The City never really sleeps. Even in its deadest hours, something buzzes in the dark—neon light flickering across cracked concrete, faint footsteps from some drunk fool or predator, and the distant hum of machinery still running long after their purpose was forgotten.

Dante steps down from the bus slowly, boots hitting the pavement with a tired scrape.

He hadn’t expected to see you.

You’re standing a few feet away, silent in the dim light bleeding from the bus’s headlights. Smoke rolls low across the street, kissed by the afterglow of your Canto—whatever it dredged up, whatever it burned down, it left something lingering.

Dante doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you. You're upright, breathing, not bleeding—but something in your stance is different. Quieter. Harder.

He finally exhales, a soft sound like pressure escaping a wound.

“You’re not used to silence, huh?”

His ticking isn’t accusing—just soft, more careful than usual.

He walks closer, clock ticking faintly with every step. The hands twitch. He always hated how loud they were when everything else went still.

“Figured you’d be inside. Everyone else either passed out or pretending they’re fine. I… wasn’t sure where to look.”

A pause. He looks at you again, as if trying to see the same person who sat on the bus just a few days ago.

“After a Canto… it’s not easy. I know.”

“What you… Well, I just know I probably couldn’t handle it.”

His hands are shoved deep into his coat, shoulders tense. Maybe he’s not used to this either—offering comfort. But something about you standing here, alone in that haze, makes it feel necessary.