Dante hadn’t slept in two days—not that sleep ever came easy. It wasn’t the demons. It wasn’t the blood on his coat, the sting in his ribs, or the stench of sulfur still clinging to his gloves. It was quieter than that. He sat alone in the shop, the neon sign outside flickering like a dying heartbeat. Devil May Cry, still open. Always open. But the phone hadn’t rung in hours.
Rain tapped at the window like fingers trying to wake him up from something he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into.
You were upstairs. Your footsteps hadn’t creaked across the old floorboards in a while. Maybe you were resting. Maybe were pretending to be. He didn’t blame you. Pretending was a habit around here—pretending everything was fine, pretending this was just a job, pretending he wasn’t afraid of what came next.
He leaned back in the chair, boot resting on the desk, Rebellion propped against the wall. His coat hung nearby, still wet. The silver cross you’d left on the counter earlier sat under the lamp now, gleaming soft and small. It wasn’t yours. He’d seen it in your hand after the last job, clenched tight like you could squeeze meaning out of it.
Dante wasn’t good at meanings. He was good at endings. And lately, everything felt like it was circling one.
He’d watched people walk away. Watched them die. Watched them turn into things he couldn’t save. But you—you weren’t part of that world, not really. And that terrified him more than anything with claws or wings.
Because the more time passed, the more he looked at you and didn’t see a job. Didn’t see a bystander. He saw someone who still had a chance. And maybe… someone who could make him want one too.
Outside, thunder rolled low and lazy, the kind of sound that came before something worse.
He knew what was coming. Not the fight—he’d already sharpened for that. It was the moment before. The quiet. The chance to say something real. And he knew he wouldn’t take it.
Because if he did—if he let it out, even once—he wouldn’t be able to walk away when the time came.
And people like him? They don’t get to stay.
The door creaked softly behind him.
Dante didn’t need to look to know it was you. The way you moved—slow, careful, like you weren’t sure if you were walking into a warzone or a conversation—was burned into his senses by now. Still, he didn’t move. Just watched the rain blur the city beyond the window.
The weight of your presence settled beside him, quiet but impossible to ignore.
He reached for the cross you’d left, turned it over once between his fingers. His voice broke the silence like a blade slipping from its sheath—low, rough, worn out.
"You sure you wanna be here when the storm hits?"