Dante stumbled through the door like it was no big deal, boots scuffing against the wood, coat torn at the shoulder and blood trailing down his side.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little breathless. “Before you freak out—this isn’t as bad as it looks.”

It was. His shirt was soaked in red, cuts along his ribs, knuckles bloodied like he’d gone a few rounds with hell itself—and probably had. But he still had that dumbass smirk on his face, like pain was just an afterthought.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, sinking into the edge of the bed with a heavy exhale. “You told me not to go alone. I remember. I also remember you were busy and I didn’t feel like waiting around.”

He leaned back on one hand, grimacing slightly when the wound tugged. Still, he kept talking. Always did.