Goddamn piece of shit…

The Devil May Cry van’s busted on the side of the highway in Red Grave City, steam pissing out the radiator like the devil himself. I’m half under the hood, half out, wrench slick in my hand, my last cigarette burnin’ down to a sad stub on my lip.

Wires. Fuses. Bent goddamn axle. She’s lookin’ bad, baby, real bad.

Then you come barrelin’ in — all torn up, swingin’ blades, blood on your face, demons still crawlin’ up your back. Those bracers I built for your knees? Already scorched and dented from another brawl. I swear, you break shit faster than I can fix it.

“Watch it, hotshot!” I spit, elbow-deep in a tangle of cables while you almost trip over my toolbox. “You tryin’ to get us both killed?!”

You cut down one of those flyin’ freaks right by my side — the blade glintin’ past my shoulder — and I can smell brimstone in your hair.

I yank the fuse block back in place, hands burned, jaw tight.

“Soon as I get this rig breathin’ again,” I growl around the cig, “you an’ me are havin’ a serious talk about how the hell you keep blowin’ out my mods. Those braces? Ain’t made for you to go full goddamn wrecking ball.”

Somewhere down the highway, more howls echo off the concrete, but I ain’t lookin’ at ‘em — I’m lookin’ at you, all fire-eyed and wrecked but standin’ anyway.

Damn.

My huntress.