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Riley Pierce and the White Rabbit

Chapter 9:

Our Lady of Sorrows

Part 2

Warning/Tags?: Light adaption to DmC Netflix, Dante being a cutie-pookie, size difference, shared vulnerability, platonic hurt/comfort, half truth of Riley’s past, Enzo returning, hired goon squad approaching

Author’s note: This is immediately following after Riley’s confrontation with Plasma in the short story, Tears In True Forms, it’s obviously longer than the part 1. I realize that I’ve forgotten to include the “part 1” and I apologize!!! Hope you enjoy it.

The industrial overhead beams of the loft ceiling was the only place in the apartment that felt small enough for Riley to remain hidden. She sat with her knees pulled tightly against her chest, her small frame curled into a tight ball to occupy as little space as possible. Below her, the apartment was completely silent. The echo of the window slamming shut still seemed to vibrate through the walls. She might’ve woken Dante from his brief nap but she didn’t care.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the worn, striped Cheshire plush cat flat against her face. The soft fabric soaked up the first hot wave of tears before they could spill over her cheeks. She dug her fingers into its stuffing, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and old sweet coppery smell of Arlo’s blood. It was almost a childish comfort, but right now, it was the only anchor she had left.

Her breath came in ragged, jagged hitches. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his eyes—not the warm, familiar look of her friend, but the sorrowful, shifting irises of Plasma’s eye when she said her last words. His body shimmered and tried to retain his shape three times during the argument, each form more pathetic and distant than the last, up until he collapsed to his knees.

She buried her nose deeper into the plush toy's ears, stifling a sob. High up on the beam, hidden in the shadows of the rafters, she could finally let the armor drop. She didn't have to be brave, she didn't have to be rational, and she didn't have to watch him turn into a stranger again. She just held the toy tighter, wishing it could hold her back.

She squeezed her worn plush cat against her face, burying her nose into its faded fabric to muffle her shaking breaths. The soft toy soaked up her tears as she tried to scrub away the memory of the argument.

Just minutes ago, the air outside had been suffocating. Plasma had become the very thing she’s been avoiding, yet…the day since she’s ran away from home, to Vaysl and finally she heard the same thing tumble out of her closest friend’s mouth. “You are mine to protect, mine to comfort.” their voices snarled, their voices echoing in a way that made Riley’s stomach turn. It wasn't an attack upon her; it was a cage. His jealousy and possessiveness had left deep gouges in the Diner just to prove a point about keeping her safe from Dante.

Up on the beam, the silence of the apartment felt heavy. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the terrifying fluidity of her friend's form changing from someone she trusted into a monster born of pure possessiveness. She squeezed Chessy tighter, wishing she could disappear into its stuffing, terrified of what would happen next.

But what was worse, she couldn't blot out the sounds from her nightmare.

Even awake, the echoes of her nightmare clawed through her mind. Little Arlo’s screams vibrated in her ears—high, terrified, and abruptly cut short. She could still feel the phantom tightening of her arm and windpipe, Vaysl’s grip dragging her down. Swallowing around the jagged lump in her throat, she buried her nose into the stuffed cat, fighting a fresh wave of panic. She was terrified of what Vaysl might be doing to him without her there to protect him.

He was so small, so entirely defenseless, and the thought of how he was faring out there without her made it difficult to breathe.

A heavy thud sounded below as Dante stepped into the threshold. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and released a heavy, involuntary yawn escaping him as he stretched, the lingering fog of a brief witch-hour nap clouding his mind.

He blinked, his vision slowly adjusting to the light illuminated by the moon as he lowered his arms. Dante stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening in sheer bewilderment. Crouched precariously on the dusty wooden ceiling beam directly above him was Riley.

She was clutching her knees to her chest, looking down at him with tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

Dante blinked once. Twice. He looked down at the floor, then back up at the ceiling. The absolute absurdity of the visual short-circuited his post-nap brain, wiping away every ounce of sympathy for her obvious distress.

"I'm not even going to ask what's wrong yet," Dante said, his voice flat with utter bewilderment as he gestured wildly at the rafters. "I just need to know the physics of this real quick—How did you even get up there? Did you sprout wings?" Dante murmured, tilting his head back and fighting a sudden, bewildered laugh. "You're barely five feet, nothing, Anita. That is a fifteen-foot ceiling.“

He slowly swiveled his gaze upward, then back down to her pint-sized frame, his expression a mix of sheer bewilderment and utter defeat.

"We are in a studio apartment, Anita," he deadpanned. "There are no ladders. I am the only one who could jump this height. Do you just... shed gravity when I'm not looking, or do you bounce? The math isn't mathing, pint-size," he muttered, pointing a finger upward.

Riley looked down, her small boots dangling casually over the beam. With a trembling hand, she quickly swiped the wetness from her cheeks, praying the shadows hid the raw, red puffiness around her eyes. She offers him an unimpressed shrug and casually wipes her face. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing her voice into a steady, defiant sneer. “You Demon hunter types think entirely too much about logistics," she chirped. "I just jumped."

Dante stared up at her, continuing to process the ridiculous geometry. "Jumped. Right. And I suppose the floor is just a suggestion too.” He smirks, leaning against the sofa. He looked up at the ceiling beams fifteen feet overhead, then at her, Dante narrowed his eyes. The sharp scent of greasy pizza and old takeout boxes filled the room, but beneath it, his hybrid senses picked up something else—the faint, salt-tang smell of tears.

“Alright,” he said, his voice laced with soft amusement, saving it for later. “Let’s say, there’s a fire and the exit is blocked. What's your strategy for getting down from up there?"

She peered over the edge of the timber, her fingers gripping the wood as she looked down at the massive drop, then shifted her gaze to him. She didn't look remotely panicked.

"I'm just gonna jump," she said, her tone entirely nonchalant.

Dante raised an eyebrow, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "From fifteen feet? You'll break your legs."

"I'll land on all fours like a cat," she shot back, a defiant gleam in her eyes. She paused, her gaze dropping to his broad shoulders before she added with a sly grin, "Or, you know, into your arms. If you're offering."

Dante let out a short, genuine laugh, shaking his head. He uncrossed his arms and took a step forward, holding them open with a mocking bow. "Pretty bold assumption that I won't just step aside and watch you bounce. Jump then, kitty. Let's see if your coordination matches your mouth."

Below her, Dante didn't even shift his stance. He looked up, his expression a mix of sheer boredom and mild amusement.

Without waiting another second, she launched herself off the beam. For a moment, she was completely airborne, a tiny blur in the dark.

He didn't flinch. With the effortless, fluid reflex of someone with heightened mobility, he stepped forward. He caught her cleanly mid-air, his large hands anchoring firmly around her waist to absorb the momentum. The impact barely made him sway.

For a second, they stayed like that—her dangling several feet off the ground, hands resting platonically on his broad shoulders for balance. She let out a breathy laugh, her chest heaving slightly from the adrenaline.

He looked down at her face, a slow, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Nice jump," he murmured, refusing to set her down just yet. "But for someone acting so tough, your cheeks are looking a little pink there, shorty. Adrenaline, or did the height actually scare you?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she tapped his shoulder to be let down. "It's called exertion. Look it up, you giant."

Dante chuckles, then glances down, and his eyes catch the source of an unusual, stagnant scent. It wasn't the scent of stale, dusty smell of old cotton and a tinge of blood. There, clipped to her utility belt right beside her machete, was a mangled plush cat. It was partially missing an ear, its fabric greyed with age and speckled with dry dirt.

"An odd choice of gear," Dante rumbled, his deep voice carrying a hint of wry amusement. He tilted downward, studying the ratty little toy. "Given the dangers we face, I'd assume you'd want your equipment streamlined. Where did you even dig that up?"

Riley followed his gaze. A fond, melancholic smile touched her lips as her fingers brushed the ruined ear of the plush.

“This is Chessy.” she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the city. "He's a hand-me-down Cheshire Cat. I have had him since I was little. I gave him to my brother when he was born and it’s been mine since we’ve been separated. A friend of mine dropped him off for me because I’ve been feeling a little homesick.”

Dante straightened slightly, his sharp, predatory blue eyes narrowing as he waited for an explanation. He fell entirely silent, the Demon hunter standing completely still in the shadows of the studio apartment. He looked down at Riley, then back at the dirty, well-worn scrap of fabric on her hip. “A friend…? Dropped off your kitty at 2 in the morning? Okay, that’s weird, but okay. This wouldn’t be the mysterious adult friend, mister Alabastor would it? He scratched the back of his neck, visibly weirded out by Riley’s choice of baggage. “Because if so, the guy’s got a zero-star rating in the gift-giving department."

Anita shot him a look that could pierce through devil trigger armor.

"First of all, no. He happens to have excellent emotional boundaries," Anita snapped. "Second of all, no. That was a different person. And third of all, I don't take fashion or lifestyle critiques from a grown man who wears a floor-length red leather trench coat in the middle of July."

Before Dante could process the burn, Anita spun on her heel, her expression shifting instantly into a bright, mischievous grin as she changed the subject.

"Besides, Anita is just a name I used to keep the demons and other dangerous people under the radar," she said, rolling her eyes. “My real name isn't 'Anita Dikinme'. It's actually—" She paused for dramatic effect, puffing out her chest. "—Riley. Riley Mae Pierce. And you'd do well to remember it, Cloud-Sniffer."

Dante blinked, entirely thrown off his rhythm. A slow, genuine smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was impressed by Riley’s use of rapid-fire deflection. He looked at her scuffed combat boots, her weapons, her feline themed jacket and the faint smudge of dirt on her nose. "Riley Pierce," Dante repeated, his deep voice carrying a trace of genuine amusement. "You know ‘Riley’ means valiant right?”

"Yes, I’m aware," Riley replied, though a small, relieved smile broke through her sarcastic exterior. She playfully bumped against his hip. "And honestly? Given that I am exactly under five feet of pure, unadulterated spice... it definitely suits me a lot better than a dirty pun."

Dante chuckled, tousling her wavy curls. "Yeah. It does. Nice to officially meet you, Riley."

After putting her real name out into the open, Riley took several paces away from Dante, her boots barely making a sound against the wooden floor. Her hand drifted upward, her fingers awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck as she looked down at her feet.

“Hey," she murmured, her voice tight. "Look, about the demon attack earlier... I’m sorry that your favorite Diner is destroyed. It just so happens to be my favorite place too. maybe I should’ve done more. I'm really sorry, Dante. It's my fault."

A slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Demons have targeted him for many years and demon attacks remain as an unpredictable event that no mortal could control. Her apology was entirely and completely absurd. He opened his mouth to tease her about her overactive conscience, but the words caught in his throat.

The moonlight caught her face as she finally looked up. He blinked, his sharp gaze focusing on her face. The dust from the collapsed ceiling was settling, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the faint, tight tracks on her cheeks—dry tears. The crying had stopped, but the stress was still written all over her face.

Dante took two heavy, measured strides until he was towering directly over her. Without a word, he dropped to one knee so he was eye-level with her, his broad shadow enveloping her frame completely. He didn’t reach out—not yet, knowing her loathing for coddling—but his eyes softened for someone so small.

A slight, characteristic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hey," Dante said, his voice dropping into a slightly playful, teasing rumble as he looked down at the cat girl. "Don't tell me you're getting all misty-eyed over that place. I know the shapeshifter demon completely trashed the joint, but is a wrecked diner really worth breaking down over? It’s been rebuilt several times."

“I wasn’t crying—!” Riley swallowed hard, drawing in a sharp breath. She quickly wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, lifting her chin with a level of defiance. “It wasn’t exactly about the Diner.”

Dante’s smirk softened. The teasing edge vanished, replaced by a warmer, big-brotherly tone that he rarely showed to anyone else. He leaned down a bit, meeting her eyes directly. He reaches out, lightly nudging her shoulder with his knuckles. "Right, right. Sure. If it wasn't about the diner, Ry... is there actually something else that’s bothering you? Demons are one thing, but you look like you're carrying the weight of the world right now."

Riley shifted her weight, looking away from his perceptive stare. She forced a small, dismissive wave of her hand, brushing him off. "It's nothing. Seriously, Dante, I'm fine. Just hormonal. Don't worry about it."

"Uh-huh. 'Fine.' My favorite word," Dante muttered dryly as he raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his red coat. He didn't push immediately, but he didn't look away either. She was a tough fighter, but right now, she looked like she could be knocked over by a stiff breeze.

Riley let out a breathy, frustrated sigh. She fidgeted with the zipper of her cat jacket before meeting his eyes for a split second.

"Okay, fine. I’m hurting, alright?" She hesitated, dropping her gaze again. "My best friend and I had a massive fight hours ago. He’s done some hurtful things to jeopardize my trust, and he’s said things he can't exactly take back."

Dante shifted, his expression softening slightly as he registered the genuine sadness in her tone.

"But..." she continued, holding up a finger before Dante could offer any classic demon-hunter wisdom. "I'd really rather not get into it. It's just my own personal mess, and I don't really feel like unpacking my entire social life right now."

Dante watched her for another beat, then nodded slowly. He pats her shoulder tenderly, letting the matter drop. "Got it. Your circus, your monkeys," he said, offering a rare, reassuring smirk. “Just try not to beat yourself up too much. People say stupid things when they care." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crushed napkin he’d salvaged from the counter, along with a cheap pen. With a few quick, exaggerated strokes, he scribbled something down. He stepped closer and held it up right in front of her face.

It was a terrible, stick-figure drawing of the shapeshifter demon, sporting absurdly oversized arms and crying giant tears, labeled: “I’m sorry I wrecked the diner.”

"See? Even the demon feels bad," Dante said, nudging her shoulder with his elbow. "And if he can apologize, the least you can do is crack a smile for your favorite bodyguard."

Riley stared at the ridiculous drawing, trying hard to maintain her brooding pout. But the sheer absurdity of Dante—the ridiculous idiocy of him—drawing doodles on a napkin to cheer her up was too much. A small breath of laughter escaped her, and a genuine smile finally broke through her stressed expression.

"You are an idiot Dante," she mumbled, though she took the napkin from his hand.

"At least I’m the idiot who made you smile," Dante corrected proudly, giving her head a quick, affectionate ruffle. “Hey," he says, his voice dropping to a quieter, gentler tone than usual. "You getting ready to turn in? If you want, you can take my bed. I can take the couch, or… you know, if Vaysl turns up again, I can stay and watch over you. Whatever makes you feel safe. I’m not letting that jackass touch you again."

Riley looked up, a sad, distant look crossing her eyes. It was the perfect mask. "Honestly? I don’t think I can sleep there. It’s too quiet." She gestured to the used sofa. "Do you mind if I just stay out here on the couch? I’m ready to open up about several things I’ve been through. I want to talk until I fall asleep. Could you… would it be okay if we platonically cuddled while I do?"

Dante’s expression softens, his protective instincts overriding his usual guarded nature. "Sure, Ry," Dante said, stepping over and dropping his coat on a chair. He gave a reassuring, lopsided smile and sat down, letting her rest her back against his chest.

As she leaned against him, Riley remained focused on her objective. Sharing these carefully selected memories was a tactical choice, designed to build a deep sense of loyalty and protective instinct in Dante. By positioning herself as someone who trusted him with her most vulnerable moments, she aimed to secure his unwavering support for her own hidden purposes, just like she planned.

She tucks her head against his bicep, taking in his strange, yet comforting scent. Notes of gunpowder, strawberries and leather. Riley exhaled a slow breath, feeling her spine press directly into his abdomen. It was like leaning against a washboard made of iron. She was fairly certain that if someone shot a gun at her right now, the bullet would simply bounce off his torso and save them both the trouble.

"Comfy?" Dante’s voice rumbled, the vibration traveling directly through his chest cavity and sending shivers down Riley’s spine.

"Very," she lied, sinking against him. It was like cuddling a boulder, but at least it was a warm, protective boulder. Pushing her thoughts aside, Riley felt entirely swallowed up by the moment. The sofa cushions dipped under his heavy, battle-worn frame, but against the sheer expanse of his chest, she felt remarkably weightless. Resting her head just beneath his chin, she could hear the steady, rhythmic thump of his heartbeat—a reassuring anchor that grounded them both in the quiet of the evening. The feel from his shirt was soft and slightly cool to the touch, but his body heat quickly bled through.

With his arm draped over her shoulders, pulling her flush against him. Though his hands were gloved and several calluses were traced on his palms from years of wielding a heavy blade, his touch was surprisingly tender. In the comforting warmth of his embrace, the looming threats of the world faded into insignificance, leaving only a profound sense of peace.

"Dante," she whispered, staring into the darkness. "I’m ready to tell you about my nightmare."

Dante’s cocky smile faded into something quieter, his large hand coming down to rest gently on the outside of her arm. His long legs stretched out comfortably as he gave her his full attention. "I'm right here," Dante said softly. "Take your time. I'm listening."

Squeezing her knees to her chest, Riley looked like a fragile bird perched against Dante. Behind her, Dante brushes a lock of hair out of Riley’s eyes, patiently waiting. "There’s gonna be heavy things, things that are hard for me to talk about.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"It’s okay, you’re safe." He gave her hand another grounding squeeze, his voice acted as an anchor, grounding her in the quiet safety of the living room and slowly chasing away the echoes of the dark.

She nodded quickly, tucking her chin into the collar of her jacket. She had to tilt her head back completely just to look into his face.

Dante reached down to hold her right hand, and gave her a reassuring squeeze to completely envelop hers and slowly, rhythmically strokes the back of her thumb, the callous from his hand contrasting gently with her smooth skin. Being cautious to keep his movements slow so he wouldn't startle her.

The dim glow from the moon washed over the worn leather of the sofa, illuminating Dante’s form. His hand absently smoothed down her hair as they settled into a quiet, platonic embrace. For years, Riley’s survival had been dictated by the ruthless lessons of Vaysl. ‘Turn the pain into a weapon, exaggerate the tears my pet. Weaponize your trauma.’ Vaysl’s voice whispers in her head that if she played the victim a little harder, kept him holding her, he would let his infamous guard down entirely, allowing her to get whatever she needed from him.

But lying there against Dante’s protective touch, the phantom echoes of those harsh instructions felt smaller, entirely drowned out by the steady, calming thump of his heartbeat against her cheek. She exhaled a long, shaky breath and shifted so she could look at him. She didn't want to be a weapon anymore. She counted Dante’s eyelashes and the gentleness in his eyes.

Riley felt the slow, gentle, absentminded circles his thumb was tracing on the back of her hand. The calculated urge evaporated instantly, replaced by a wave of crushing guilt for even entertaining the thought. Dante wasn't a monster to be outsmarted; he was a man offering her genuine, unconditional sanctuary in a world full of demons.

"Vaysl,” she began, shivering as if the word itself carried a draft. "As you already know, he’s able to hurt me in the real world as I sleep. But that’s not all, he can also manipulate and control the audio in my head."

She rubbed her arms as if chilling from a cold wind. "He constantly sings that song, Every Breath You Take. I heard it last night. it played over and over, those same fucking lyrics! It became distorted. And then..." She choked back a sob, looking directly into Dante's eyes in absolute, tragic sincerity. "He used Arlo’s screams. I heard him make those sounds before, he was so frightened and alone. Vaysl is able to manipulate the sound so perfectly I can't tell what's real anymore."

Every ounce of her grief and terror was genuine, but it was only a half-truth. She carefully omitted the real horror: she had already been broken, she'd done the unthinkable and made a deal with Vaysl in order to keep her brother alive. She wasn't ready to let Dante know what else she’s done. Without thinking, her pale fingers drifted upward, brushing gently against the sallow, fading yellow-and-purple bruises that marred the pale skin of her neck. Her breath hitched, her small frame trembling under the weight of the memory.

Dante didn’t pull her into a suffocating embrace, knowing the sudden restriction might trigger her further. Without a word, he gently enveloped her smaller hand, slowly uncurling her fingers from her collarbone and intertwining his with hers. His touch was firm, steady, and undeniably protective. He didn't offer pity, which she was grateful for. He pulls her hand down to rest safely on his chest, where the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart served as a relentless anchor to the waking world.

The sudden motion made her breath hitch, and she looked up, genuinely taken aback by his unexpected gentleness. Dante held her gaze with a soft, quiet understanding in his eyes. She nuzzles imperceptibly into his side, finding an anchor in his warmth.

He shifts closer, tucking her small form under his arm. He absently rubs comforting circles into her back, gently resting his chin against the top of her head as they held each other on the couch, his long legs folded awkwardly to fit the cramped space between the cushions and the coffee table.

"Hey," Dante said, his voice unusually quiet and steady. "These emotions are real. What you feel—that terror, that need to protect him—that's all entirely real. You're carrying one hell of a load, but you don't have to carry it alone. Not anymore. Let me worry about the mind games. I'll make sure Vasyl pays for every goddamn scream and bruise he inflicted upon you." He rested his chin against her head, inhaling the faint scent of lavender and vanilla that clung to her jacket.

Riley let out a soft breath, her shoulders rising and falling in rhythm with his heavy heartbeat. She felt safe here, tucked safely against him, but the ghost of her past still hung in the air between them like a noxious fog. Riley is curled up tight against him, her fingers loosely picking the worn edges of his gun belt across his chest. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside.

Dante stares at the ceiling, his voice dropping into a gentle tone. "Can you tell me how you and your little brother got separated?" He felt her tighten against him. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

“I can do it.” Riley’s breath hitched. Her chin trembles for a split second before she forces her jaw to lock. Her eyes, glassy and brimming with unshed tears, narrow into a hard, fierce stare as she fights to keep her composure. She swallows the lump in her throat, refusing to break down in front of him.

"A portal opened from my world," she says, her voice tight and strained, cracking slightly under the weight of the memory. "We were fleeing from Vaysl and we got attacked by this Alpha demon. It all happened so fast. I was pushed through the rift, and before I could reach back out for him... it snapped shut. The portal closed with Vaysl’s Devil sword stuck within this realm.”

She takes a sharp, jagged breath, her fists clenching so tightly her knuckles turn white. "Arlo’s still stuck on the other side. And he isn't alone. He's trapped there with Vaysl Crowe, the fucking entity of Beezelbub. Doing god knows what and I’m stuck here."

Dante listens in absolute silence. When she finishes, he tightens his grip on her shoulder just enough to let her know he's there. His expression softens, replaced by a grim, quiet resolve. He looks down at her, his expression dead serious.

"Riley," Dante says, his voice low, steady, and carrying an absolute certainty that cuts through her panic as he lifts her chin to get her to look at him.. "Look at me. I'm going to find your brother. And I am bringing him back. That's a promise."

Riley let out a shaky, ragged breath, the tension in her shoulders beginning to uncoil under the weight of his steady, comforting presence. She leaned slightly into his touch, grateful for the anchor in the storm. But she had more to share. “There’s…more.”

"Yeah?" Dante murmured, his deep voice rumbling reassuringly against the back of her head. "You don't have to rush into anything until you're ready, okay?”

“No, I want to.” Riley closed her eyes, exhaling a long, shaky breath. She tilted her head up slightly, offering a small, grateful smile, before burying her face back into the warmth of his shirt. She didn't have to be strong tonight; in the arms of a friend, she was perfectly safe.

Riley shifts her weight beside Dante, choosing vulnerability over the violent conditioning Vaysl had demanded. Curled up against him, she offers a soft, honest glimpse into her past—recounting the arson fire that claimed her parents and the deaths of her living grandparents who raised her, leaving her to raise her little brother alone.

"Dante?" she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the apartment. “I never told you about my folks, did I?”

He adjusted his arm, offering her a steady, grounding presence. "No."

"Well…I had parents—grandparents," she murmured, gazing into the shadows beyond the pool table. She leaned back into the crook of his arm, secretly enjoying how his larger, steady frame dwarfed her own smaller one. "Arthur and Elaine. They were... good people. Simple. Adoring. They made the dark things in the world feel like they were just make-believe."

"And then they were just—gone," Riley said. She omitted the specifics, glossing over the details and the brutal, unnatural ruin that heartbreak had left of the only sanctuary she had ever known. "Everything fell apart after that. The man who was once my dad, the woman who birthed us, became nothing but a ghost, they were supposed to raise us... he was a different kind of monster. The kind that drinks and uses locks on the outside of doors and makes the house feel like a cage."

Dante’s fingers stilled on her arm for a heartbeat, his own gaze fixed on the stained ceiling, before he resumed his slow, steady caress.

"So we ran," she continued, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. "I didn't have a plan, just a backpack and a sick little brother who was getting sicker. I promised him I’d keep him safe. I promised him we'd find our own green porch. We lived out on the streets for a few months…found a group home that took us in, fed us and kept us warm. I returned home to grab some things I left behind and that’s how I discovered the aftermath of the fire.”

Dante’s entire body goes rigid.

The casual rise and fall of his chest stops instantly. The fingers resting on her shoulder freeze, twitching slightly as a cold shock spikes through his veins. His eyes widen in the dark, staring blankly ahead as her words echo in his mind—ash, locked doors, a mother, a brother, a coordinated slaughter.

It is a mirror image of the night his own life ended. The night his mother died and Vergil was lost to the flames and the monsters.

He didn't look down at her immediately; he couldn’t. The sudden, agonizing realization that Riley carries the exact same phantom burns in her soul hits him like a physical blow. The cocky Devil Hunter facade shatters completely, leaving only a tense, wide-eyed silence as he processes the horrific reality of their shared trauma. "What happened?"

Riley’s fingers tracing the hem of his coat. "I’ve heard detectives say that it was an arson-homicide, it took them both.” She stopped there, jaw tightening. She didn't mention the rest. She couldn’t bring up the crushing, suffocating guilt that coiled around her throat whenever she thought of the suffocating haze of smoke hanging in the air, the stinging, heavy-sweet stench of scorched carpet and wallpaper, and—most vividly—the horrific, visceral odor of burnt flesh. It was a vile, rancid perfume that seeped into her skin and clothes, burning itself so deeply into her memory that she could still taste it on the back of her throat.

She fights back tears to withhold a dark secret that she might’ve been the one responsible for causing the deaths of her parents, thus leaving her and her brother orphans for a second time.

Dante lets the sudden silence of the room stretch between them. He didn’t look at her right away—not until she finished telling him about the arson-homicide, her voice flat and scrubbed of any real inflection.

"And your grandparents?" Dante asked, his voice dropping an octave, tracing light circles to the back of her hand. "After that?"

Riley shifted against his chest. Her head rested right under his chin. She didn't look up from the floor. "Heartbreak," she said simply. "They must have died from heartbreak."

She didn't say anything else after that. She didn't give him the date, or tell him which hospital, or explain if it happened weeks or months before or after the fire. She just stopped speaking entirely, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead deeper into his shoulder.

Dante didn't push for details. He just wrapped his large, calloused arm a little tighter around her shoulders, anchoring her against him on the mismatched couch while the weight of the quiet room settled over them both.

A lump formed in Riley's throat, but she didn't tense up. She blinked back the sting of sudden tears, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his hand, seeking comfort rather than the old familiar fight-or-flight response. "Its just me and Arlo now. I became the only anchor he has. I had to raise him, teach him how to navigate the world when I was still trying to figure it out myself. I learned very early how to be tough. How to carry the weight of the world that felt too large and too quiet."

Dante pressed a tender, short kiss to the top of her head. "You were just a kid, Riley. You shouldn't have had to carry that."

Riley froze, her muscles locking up entirely. A tiny, involuntary gasp escaped her lips as her eyes went wide. She looked up at him in surprise, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she slowed her heartbeat. The kiss was brief, but besides that, she worries about what Mister Rabbit would say if he saw this. Besides from the White Rabbit and Plasma, she wasn’t expecting the son of Sparda to acknowledge the sacrifices she made, let alone rewarded her with tenderness. She tilted her face up to meet Dante's eyes, offering a small, sad, but undeniably victorious smile. “I—I did, though," she said softly, brushing off her blush from her cheeks as though there was no malice or self-pity in her tone. "It shaped who I am. It taught me how to survive."

Dante didn't say a word at first. He just pulled her in closer, his big arm wrapping securely around her shoulders, letting the silent solidarity speak for itself. She knew he had his own share of dark, chaotic burdens, and she loved that he didn't ask her to strip herself completely bare right now. She had more demons hidden away in the deepest corners of her mind—terrible, unspeakable nights of surviving the very worst parts of her past—and she intended to keep those secrets closely guarded; some scars are too jagged to expose, even to someone as safe as Dante.

But here, wrapped in the comforting fortress of Dante's arms, the heavy, dark secrets were resting. For the first time in years, Riley allowed herself to just breathe, platonically tucked against him, safe, small, and entirely in control of her own destiny.

Dante’s fingers ran thoughtfully through his hair before he let them drift onto Riley’s wrist. He was usually so loud, so annoyingly cheerful, but the silence that stretched between them felt heavy, honest.

Riley shifted on top of him, her smaller frame looking even tinier against him. She had just confided in him—a quiet admission about her own past, the things she had lost. Seeing her vulnerable tore through the cynical armor Dante wore every single day.

Slowly, his eyes drifted to the intricate half of the amulet resting against his chest. He unclasped the chain. It was his mother's—the only piece of his childhood left untarnished by the flames.

"Here," Dante murmured, his voice lacking its usual boisterous edge. He held it out to her, the polished metal glinting in the dark. "Hold onto this for a bit, will ya?"

Riley blinked, surprised, taking the heavy metal charm into her palm. As she gripped it tightly, she offered him her own amulet—a small, simple silver band she had always kept hidden beneath her collar. It was a silent pact of shared survival, a mutual understanding of the ghosts they both carried. The heavy, warm piece of the amulet rested in her palm, humming with arcane demonic power. It was the exact artifact she had been sent to steal, the key to unlocking the sealed portal that could destroy the barrier to reunite her brother. What other demons had spent agonizing weeks to get, she managed to get in only two days for this exact moment.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, the impulse to close her fist, pocket the amulet, and vanish into the night screaming in her mind. But as she looked from the glittering treasure up to Dante’s face—open, raw, and finally trusting her with the most precious piece of his soul—her fingers faltered. A sudden wave of conflict washed over her, and she chose not to strike yet. She wasn't ready to break him completely. Not yet.

"It’s beautiful, Dante," Riley lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She rested her head back on his shoulder, hiding her eyes from his gaze as she deliberately kept her connection to the White Rabbit a secret. "Thank you for trusting me with it."

A small sad smile cracks Dante’s lips as he lets out a ragged breath, the rough exterior cracking entirely. He leaned back into the couch, pulling his knees up and wrapping an arm around Riley’s shoulders, drawing her in close until she was tucked securely against his chest. She didn't mind. She just leaned into him, resting her head in the space just beneath his shoulder.

"I still hear the fire, Riley," Dante whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "Every time I close my eyes... or see a flicker of a flame, I'm right back in that closet. I can smell the smoke."

He swallowed, his jaw tightening. "I thought Vergil was right there with me. I thought we were both going to make it, but I was the only one who survived, and I just... I ran."

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a heavy, shuddering exhale. His fingers traced a slow, comforting rhythm up and down her arm.

"Sometimes it feels like the only thing keeping me going is the anger," Dante continued, laying his soul bare for the first time. "But right now... it's nice to know I’m not the only one."

Riley didn't offer him pity; she just listened, her presence a quiet anchor in his storm of memories. She shifted, turning slightly so her face was pressed to his chest, and reached up to gently touch his cheek.

"You're allowed to be tired, Dante," she said softly. "You carry enough for the both of us. You don't have to be a demon hunter all the time, not with me."

Dante didn't answer right away. He just tightened his hold on her, resting his chin on the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her hair and the faint smell of lavender and vanilla that always seemed to follow her around. In the dim, quiet dark, he let himself sink into the warmth of the couch. He idly fiddles with Riley’s small silver amulet resting in his palm, while she curls her fingers around his own heavy pendant.

Stroking her amulet between his thumb and forefinger, Dante holds it up to the dim moonlight. He gives it a gentle shake, noticing a faint, shifting weight inside. "So, what’s the deal with this thing anyway?" Dante asks, peering closely at the seam. "Feels like there's some loose powder or something trapped inside. Did you stash some premium salt in here?" He gives it a quick sniff.

Riley looks up from his chest, her expression shifting from peaceful to deadpan. "Be careful with that, Dante. It holds my boyfriend's ashes."

Dante freezes. His thumbs instantly stiffen, holding the silver casing as if it were a live grenade. The characteristic smirk vanishes from his face, replaced by wide eyes and a sudden lack of blinking. He carefully positions his other hand underneath it, terrified of dropping it.

"Oh," Dante squeaks, his voice cracking slightly before he clears his throat. "Right. Total respect. Not salt. Keeping it locked down."

Riley lets out a soft, amused huff at his sudden panic, leaning back into his warmth. Dante relaxes just a fraction, keeping his hands incredibly steady as he returns to holding her close, silently vowing never to shake that piece of jewelry again. “Mind telling me the story behind this…?”

“He used to be my boyfriend. His name was Travis Cunningham.” She whispers. “He was the first person who ever made me feel safe, loved and respected me, he liked me for being me. But I was so stupid," she whispered, her voice cracking against the quiet of the apartment.

Dante grazes his fingers over the oversized sleeve of her hoodie, before tracing light circles over the open skin on her shoulder. He was acutely aware of how fragile she looked compared to him, so he used the absolute lightest touch he could manage. With the pad of his thumb, he began to draw slow, mesmerizing circles against her smooth skin.

He stayed silent, letting the steady, repetitive motion do the talking. Slowly, the tension left Riley’s frame, her breathing syncing up with the rhythm of his hand. She closed her eyes, trying to focus solely on the hypnotic patterns against her arm and her palm. The motion felt like a silent promise that for this brief moment, in the shadowed expanse of the world, she was entirely safe.

"Travis just wanted to help me and my little brother," she continued, her throat tightening. "But I... I thought he was pitying us. I was so fiercely proud, so desperate to prove we could survive on our own without his 'noble' charity. I threw his concern right back in his face. I called him a savior complex, told him we didn't need him, and slammed the door in his face. I didn't even let him say goodbye to Arlo."

She squeezed her eyes shut, a bitter, trembling laugh escaping her lips as she fought back the shakiness in her voice. "I didn't realize until it was too much later that Travis was sick himself. He didn't tell anyone, least of all me. By the time I swallowed my pride and went to his house to apologize, he was already bedridden," Riley continued, her voice trembling.

“The leukemia was eating him alive. When I finally apologized, when I told him I was wrong, he didn't even yell. He just smiled and held my hand." She looked down at her small, calloused hands, as if still feeling his grip. "He was dying, Dante. And he spent his last weeks worrying about us, while I had spent two years treating him like the enemy."

Riley takes a shuddering sigh to compose herself. “I made amends, yes. We cleared the air, and I was with him until the end," she said, her voice muffled against her jacket. "He told me that he loves me. Whether I believe it or not, but I know that I have to live with the fact that I wasted so much time being angry when I could have been by his side.. So now I have a part of him, to keep me brave.”

Dante softened, the rigid tension leaving his shoulders. He didn't say he was sorry—apologies weren't his style—but he reached out, his large, calloused hand gently resting on top of her head for a brief moment before sliding down to offer a comforting squeeze to her shoulder. "He did a good job," Dante said quietly, his voice soft with compassion. "You're very brave."

Riley let out a quiet sigh, the tension finally draining from her shoulders as the validation washed over her. She turned her head, nuzzling her face into his shirt. “Thank you, Dante…” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the crickets chirping in the night.

Dante breathed, pulling her closer to him. "Rest now. I’ve got you." He whispers, his voice tickling her ear as she nuzzles affectionately against him. Having someone to share the weight with—even just for a little while—was almost enough to keep the demons at bay.

Riley reached out, her much smaller fingers lightly tracing the tensed muscles of his forearm. The playful smirk that usually danced on her lips had melted away, replaced by something deeply earnest. She looked up at him, her gaze locking with his blue eyes.

He hummed, turning his head to look down at her with a quiet curiosity. Riley lets out a softer breath, relaxing herself against him, grateful for the quiet safety of his shadow and closes her eyes, thanking him simply for trusting her enough to be real.

Riley nuzzles affectionately against his chest. His arm, thick with the hard-earned muscle of a demon hunter, was draped right in front of her. Blinking sleepily, she leaned down and gave the fabric of his sleeve a faint, experimental nibble. Instinct took over as her mind drifted into a hazy twilight zone.

Then slowly, almost instinctively, she parted her lips and began a feather-light, rhythmic nibble along his bicep. It wasn’t aggressive; it was the sleepy, affectionate grooming behavior of a girl entirely at peace.

It was a subconscious, kitten-like habit, completely detached from reality. Finding the fabric and muscle of his arm surprisingly grounding, her hands began to move. Her small fingers curled, gently pressing and releasing against his arm. She was kneading his arm like a soft pillow, rhythmically burying her hands into the fabric over and over.

Dante laid perfectly still. He looked down at his arm, then at the small, yawning cute silvery haired girl currently treating his arm like a scratching post. A faint, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn't shift away. Instead, he simply adjusted his weight against the couch cushions, letting her use him as a giant, unbreakable pillow as he gently threads his fingers through her wavy curls as her kneading slowed down, her head finally dropping against his shoulder in a deep, peaceful sleep.

—————————————————————————

The living room bathed in a wash of pale, silver moonlight that poured through the bay windows. The dusty couch groaned beneath them as Dante shifted, his frame nearly dwarfing the furniture entirely.

He stared blankly into the dark, the silence heavy between them. A few moments ago, the walls around his heart had crumbled. He had confessed to her about missing his mother—the way her gentle voice used to ground him before demons took her and his twin brother away from him, and the emptiness of her passing left behind. It was a burden he had carried alone, until now.

Tucked beside him was Riley. She had curled her legs beneath her, leaning into the curve of his arm. Even in slumber, she still held a spark of that sharp defiance, her hands unconsciously clutching the frayed hem of his shirt. To anyone who knew her, she was a fierce storm, but here, pressed perfectly into his side, she looked beautifully peaceful. Her silver wavy curls spilled across the fabric, rising and falling with his deep, measured breaths. Riley had listened to his grief, offering her own quiet tears and comforting warmth in return as they mourned the mothers who made them who they are.

The studio apartment was swallowed by the deep blue of 3:30 A.M., illuminated only by the rhythmic, amber pulse of the city's neon signs bleeding through the blinds.

Dante’s muscles were almost stiff, yet he barely dared to breathe. Pressed into the worn leather of the apartment couch, he looked like an absolute giant next to Riley. She had gravitated toward his warmth a couple hours ago, her head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder as she slept.

Slowly, carefully, he eased his arm from beneath her weight, placing a throw pillow in its stead to mimic his presence. He shifted the rest of his frame by agonizingly slow millimeters, sliding his heavy combat boots to the floor without a single scrape against the floorboards.

Once he was on his feet, Dante looked down at her. The apartment was drafty due to an cracked window to keep air flowing, and her steady, peaceful breaths prompted him to grab his leather trench coat from the armchair. He lowered himself to a single knee, shaking the coat out with practiced, quiet efficiency, and draped the heavy, protective garment over her like a heavy blanket.

The thick fabric immediately settled around her shoulders, trapping the lingering scent of gun oil, spicy vanilla, and strawberries that had brought her such deep comfort. She instinctively nuzzled deeper into the collar, her brow smoothing as she breathed him in. Satisfied, Dante took a final, quiet step back, stepping into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

Treading silently across the hardwood, he reached the refrigerator and cracked open a bottle of water. The sharp snap of the seal echoed in the dim space. He took a long, blistering pull from the plastic, letting the lukewarm liquid quench his thirst.

Just as he lowered the bottle, the dull thud of footsteps sounded from the dark streets leading down to the ground-floor entrance. His grip tightened on the plastic. He set the bottle aside and remained motionless, his senses sharpening as he focused on the approaching sound.

Down on the asphalt, a car door creaked open, and a short, twitchy man stepped out, clutching a briefcase to his chest like a shield.

A smile widened on Dante’s lips, a low rumble of amusement vibrating deep in his chest. His info broker, Enzo Ferino, had arrived. Always a master of poorly timed theatrics, was standing on the stoop in the dark…

——————————————————————-

The heavy oak door yielded with a faint, metallic click, swinging inward to reveal the pitch-black maw of the studio apartment.

Enzo stepped across the threshold, his polished leather shoes making no sound against the gritty hardwood floor. As a man of shorter stature, he was used to navigating a world built for larger men, a reality that made him exceptionally adept at melting into the shadows. He paused, tilting his head as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The air smelled of stale takeout, copper, and dust—the classic cocktail of Dante’s sudden disappearance.

With his left hand, he tightened his grip on the handle of his matte-black aluminum briefcase. It was light, but the hidden microphone on the outside weighed heavily on his mind. He didn't bother reaching for the light switch. In his line of work, illuminating a room only made him a clearer target.

“Dante? You here?” A half-empty bottle of water sat on the kitchen counter. He cleared his throat, the sound shockingly loud in the oppressive quiet. "It’s your buddy Enzo," he called out, his voice a gravelly tenor that lacked its usual swagger. "Hey kid!" Enzo hissed into the dark, keeping his voice to a loud, raspy whisper. He stops dead.

On the couch sat a lump. A very small, suspiciously human-shaped lump.

Enzo crept closer, his expensive leather shoes squeaking faintly on the floorboards. Squinting through the shadows, he recognized the pint-sized silhouette of Anita. She was completely dead to the world, buried beneath a crimson leather trench coat that was approximately three times her body mass. It looked less like a blanket and more like Dante’s jacket was slowly swallowing her whole.

Well, well, Enzo thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. The witch is defenseless.

He took one predatory step forward, idly wondering if he should thump her forehead or simply dump cold water on her. But as he reached out, his hand froze.

His fingertips drifted upward, brushing against his own throat. Beneath the expensive collar of his shirt, he felt the faint, rigid line of a scar. His throat suddenly felt very dry. He vividly remembered his last "word"—specifically the part where this exact, tiny, demon-hellcat had nearly separated his head from his shoulders.

Enzo looked back at the sleeping girl. She let out a soft, adorable little grunt and twitched under the heavy red leather.

Nope, Enzo decided, immediately taking a massive step backward. Not risking it. The kid stays asleep.

He slowly, meticulously backed away toward the kitchen, resolving to wait for Dante in a corner where no one could stab him in the jugular.

But the longer he waited, he knew that the apartment was seemingly empty. To most, the unlocked door was an invitation, and in his experience, he knew better that invitations like these usually came with a price. Enzo let out a heavy sigh. He dropped his shoulders, muttering under his breath about wasted trips and took a step back, assuming Dante was out on a late-night run.

"Ah, nobody’s—," the broker grumbled, turning on his heel.

The words died in his throat. He didn't just find the hunter standing there; he found himself staring directly down the dark, cavernous barrel of a handgun. The cold steel was inches from between his eyes.

Enzo choked on his own breath, his eyes widening in sheer panic. He staggered backward, his heels catching on the uneven floorboards as his heart slammed against his ribs. “Whoa! Dante! You are here, thank god!” He says haltingly as the Demon Hunter emerges from the darkness wearing a wolfish grin. “I…I was worried I missed you.”

On the used couch across the living room, Riley shifted beneath Dante’s coat. She blinked her eyes open, the sharp edge of Enzo’s aggravating voice cuts through her witching hour nap. She didn't move a muscle. Keeping her breathing slow, rhythmic, and heavy, she stayed perfectly still beneath the coat.

"Hey, Enzo. How’ve you been?” Dante purred, his voice dropping an octave. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, never reaching his cold, predatory eyes.

The cold steel of the gun barrel pressed hard against Enzo’s temple. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Ah, I could be better, to tell you the truth," Enzo stammered, raising a slick, shaky palm. “Like if you didn’t have a…a barrel pressed to my temple right now.” He pushed feebly against the weapon, but it felt like trying to move a mountain. Dante didn’t move an inch.

“I wish I could help you out there. I do have a funny story for you, though. You’re gonna love this.” Dante leaned forward, his shadow falling over Enzo. He held the muzzle of his sidearm steady, a silent signal for him to listen. “So, my last job, the one you gave me, turned out to be a setup so a shape-shifting demon baby could try to steal my necklace.” Without breaking the heavy silence, Dante sank onto his haunches, leveling his unblinking gaze to Enzo's terrified eyes and pressed the gun against Enzo’s jugular. “Crazy, right?”

Steadying her heartbeat, her ears listened to Dante and Enzo. She focused every ounce of her attention on their conversation, memorizing the awkward laugh from Enzo’s voice and the dangerous rumble in Dante’s chest.

Below the cushion line, Riley’s knees pressed hard against the rug. She rose vertically, a slow-motion jack-in-the-box. Her knuckles white on the worn fabric. First came the unruly tuft of her silver hair. Then her forehead, smooth and strained with concentration. Finally, her blue-violet eyes cleared the horizon of the tweed backing. She stopped, holding her breath, a tiny perimeter scout blinking into the light. From Enzo’s perspective, she was nothing but a pair of wide, unblinking eyes pinned to the top of the sofa.

"That’s the craziest thing I ever heard! It wasn’t my fault, Dante. Honestly! Don’t blame poor old Enzo. I’m just a middleman. A nobody. It was the guy who gave me the job, the White Rabbit!”

Dante leaned forward, his hardened gaze narrowing like a predator locking onto its prey. The silence in the room stretched to a breaking point.

Riley’s muscles tensed beneath the duster coat. She memorized the inflection of Enzo’s voice, the exact phrasing he used. The White Rabbit. He hadn't mentioned she’s tied to him when he brought her to Dante as her bodyguard…yet.

“He’s the one who set the whole thing up. See, he comes into my office, talking all smooth, and I’m mesmerized. The g—“

Before Enzo was about to let slip the one secret that could ruin everything—Riley moved. She gripped the armrest and hoisted herself up, standing tall on the cushions. The sudden change in height caught Enzo’s eye, forcing him to look at her.

Once she had his full attention, she locked eyes with him. Slowly, deliberately, she dragged her thumb sharply across her throat. She accompanied the gesture with a harsh, clicking hiss between her teeth—a universal signal for silence.

Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward where Dante stood in silence, his gloved hand steadying the gun. Enzo swallowed his words instantly, the weight of the threat hanging heavy in the room.

“So, you’re saying you only sent me into a trap because a demon that looks like a giant rabbit tricked you into doing it?” Dante growls, prodding the gun to Enzo’s cheek.

Enzo swallowed hard. Beads of sweat gathered at his temples, soaking his cheap polyester collar. He darted a terrified glance at Riley, then whipped his head towards Dante, his squeaky voice cracking. "Pretty much. Yeah."

Dante narrowed his eyes. He scanned Enzo’s face for any twitch, slip, or sign of deceit. The short fat broker remained perfectly still, offering nothing but a cool, practiced blankness. Finding no hidden malice, Dante let out a quiet breath, closed his eyes and took a step back, breaking the suffocating tension between them. “Alright, that checks out.”

Turning away, his expression softened instantly as he spotted Riley. She perched herself from his desk and rubbed her eyes, blinking away the fog of a two hour nap. "Look who finally decided to join the living," Dante greeted her, his voice losing its harsh edge as he passed her a granola bar from the counter for her. “What are you doing here, Enzo? I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

Enzo’s knees nearly buckled as the steel barrel finally drifted away from his chin. He inhaled a ragged, vibrating breath, puffing his sunken cheeks as he desperately willed his racing heart to slow down. Dante remained an imposing, granite-still statue across the desk, methodically sliding the revolver back into his holster with a terrifying, hollow click. “I brought you the second half of your fee. Just cause part of the job was fake doesn’t mean you don’t get paid, right?”

Enzo Ferino placed the matte-black briefcase onto the scarred wooden desk. With a sharp click, the dual latches popped open. He flipped the lid back, revealing neat, brick-like stacks of banded hundred-dollar bills totaling thousands in cold cash.

A few paces behind him stood Dante. He kept his arms tightly crossed over his chest, facial features casting a shadow across his cheeks.

"Pure, uncut American green.“ tapping a manicured finger against the cash.

Besides the desk, Riley didn't bother to look at the money. Instead, she tore open a foil wrapper with her teeth and bit into a granola bar with a loud, deliberate crunch. Stray oats tumbled onto the clean surface of the briefcase as she chewed, completely unfazed by the tension in the room.

“Just think, all you had to do was fight a baby and babysit a kid for it.” He laughs but it was cut short.

“And fight my own brother,”

The silence that followed was heavy and it nearly made Riley choke on a piece of oats.

“The shape-shifter showed up again later disguised as him. Nothing like how he’d actually look now, but still, it was a good effort.”

Riley felt the sudden, icy drop of her stomach, the revelation snapping her into a rigid, breathless silence. She knew that name and now that she’s seen his look, it all makes sense. She had heard it first in stories from the White Rabbit. She had found a sketch of those exact features in the Rabbit demon’s desk, memorizing the sharp, aristocratic slope of the nose and the piercing gaze—a face Dante thought was exclusively his own.

Riley slowly lowered her gaze, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Nothing how he’d look now, but still, it was a good effort.” Dante had said.

But she knew the truth: Virgil is alive somewhere in the deepest depths of Makai. She knows because Agni let it slip that he was.

It was a predator wearing a ghost’s face.

Swallowing the lump of dread in her throat, Riley deliberately shifted her eyes down to her lap. She forced her breathing to stay perfectly even, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. She kept her mouth firmly shut, sealing the lethal secret behind a veil of wide-eyed, innocent silence.

Enzo winces. “Oh. Your brother? Talk about digging up the past, huh?” A sharp, low whistle escaped his lips. "You all right, kid?” Enzo asked, extending a hand to offer some sort of comfort but Dante jerked away.

“I keep telling you. What’s my only rule?” Dante stepped behind the cluttered desk, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Without waiting for an invitation, he bent over, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the wood as he began to rummage through the overflowing garbage bin tucked underneath. He tossed aside crumpled parchment and stained ration wrappers, his eyes scanning for anything useful.

“I’ll take any job that pays, especially if it involves killing demons. Just as long as I don’t have to care.”

“I know, kid.” Enzo slowly lowered his chin until his collar hid his jaw. His eyes drifted shut, a heavy, silent breath filtering through his teeth. Dante’s words echoed in the tense silence—laying down that single, non-negotiable rule—he kept them closed for two long seconds, a silent, internal plea for forgiveness in a world that rarely offered it. Enzo slowly tilted his face up, his lips stretching into a stiff, practiced smile that didn't reach his exhausted eyes.

"So," he said, his voice raspy but smooth. "We're good now, yeah?”

The hairs on Riley’s arms began to prickle—a sudden, electric chill that had nothing to do with the semi-cool evening air. The dark, unnatural stillness closing in around them meant only one thing. Danger was near. Beside her, Dante was still rummaging around for something, his presence a silent vow of protection.

Dante didn't look up from his desk, his gloved hands tossing aside takeouts and old receipts. He was hunting for guns in a scrap pile, looking for anything that still contained bullets.

The information broker folded his arms across his chest, his rambling cadence speeding up as the words tumbled out of his mouth. “Ya know, I look at you like my own son. I would take a bullet for you. Well, maybe not a bullet. Definitely a blade, like a little jab.”

Ignoring Enzo’s consistent rambling, Riley flipped her gloved palms upward. A familiar, resonant warmth bloomed in her chest, and with a soft snap of displaced air, the weight of Ophelia-Payne slid across the floor, perfectly snapping securely into her grip with a satisfying, familiar weight. They didn’t glow or hum like they’d normally do in the presence of demons, no…the threat drawing near them were humans.

“The point is, I would never set you up like that on purpose.” An inch to his right, Ophelia-Payne hummed with enough residual magic to give him permanent goosebumps. Riley was currently using a whetstone to sharpen her weapons while she was glaring holes through his soul.

He swallowed hard, the movement nearly scraping his Adam's apple against the glowing steel. Their last encounter had ended with Enzo making it out alive with a cut to his throat and his truck obliterated like a soda can. "Uh, take it easy kid,” Enzo squeaked, his voice cracking in a way that ruined his reputation as the New York City’s information broker.

“So there aren’t multiple teams of mercenaries outside, closing in around us right now?”

Enzo forced a smile, his lips stretching over his teeth like a desperate, cornered opossum. He let out a wet, fluttering bark of a laugh. “Okay. I set you up this time, but only because they made me!”

“I know I got another one of these somewhere,” Dante sifted through a mountain of discarded take-out containers and mildewed paper, his movements as methodical and unhurried as a man searching for his car keys. His fingers closed around the cold, reassuring steel of his first pistol. He pulled it out, checked the chamber with a quiet click, and tucked it into his shoulder holster.

He turned back toward the right side of the desk, his gaze dropping to the oversized blade in Riley’s lap, then to the hooked climbing tool.

"I've been meaning to ask," Dante said calmly, poking his boot into a pile of loose papers to find the second gun. "Those things you call, Ophelia-Payne. Do those hardware store finds actually work against upper-tier demons, or are they just for show?"

Riley stopped sharpening. She tilted her head up, her blue-violet eyes narrowing as she glared at the demon hunter with a dry laugh. "For show? You should’ve seen what I’ve done to the Spider demon who asked me that question."

Dante finally spotted the second Colt wedged between the drawer and a ball of cords. He fished it out, wiped a speck of dust off the barrel with his thumb, and slid it into place. "Just checking," Dante replied smoothly, his expression entirely neutral. "The steel looked a bit clean. Glad to know you can keep up when the shooting starts.”

Leaning on the wall by his jukebox, he worked with a slow, rhythmic precision. He picked up a heavy silver round, sliding it into the chamber of his revolver with a metallic click. His movements were smooth, completely devoid of the violence he routinely dealt in.

"Hey Riley," Dante said, his voice dropping to a calm, steady murmur. He didn't look up from his weapon. "Do me a favor tonight."

Beside him, Riley stood with her arms crossed. Her smaller stature usually made her look unassuming, but the aura of lethal magic vibrating around her proved otherwise. She tilted her head, watching him wipe down the barrel of his second pistol.

"Depends on the favor," she replied.

Dante slotted the magazine into the grip, the snap echoing in the quiet apartment. He finally raised his eyes, holding her gaze with absolute seriousness. "Keep a promise for me. When they attack, use non-lethal strikes on the mercenaries."

Riley rolled her eyes so hard she practically looked at the ceiling, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh. "They’re literally clowns-with-guns and they’re going to try to kill us, Dante."

"They're human, Riley. Just hired muscle paying rent," he said softly, shearing away any room for argument as he holstered the weapon. "Promise me."

She huffed, kicking the toe of her boot against the floorboards, but the tension in her shoulders dropped. "Fine. Broken bones only. Happy?"

Dante offered a faint, grateful nod. "Highly appreciated."

She smiles, then pauses. Her finger hovered over the power switch over her jacket.

The micro-camera that White Rabbit has given her was meant for the tactical theft of Dante’s amulet, not entertainment. Yet, as an eager, predatory grin spreads across her face, realizing that the Ogre demon brothers watching might view the upcoming brawl as their own personal front-row seat to a bloodsport. It might also bring confidence to the Rabbit demon that her fighting skills are unmatched. Her high-tech spy gear had just become the hottest ticket in the world.

She raises her gloved hand with a soft exhale as if pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her fingertips grazed the center of her collarbone, a fleeting, almost delicate touch that depressed the concealed, pressure-sensitive stud sewn into her Cheshire Cat jacket.

The micro-lens stitched into the fabric clicked to life, whirring silently as it began recording every name, threat, and shadowy transaction echoing inside the apartment. Riley let out a slow, deeply unimpressed sigh and swallowed dryly. Her throat felt like a desert.

Without breaking the rhythm of Dante and Enzo’s tense conversation, she reached over Dante’s cluttered desk and snagged his half-open water bottle. Before putting it to her lips, she held it up to the pale afternoon light, inspecting the questionable backwash floating in the plastic abyss.

Satisfied that no ancient organisms were currently thriving in the lukewarm liquid, she took the clean edge of her jacket, meticulously wiped the rim, and took a long, dramatic sip. She suddenly froze. Her eyes went wide, The lukewarm water hit her throat, and so did a sudden, horrifying realization.

Riley winced, her throat locking mid-swallow. Her brain, operating on only a few hours of sleep, instantly calculated the transitive property of shared beverage vessels. Tasting the same water he tasted meant touching the same plastic. Touching the same plastic meant... a proxy kiss.

She had just conceptually kissed Dante.

A violent, visible shudder racked her entire body. She choked back a gasp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as if trying to erase her own thoughts. She slammed the bottle back onto the desk, deeply disturbed by her own mental trajectory, while Dante was completely oblivious to the existential crisis happening three feet away.

Enzo flaps his arms desperately to regain Dante’s attention. “Dante! Listen, those guys out there are after her and your necklace too, and it’s the Feds who are paying them. This thing goes right to the top!”

Riley blinked once, then twice, after furiously scrubbing her tongue from her jacket, as she tried to erase the phantom taste of the world's most annoying demon hunter. The top? She lowers her arms as ran a mental highlight reel of her last four days. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Wait a second.

"Hey, Pork-Broker," she interrupted, her voice entirely too flat to be casual. "These high-tier corporate goons... do they wear suspiciously expensive combat gear with matching skull headbands? And do some of them have tech helmets and did they arrive here in a sleek black convoy?"

"Hey! Did you just call me—" Enzo began then paused, squinted, confused. "Uh, yeah. That's the tactical unit. Why?"

Riley slowly dropped her head into her free hand, letting out an agonizingly long, defeated sigh. Those are the same guys. I just spent the entire week outsmarting, humiliating, and dodging the literal ‘elite’ strike force of the conspiracy, she thought, her eyebrow twitching in disbelief. I gave one wet Willie’s and the others ass-wedgies with their own grappling hooks. And now you’re telling me they’re supposed to be some menacing threat and they’re coming here to take me?

"Riley?" Dante waved a hand in front of her face, his silver hair brushing against his forehead. "You look like you just realized something incredibly annoying."

"I did," she muttered, going around Enzo as she watching the armed forces inch closer in her peripheral vision. "And honestly, I'm kind of insulted. For being an elite strike force, they are remarkably easy to trip into an open dumpster."

As Riley barely shoulder checks Enzo, he braces for the spike of irritation. He waited for her anger.

It didn't come. Enzo blinks. Wait. That was it? No throat-punch? No threat on his life?

Instead, he realized something jarring: she wasn’t mocking him. She wasn't trying to threaten him, either. There was zero hostility in her face. She was just entirely, unapologetically sassy. Enzo let out a long, slow sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The sheer absurdity of the lack of tension deflated his grand, uneasy aura like a popped balloon.

Dante let out a low, gravelly huff that settled somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. The sound vibrated in his chest. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. "Is that so?" he rumbled, his deep voice rich with amusement. “And who are these guys, do they have names?”

"Yeah," she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, clearly proud of her hide-and-seek streak. "Skull-Capone, Dongle-sack and Tin Schnoz! I’d suggest you to stay behind me," she points a finger towards Enzo. “Just keep that sleazy bastard quiet and I’ll be able to get through them fine. Most of them can’t shoot for shit anyway.” Riley snaps, not even looking at Enzo as she clicked Ophelia-Payne back on her belt, sharpened and ready to go. She directed the glare entirely at Dante, who was casually leaning against the wall looking entirely too amused by the briefing. "We have several dozen mercenaries closing in around us, and I won't have his mouth giving me away."

Dante let out a low, breathy chuckle, shifting his weight. "Hear that, Enzo? The lady prefers you on mute."

Enzo’s eyes flared, his ego bruising faster than his flesh. He took a half-step forward, pointing a manicured fat finger at Riley. "Listen, sweet—"

Riley’s head snapped toward him. She didn't yell. She didn't even raise her voice. She just dropped her chin, her eyes locking onto his throat like a heat-seeking missile calibrating its target. Her fingers twitched against the grip of Ophelia.

Enzo Ferino’s jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth clicked, the word ‘sweet’— dying a brutal, premature death in his throat.

His hand instinctively flew to his throat, his windpipe still retaining the vivid, agonizing memory of the last time Riley had taken offense to his vocabulary. The pint-sized terror didn't just carry an attitude; she carried a mean, localized right hook that aimed exclusively for the respiratory system.

Enzo froze mid-stride. His vocal cords paralyzed themselves in self-preservation. The absolute audacity of this girl to treat an information broker like an annoying housefly was infuriating, but the threat of a collapsed airway was highly effective marketing for silence.

Slowly, Enzo lowered his hand, smoothing down the lapel of his immaculate jacket with a trembling but dignified precision. He swallowed hard, ensuring his esophagus was still functional, and cleared his throat.

"I was merely going to suggest," Enzo muttered, his voice dropping an octave into a remarkably compliant whisper, "that my tactical input is invaluable. But by all means. I’ll let you kids use brute force."

Dante smirks. "Smart choice, Enzo. I don't think that neck of yours could take a second round." He pushed off the wall, the subtle clinking of his amulet dwarfing the quiet shuffle of her feet as he stepped in front of her. His towering silhouette cast a long, protective shadow over the fun sized braggart. Dante shook his head, a ghost of a grin playing on his chiseled lips. He reached out, his massive hand ruffling her hair affectionately before she could swat it away.

"So Riley, you said that these goons are the ones you’ve made chase circles around themselves?" he asked, a wry, half-smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. He looked past her glowing embers of determination, well aware that those very ‘clowns’ were trained cutthroats armed with guns and high tech weapons. "How incredibly generous of you to leave some for me. But I'm afraid my prey has never been known for their patience. Let me take the lead this time, little dynamite. I'll make sure they don't even see you coming." He chuckled.

Enzo let out a long-suffering sigh. The broker had to physically crane his fat neck to address Dante and the cat-girl whose real name is Riley instead of Anita. Very suitable compared to the ridiculous pun name she picked out. Not that it mattered; the two of them were entirely lost in their own world. Dante was going over his plan to attack the mercenaries, while she nodded earnestly, her little cat tail from her jacket swishing with excitement.

Enzo aggressively cleared his throat, tapping his foot. Nothing. They didn’t even blink. Rolling his eyes toward the water-stained ceiling, Enzo pinched the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger, breathing deeply to stave off a stress-induced migraine. From the looks of it, Dante and Riley became besties within a single day, breaking them apart wouldn’t be easy, and he has zero chance to talk things over with Riley. “Look," he snapped, "What say you just give the bling and the girl to me and I’ll take it over to them, huh? No muss, no fuss.”

“I can’t do it, Enzo. She gave me this necklace. It’s the last thing of hers that I have. No one is going to take it from me. As for Riley,” Dante said, his voice dropping an octave. "I’m not handing her over. She’s staying with me," Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous gravel. “I made her a promise.”

Riley’s breath caught in a sharp, quiet hitch. Her lips parted slightly in surprise, as her internal walls momentarily fractured as the weight of his loyalty settled over her. She was almost certain that he’d sell her out so quickly. His absolute refusal hit her like a physical blow. She blinked rapidly, her heart doing a sudden, unexpected flip in her chest.

“Okay, fair enough.” Enzo said, raising his palms and flashing a high-stakes smile that didn’t reach his sweating eyes. “I’ll just, uh, let you kids get ready for the big throw-down then, and head on…” Without waiting for a prospectus on that offer, he smoothly turned on his polished leather heel, already planning his sprint—

Click

The distinct, heavy metallic sound of a pistol chambering a bullet echoed through the living room.

Enzo froze mid-step, one foot hovering an inch above the floorboards. His smile shattered. Behind him, Dante didn't lower the gun. Right beside him stood Riley. She rested a hand on her hip, radiating pure, unadulterated sass as she looked from Dante back to Enzo’s stiff shoulders. A slow, razor-sharp smirk spread across Dante’s face, entirely amused by Enzo’s sudden, terrifying lack of liquidity. “I didn’t say we were good yet...”

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