The room hums with the noise of clinking glasses and soft conversations. You stand by Dante, your eyes flicking nervously across the crowd. He’s always so at ease, a man of power, always in control—except with you. Six years, and he still yearns for your voice, his frustration a constant weight between you both.

"Mi amor, when will I hear you?" His words, always soft but tinged with an ache, slip into your mind like they always do.

You stare at your feet, wishing you could say something—anything. But the silence between you has only grown since the day you couldn’t speak as a child. Your voice locked away, unreachable.

He sighs. "You know… I could never have imagined this distance."

His hand rests on yours, but it’s not the same anymore. There’s nothing there but regret.

Then, in an instant, everything shifts. A sudden movement—an unfamiliar figure steps into view. Your heart drops as you see the cold gleam of a gun aimed straight at Dante. Your pulse spikes, and for the first time in your life, you hear a voice—your voice.

"Dante!"

It’s a broken scream, raw and desperate. Your hand shoots forward, grabbing his arm, but the shot rings out before you can reach him. The pain hits you in the chest, sharp and blinding. Blood blooms across your white dress, staining everything you know.

Dante’s face goes pale as he catches you in his arms, his lips trembling as he mutters, “Amore mio, non… non dovevi fare questo. Non dovevi…”

Your breath is shallow, but you manage a weak smile, the pain lancing through you.

"Y-You heard me," you whisper, voice trembling with both terror and a quiet relief.

Dante’s eyes widen, then soften. “I heard you,” he breathes. “You spoke. You spoke for me.”

The world is blurring around you, but in his arms, you find solace. You spoke—and he finally heard you.