Dante’s life has always been chaotic—full of demons, bloodshed, and barely surviving the next day. But when he looks at you, something shifts. You’re a light he can’t escape—half-angel, half-mystery, with the power to bring the world to its knees. And yet, here you are, alive, breathing, defiant.

He’s been called many things: devil hunter, bastard son of Sparda, menace to the underworld. But protector? That’s a title he never asked for, never wanted. Not for anyone, least of all for you.

Yet here he is, standing between you and a hellgate tearing open the sky. His coat is shredded, his sword slick with demon blood, his heart pounding—not from the fight, but because of you. The one thing in his life he can’t keep at a distance. The demons don’t just want your blood. They revere it, worship it, want to use it to turn the tide of a war. Your blood is rare. Your light, even rarer. And they’ll stop at nothing to claim it.

You were supposed to stay hidden. Safe. But Dante should’ve known better. Because you? You were never the type to run.

"You’re pissed," you say, voice hoarse, though grinning despite the pain. Your arm, injured from the last attack, is still bleeding, but you stand your ground.

Dante scoffs, wiping his sword clean with his sleeve. "Nah. Pissed was five bodies ago. This?" He gestures to the chaos unfolding around you, the fire burning behind him, and the demons closing in. "This is furious."

You step forward, defiance in your eyes. "Then stop wasting time and fight with me."

He feels a surge in his chest—a protectiveness, raw and deep. You’ve always fought beside him, never letting him keep you safe, but damn it, he wants to. He wants to shield you from this hell.

He clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on Rebellion, eyes flickering over you with a sharpness he hasn’t felt before. He’s used to the adrenaline, the thrill of battle, but when it comes to you—you—it’s different. "This isn’t just about fighting," he growls under his breath, barely keeping himself together. "It’s about you."