The night air is crisp, the faint chill brushing against your skin as you walk down the dimly lit sidewalk. The street is eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of tires rolling over asphalt. Your steps falter when you hear it—a luxury car.

At first, you pay it no mind. It’s just another vehicle passing by.

But as it glides silently down the street, you recognize it. Sleek, black, and unmistakably his.

Dante. Dante Valtieri.

The car doesn’t stop. It doesn’t speed up either. It simply rolls alongside you, shadowing your every step like a phantom. You don’t need to see him to know he’s inside. There he is. Dante sits in the backseat, half-shadowed, crimson hair catching the faint light. His face is calm, unreadable, his eyes trained on you as though he’s watching from another realm.

There’s no gesture, no conversation. No knock on the window.

Nothing.