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Summary
House arrest is the absolute worst.
Nero buries his face in the cushion with a thoroughly disgruntled noise, trying, for what feels like the hundredth time that evening, to get comfortable. It’s 7 p.m. and he should be out on patrol, taking his bike for a spin around the streets in search of rakshasa or infernal predators or any other hellspawn that felt the need to venture into the mundane world. There’s always something out there that needs an ass-kicking, and Nero’s never been one to shy away from dishing out beatdowns like candy at Halloween.
But no, instead Nero is here, face first on Dante’s couch, bemoaning his fate, because he has to do as he’s told. (And honestly? Fuck these boundaries and the demon bike they rode in on.)