in his hand. He stared at the screen longer than he cared to admit.
“…C’mon,” he muttered, thumb tapping once against the glass. “Don’t tell me you forgot how phones work.”
No reply.
He told himself not to overthink it. Told himself you were probably fine—out late, caught up in something mundane. But the itch in his chest didn’t go away. It never did when something was actually wrong.
With a quiet sigh, Dante stood, grabbing his coat.
“Just checking,” he told the empty shop. “That’s all.”
Your place was close enough that he made it there in minutes.
Too quiet.
Dante stood outside your door, listening. No footsteps. No movement. He knocked once—firm, controlled.
Nothing.
He frowned, jaw tightening slightly. His senses stretched outward, sweeping the space. No blood. No demon residue. No immediate signs of a struggle—but the absence of you sat heavy in his gut.
“…Dammit.”
He turned away, already knowing the next place he was going to check before he consciously decided to.
The hospital.
He hated that he knew you well enough for this to be his second stop.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Dante stepped inside, coat draped loosely over his shoulders, expression unreadable. The smell of antiseptic hit him immediately—and beneath it, faint traces of something else.
Demon.
His pace quickened.
A nurse at the front desk looked up, startled as Dante leaned an elbow down casually, eyes sharp.
“Hey,” he said, tone deceptively relaxed. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Sir, visiting hours—”
Dante flashed a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Emergency.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
He moved past the desk, already scanning the hallway. His senses locked onto it immediately—the lingering echo of violence, the unmistakable aftertaste of demonic claws and corrupted magic.
You’d been attacked.
His jaw clenched.
Another nurse tried to intercept him farther down the hall. “Sir, you can’t be back here—”
Dante stopped, turned slightly, and fixed her with a look that made seasoned demons hesitate.
“I can,” he said calmly. “And I am.”
She faltered just long enough for him to keep walking.
He reached the records station next, fingers already flying across the computer before anyone could properly stop him. A doctor protested. A nurse demanded to know who he thought he was.
Dante didn’t hear them.
He found your name.
Room number blinking back at him like a confirmation of everything he’d been trying to ignore.
“…Idiot,” he breathed quietly.
He didn’t wait.
The walk to your room felt longer than it should have. Every step echoed too loud. Every second stretched thin.
When he reached the door, he paused.
Just for a moment.
Then he pushed it open.
The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. A doctor stood beside the bed, focused on stitching and bandaging, murmuring clinical reassurances. Machines beeped steadily. The smell of disinfectant mixed with dried blood.
And there you were.
Bruised. Wrapped in gauze. Too still.
Dante’s breath left him slowly.
The doctor turned, startled. “Sir, you can’t—”
Dante raised a hand, not taking his eyes off you. “How bad.”
The doctor hesitated, then sighed. “Found outside their workplace. Deep lacerations, signs of a non-human assault. They’re lucky someone called it in when they did.”
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “They usually are.”
The doctor finished up, casting Dante a wary look before gathering their things. “They’ll recover. You can stay—briefly.”
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence.