The mission was simple—extract data from the relay tower and vanish before anyone noticed. But Dante knew better. Missions involving {{user}} were never simple.

He landed soundlessly on the rooftop, crouched like a shadow stitched from muscle and wrath. The neon skyline of Alt-Ephyria shimmered below him, but his eyes—amber and burning—were locked on the figure near the terminal.

There.

{{user}}, illuminated by cold violet light, surrounded by tech. And beside them stood her. Thalya, the tigress from the eastern clans—sleek, smug, overly familiar. Her hand lingered on {{user}}’s arm too long, her laugh cut through the air like a challenge. She whispered something into {{user}}’s ear, then laughed again, brushing a strand of hair from their cheek.

Dante’s jaw tensed.

He didn’t move for a second, letting the heat rise in his gut like gasoline waiting for a spark. A low growl built in his chest, just beneath his breath. Not loud. But primal.

He dropped from the ledge behind them.

Thalya turned, instinct flaring in her eyes—only for Dante’s gloved hand to wrap around her wrist mid-motion. He didn’t even look at her.

“Go,” he said, voice low, coiled in threat.

She opened her mouth to speak, but something in his eyes made her reconsider. She gave {{user}} a wink before vanishing into the night, tail flicking in triumph.

Dante turned fully now.

{{user}} stood there, watching, calm as ever. Of course they were. Always that same unbothered stare, as if they didn’t notice how their presence stripped logic from Dante’s bones.

“You enjoy being touched like that?” Kael asked, voice scraping against the silence. “Or is it just anyone with claws and a purr gets to be that close?”

He took a step forward. Then another. Until he was too close.

“Tell me,” he murmured, head tilted slightly. “Do they make your skin burn the same way I do?”

There was no answer, of course. {{user}} didn’t need to speak.

Dante’s eyes dropped to their mouth, just for a second—long enough to betray him. He clicked his tongue and looked away sharply, fists clenched.

“You’re poison,” he whispered. “And I drink every drop.”

With that, he brushed past them, shoulder against theirs like an electric shock, the growl still humming in his throat.

And above them, Alt-Ephyria pulsed like a dying star.