Chapter Text
He hadn't meant to follow her, but instinct pulled before thought did.
One second he was halfway through a lukewarm beer in a forgettable bar on the edge of nowhere, the next she was there—striding past the window with that easy, lethal grace, Kalina Ann slung across her back like a warning. No hesitation in her step.
She was on a hunt. Dante set the bottle down without finishing it.
By the time he stepped outside, she was already a silhouette turning a corner. He didn't call out. Just slipped into the shadows and took to the rooftops—quiet, high ground, eyes on her.
She moved like she always did: like someone with somewhere to be and nothing to lose.
The alley she turned down was the kind people disappeared in. He stood near the edge of a rooftop across the way, eyes locked on her form as she paused, checking the weight of her launcher. She rolled her shoulder once, fingers adjusting a strap that must've been biting in. Not hesitation—just a flicker of tiredness.
Then the air cracked open.
It came from the wall—something feral and fast, all muscle and teeth and flickering blade-limbs. No scream, just a rupture in the silence.
Lady didn't flinch. She was already moving, diving to the side, dragging the launcher around like it weighed nothing. The claws tore through the air where her spine had just been. She landed low and fired without ceremony, the blast echoing hard off the alley walls.
Dust and light. A howl. The thing wasn't down.
It charged again.
Dante shifted forward on the rooftop, hand twitching toward Rebellion out of habit.
Lady ducked just under the swipe, sliding across slick concrete. Too close. The kind of close that made his breath hitch.
She pivoted. Fired again. This time it hit something vital—the demon staggered, limbs flaring out like a broken umbrella. She pressed the advantage, switching to her handguns and unloading into it, calm and quick and brutal. Her last shot dropped it for good. Bone cracked. Steel sang. Then silence.
She stood still for a moment, checking the street like she might have missed a second one. Then casually wiped ash off her cheek and started to reload.
He exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes.
She hadn't been touched. Not once. But it had been close—so close, so many times. Every dodge just late enough to curl the edge of his stomach. Every step forward feeling like a decision she didn't have the right backup for.
He told himself it was fine, she'd handled it. And if she saw him here fretting she'd be more offended than flattered.
He was already backing away from the edge when her voice cut through the dark: "Enjoyed the show?"
Shit.
He hesitated, then stepped forward again. She didn't look at him—just leaned a little into Kalina Ann's strap, one hand on her hip, like she hadn't just danced with death for three minutes straight. Like she hadn't nearly gotten—
No. She hadn't.
She was fine.
She always was.
Even when she moved like she didn't care if she wasn't.
Dante smirked down at her. "Could've used a popcorn stand up here."
"Don't push it," she muttered, but her mouth curved just a little.
The city buzzed around him, laughter spilled from open bar doors, pedestrians walked past him, cars honked and tires screeched. Neon signs blinked lazily while steetlamps slowly came to life to chase away the gathering dark. Somewhere, music pulsed low and steady, too far away to name, but he tried to feel it in his chest, the bass, the beat. Nothing stuck.
With hands in his pockets, Dante wandered with no clear destination, just away from the weight of stillness and isolation clinging to his shoulders like a second skin.
It was too quiet.
Here, at least, people were living. Loud, unbothered, blissfully human. They filled streets and sidewalks like they belonged in them—talking with their hands, holding each other close, moving like the world was just a place to get drunk and be warm in. He kept walking, but the noise still didn't reach him.
Eventually, he found himself on a rooftop. Looking for height and air and a moment where he didn't have to pretend to belong. The view wasn't anything dramatic, but the lights stretched long and wide, blinking into the blue-orange haze of a city learning to sleep with one eye open.
He stood near the edge, hands still buried, not part of the world below, but not shut out of it either. The city kept moving—bright, oblivious. Close enough to feel, far enough to breathe.
Then—
"Shame."
A voice across the gap to his right. Dry, amused.
"You just missed the sunset."
He turned. Lady sat on the next rooftop over, her silhouette lit by the sign above a rooftop exit door next to her. Arms folded on her knees, her head slightly rested on them as her smirk grew wider. Kalina Ann had been laid in front of her, almost like she had put it to rest for the night.
Dante raised a brow. "You stalking me now?"
She shrugged. "You're the one intruding on my spot."
He thought of a hundred remarks he could have thrown back her way, but none made it. Just watched her, the way the last light hit the side of her face, the wind tugging at her hair. The way she looked so small and vulnerable while a damn rocket launcher sat just a few inches in front of her.
Across the way, she leaned her cheek against her knees, watching him back with something just shy of curiosity.
"You here to ruin the mood, or save it?" She smiled. Small. Crooked. Like a flicker of shared solitude.
He huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. "Guess this is your way of saying I can stay."
They stayed until the stars broke through the city haze, bright against the sky. Night settled cold into their bones, but in its weight, something let go—tension uncoiled, breath returned, and silence stopped needing to be filled.
Devil May Cry.
The place that can choke him in silence suddenly feels louder with her in it. Her boots knocking on the wooden floor, the metallic clink of her arsenal as she moves through the cluttered space. There's a certain rhythm to her movements—everything she touches seems to have a bit more weight, like it matters.
Dante watches her approach the desk, finally speaking after a long stretch of stillness. "So… your spot, huh?"
Caught off-guard, Lady tenses. It's just a flicker, a brief shift in her posture, but he notices. She covers it quickly, leaning casually against her hip. "You owe me, for trespassing."
"Didn't see your name on it."
"You wanna make it up to me?" She interrupts, her voice a little too easy. "Come on a job."
He raises an eyebrow. "That how you collect debts these days?"
"You still owe me money for this joint." She doesn't meet his eyes, not entirely. "So think of it as… compensation."
Now it clicks. The defensiveness in her tone, the way she's trying to brush it off. He's caught her off-guard, but it's more than that. This isn't just a job offer—it's a way to meet him in between.
He pushes off the chair and moves toward her slow, casual. "I'm glad I found you."
Lady reacts before she can stop herself, and he sees surprise in her eyes. Her body language is still tense but steady. She's not trying to push him away, but there's something there—something just below the surface.
Dante gives her a half-smile, one of those quiet acknowledgments that says more than words. And she softens—the blaze that is her, quieting. "Besides, you weren't exactly hiding. You left the sign on."
A small laugh escapes her then, just a breath of it. And she's back to being an ember at twilight.
The city moved around them, unconcerned and endless. Neon blinked across slick pavement, engines growled at stoplights, people passed in clusters, laughing, arguing, living.
Dante walked beside her in silence. Still, the crowd pressed in—too warm, too loud.
It started again, that low crawl of dissonance. A familiar weight on his shoulders, a pressure on his chest, creeping down his spine. The buzz behind his ears, like the world was fraying at the edge.
Then— "Should be just up ahead," she said, gaze fixed forward. "Next alley."
Just her voice—clean, cutting through the noise.
And that did reach him.
He followed.
The alley opened wide near the end, tucked between shuttered warehouses and half-lit signage. They didn't speak as the first demon surged out of the dark.
Lady moved with precision, pivoting low and fast. Her guns rang out—sharp, clean percussion in the night—and Dante hung back for a beat, watching her. Just long enough to see how she moved, how her stance had shifted since the last time they'd fought side-by-side. He watched her move, sharp and exact. Almost like a dance.
He didn't jump in. Not when she staggered, not when the edge of a claw caught her shoulder and she bit down a grunt.
He didn't rescue her.
He covered her flank.
She threw him a glance—half challenge, half thanks—and the next second, they were moving together.
"You're dragging your feet," she called, kicking a demon in the face before reloading.
"Just letting you work off some aggression."He sliced through a lunging beast with a single, lazy arc. "Gotta keep my debt to you balanced, right?"
She snorted. "You're hopeless."
"You knew that before you brought me."
They didn't fight like partners. They moved like sparks—sudden, brilliant, burning in rhythm.
Every swing, every shot, a pulse between them. For a few bright minutes, the city faded—the weight, the noise, the ache of being out of step with the world. All of it burned off in the rhythm they made together.
And then it ended.
The last demon screeched once before hitting the concrete and vanishing in a smear of ash.
Just like that, the fire was gone.
They stood in the quiet aftermath, breathing hard. Lady reloaded absently, like muscle memory was the only thing left moving her.
She didn't look at him. Just scanned the alley, eyes flicking over scorch marks and splintered brick like there might be something more to do. Some reason to linger.
There wasn't.
Dante stayed where he was, watching her. Without the heat, the cold settled in fast.
Then her eyes met his. "There's talk—of another nest," she said, trying for casual and landing on stilted. "North side."
She turned, slinging her weapons back into place, composing herself through pure routine. "Might be nothing. Could take weeks to track. But, you know…" A shrug. "If you're bored."
He didn't answer right away, and she didn't wait for him to. Just gave a last glance at the alley and turned to leave, her boots scuffing lightly on concrete, the clink of metal trailing after her.
No promise. No plan.
Just space.
But this time, it wasn't silence that followed her.
It was anticipation.
The job was clean. Shockingly so. No broken ribs, no blood-soaked gauze, not even a scuffed boot between the two of them. The warehouse stank of sulfur and scorched concrete, but the last demon fell easy—a clean cut and a cleaner exit.
They stood outside in the blue hush of early evening, side by side, watching the fading plume of smoke curl into the skyline.
Dante exhaled. Normally, this would be the part where she'd smirk, toss a half-joke his way, maybe fumble through an excuse to meet again. But today—she was quiet. Steady in a way that felt brittle if you looked too close.
She didn't look tired. But she looked… distant. Like she'd already left.
He hated that he noticed. Hated more that he understood it.
"You sticking around?" he asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
Lady's glance was quick, guarded. "Should I be?"
He shrugged. "Could grab a drink. Celebrate."
"No wounds," she said. "Nothing to drown."
A beat. He watched her hands—how tightly she holstered her gun, how still she held herself.
"Food, then?" he offered.
She gave him a sidelong look, skeptical but not dismissive. "You buying?"
Something in him loosened. "Guess I could afford to."
She didn't smile, not quite, but the line of her shoulders eased. She turned, walking ahead without waiting for him to lead. "Then yeah. I'm staying."
He followed, slower, watching the set of her shoulders—the quiet confidence in her stride, and something tense just beneath it. She wasn't limping. She didn't need patching up. No excuse to fuss or offer comfort disguised as convenience.
Just dinner.
The thought unsettled him more than a demon's blade ever had.
They walked in silence toward the city lights, closer than they had to be. No fire left to burn, no reason to linger.
Except, maybe, the fact that they both wanted to.
The place barely passed for a restaurant—cracked linoleum floors, grease on the windows, and a menu that hadn't changed since the '80s. It was mostly meant for takeout, with just three narrow tables jammed into a corner and a humming soda fridge that clicked every time the compressor kicked in.
But it was quiet. Dim. Forgotten. Their kind of place.
Dante sat across from her, nursing a coffee that tasted vaguely like burned rubber. Lady had a carton of something fried and indecipherable balanced on her knee, fork in one hand, jacket shrugged off onto the chair behind her.
She hadn't changed after the job—neither had he—but she looked more settled now. Not relaxed, exactly. But… still.
"I'm just saying," Dante said, watching a curl of steam rise from her takeout box, "if you're gonna let me pay, you could at least pretend to enjoy it."
Lady didn't look up. "I am enjoying it."
The words hung in the air for a beat, and her eyes quickly dropped to her food. She cleared her throat, voice sharp now. "It's on you. You offered. I'm just taking advantage."
Dante leaned back in the booth, watching her with a new quietness. He'd caught it—the softness that was only there when she thought no one was looking. Maybe it wasn't about the food after all. It was about her—about seeing her, for once, just taking care of herself in the smallest way. No pretense.
He smiled to himself, the thought settling warmly in his chest. He didn't press, didn't ask. He just let it be.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The counter guy had long since stopped pretending to mop. Outside, the street was emptying, dawn bleeding pale gray along the horizon. But for a moment, he didn't mind the silence. Watching her, he realized that this—that this—was the part he'd never seen before.
Usually, this was the part where she made her exit—sharp, clean, Houdini-style. But she lingered.
Dante watched her from behind the rim of his mug. The curl of her fingers around the carton. The way her eyes tracked something distant and internal. She wasn't tired in the usual way. More like... wrung out. Hollowed.
He cleared his throat. "You, uh... got a place lined up?"
Lady's fork paused mid-air.
"Room, I mean. Motel, safehouse—whatever. Just figured you'd be heading out."
She took her time chewing, then said, "Not in a rush."
His brows lifted. "That's new."
Lady's eyes flicked to his, unreadable. Then: "There's a spot I go to. Not far. Club, kind of. It opens around sunrise."
He blinked. "Sunrise? That's… backwards."
"Fits the crowd," she said, voice low. "People who work nights. People who can't sleep."
He tilted his head. "Like you?"
Her gaze didn't flinch. "Yeah. Like me."
The silence stretched just a second too long.
Then she added, "You want to see it?"
Dante's pulse kicked—quiet, surprising.
It wasn't a dare. Not really. But it wasn't just small talk, either.
He glanced at the street through the grimy window. The sky was warming, gold bleeding into gray.
When he turned back to her, his smile was quieter than usual. Real.
"Lead the way," he said, standing.
Lady rose without a word, stuffing the last bite of food in her mouth as she grabbed her jacket. "Try to keep up."
The door creaked shut behind them with a hollow jingle. For once, it didn't feel like the end of the night—just a shift in gravity. Like whatever came next had already started.
The club didn't have a name—at least, none that anyone knew. The front was nothing but black brick and a heavy steel door, unmarked except for the flicker of violet neon shaped like a cracked heart. There was no line, no loud music bleeding into the street. But Lady didn't hesitate. She walked up, knocked twice, a pause, then once more. The door buzzed open like it had been waiting for her.
Dante stood just a second longer before stepping in.
Inside, the air felt thick, heavy with sweat and smoke, but not oppressive—alive in a way that felt older than it looked. Low, deliberate strobes flickered, pulling shadows across the walls, making them breathe with the beat. The place wasn't chaotic, not like the clubs Dante usually found himself dragged into—more like a pulse, slow and steady, under the skin of everything. No one was here to be seen. No one was here to impress. They were here to remember they were still alive. And maybe, for a moment, to forget the price it cost.
The bartender caught sight of them before they even reached the counter. He was older, face like dried parchment, eyes sharper than glass. Dante didn't need to ask. The drink slid toward him—dark, bitter, something meant to wake up the edges of a soul that had been buried too long.
"First time?" he rasped, voice like gravel.
Dante gave a humorless laugh. "That obvious?"
"Pain's loud," the bartender said, voice rough with something older than age. "You're not ready to scream, but you needed to hear someone else do it."
Another drink slid down the bar. Pale gold. Simple. No garnish. No frills. Lady's hand was already around it, no hesitation.
"You remember me," she said, surprised more than anything.
"I remember the ones who leave quieter than they came in."
No thank yous. No pleasantries. She led Dante deeper into the room, past alcoves where bodies tangled together like prayers with skin, reaching for solace. The touch of strangers in a place like this wasn't comforting, but it was needed, if only for a moment. It wasn't about love or lust—it was about survival. And sometimes, survival meant being held by hands just as broken as yours.
The dance floor was different.
It wasn't a place for dancing for fun. It was a place to bleed.
Dante felt it the moment his feet hit the edge of it. The floor pulsed, a living wound underfoot. The bodies here didn't move for pleasure. They moved for release—harsh, jagged rhythms meant to carve something out of you, to remember that you could still feel, even if it hurt. They weren't trying to be seen. They were trying to disappear into the noise, to fade into the beat until everything else went quiet.
Lady stepped into it without a word. She just… moved.
And Dante stayed back. For now.
He watched her, the way her body cut through the air—sharp, driven, furious. There was nothing graceful about her movements, nothing seductive. It wasn't performance. It wasn't about putting on a show for anyone. It was about surviving the moment, a way of carving her pain out of her, letting it escape through every movement.
She wasn't trying to be beautiful. She didn't need to be. And that made her devastating.
He stayed just outside the sacred circle, holding a drink that he wasn't really tasting. The rhythm of the place wrapped around him. The flashing strobe. The hum of distant music. It was all backdrop to her. He couldn't look away.
And in that moment, he realized it wasn't just the dance floor that was sacred.
This place—this broken, haunted place—wasn't just where Lady came to hide. It wasn't a bolt-hole, a safehouse, or a job drop-off. It wasn't a place to arm herself or prepare for the next fight.
It was a place to bleed. To heal.
And she'd brought him.
He couldn't name it. Not yet. But it was there. That thread between them. Stronger than words, too much to touch directly but undeniable.
And here he was. In between.
He couldn't name what that meant. Not really. But it felt loud beneath the surface—a kind of trust she'd never say aloud. A thread between them, unspoken and almost too much to look at directly.
She didn't look at him when she stepped off the floor.
Her chest rose and fell like someone who'd just sprinted through something invisible. Sweat clung to her skin in the places her armor never reached. Her eyes didn't shine. They burned.
Dante didn't speak.
He didn't joke or reach out. Just turned slightly to the side, like he was making space she hadn't asked for but needed. Gave her the choice to come closer or not.
She did.
Not much—just enough that the edge of her arm brushed his when she leaned against the wall beside him, both of them facing the crowd. Both watching the next silent scream take shape on the dance floor.
She took the last sip of her drink and winced. "Stronger than last time."
"Guess the guy behind the bar thinks you needed it."
"He's not wrong."
She didn't offer more. But Dante could feel it under her skin—something still shaking. Not fear. Not grief. Just weight. The kind that never fully goes away, even after the job's done and the blood's washed off.
He wanted to ask what brought her here the first time. Who she was when no one else saw. But he didn't.
Instead, he said, "Didn't know you could dance."
She let out a half-breath laugh. "Didn't know you could shut up."
That got a real smile out of him. Small. Slanted. Something like a win.
They fell into silence again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Just full. The kind of quiet that only exists between people who've bled the same, even if not in the same places.
After a minute, she asked, "You ever get tired?"
He glanced at her.
"Of pretending it doesn't follow you home?" she clarified, voice low, but not weak.
Dante didn't answer right away.
He didn't lie, either.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
She looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, there was no mask. No shield. Just two people who'd survived the wrong kind of hell and were still standing. Still haunted.
Then, softer: "Thanks for coming with me."
He almost made a joke. Almost deflected. But the words caught on the edge of something in his chest and never made it out.
Instead, he nodded.
That was enough.
She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers. "Still not dancing, though?"
He looked at the floor. Then back at her. "You already danced enough for both of us."
A flicker of something crossed her face—gratitude maybe, or understanding, or something heavier. She didn't name it, and neither did he.
The music changed—noise fading into a beat. Something heavy. A pulse cracked through the floorboards, guitar laced in distortion, drums like a heart refusing to die quiet.
She was halfway to him again, arms limp at her sides, when she recognized the riff. Her head tilted.
"…Seriously?"
He blinked. "What?"
She huffed, the corner of her mouth curling. "You play this shit at full volume when you think no one's around."
He smirked. "You've been eavesdropping."
She started to hum, half-mocking. Then it shifted. Less a joke. More instinct. Muscle memory. Her voice low, half-whispered, but the melody was there.
Dante's grin spread, slow and crooked.
He joined in.
Not good singing. Not even close. But loud. Confident. Shameless. Like the way he walked into a fight he wasn't sure he'd win.
And then—
Like some shared current sparked across the room, others picked it up. From the edges of the dance floor: voices—off-key, broken, cathartic. One by one, the bleeding souls found the words too.
Voices cracked on the higher notes. Some shouted. Some just mouthed along. It wasn't beautiful. It was raw. Every voice frayed at the edges. Everyone in the room trying to survive the same goddamn song in their own way.
When she sang louder, he followed. Not matching her. Not leading. Just staying in the noise with her. Letting himself be known.
The crowd pulled them in, close to the edge of the pit, as even the quietest souls found courage in the shared pain.
It was chaos—people trying to hurt the floor more than their screams hurt them.
The last note hung in the air like a shriek.
And then—silence.
No applause. Just breath.
Lady exhaled, shaky. Her throat raw. Fingers trembling from how tightly she'd clenched them. She stood at the crest of the crowd's collapse, chest heaving, sweat shining in the strobe. Her hair stuck to her forehead. Her eyes were glassy but clear.
She didn't look at him.
She only exhaled, letting the last of the riff leave her lungs.
Dante stayed next to her, one hand pressed to his chest where the beat had lodged itself. He watched her—this woman who had broken herself open and stayed standing—and felt something raw twist in him.
He glanced down. "You good?"
She didn't answer right away. Just gave him a look. Like: You really brought that song into this kind of place?
He shrugged, all faux innocence.
And even though something had cracked open between them, they laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it was the only thing to do when the world gave you a moment that left you too seen to hide again.
They didn't move right away. Not even when the bartender flicked the lights a little brighter in warning—just before the noise started again.
Their laughter faded. Now it was just breathing.
Lady sat first. Not in a booth but on the raised edge far from the dance platform. Far enough that it wasn't too loud. Close enough to still feel it. Her knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, chin tilted toward the stained-glass exit sign that flickered like an old wound.
Dante joined her. The slow thud of boots on concrete.
She didn't look at him.
"I used to come here," she said after a long minute. "After missions. Or on nights I couldn't sleep."
He nodded once. Quiet.
She shifted, holding her drink but not drinking. Her hair was damp, strands clinging to her temple. The dark under her eyes wasn't just from fatigue. She stared down at the pale liquor in her glass, then said—too casual, too late—"I used to come here looking for you."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure I only found out this place existed, like, three hours ago."
She didn't laugh. Just swirled the drink once and looked at him sidelong. "I thought you might be in one of those corners."
He didn't follow her gaze. He didn't need to. He knew what she meant. The low-lit spaces in the back—velvet, shadow, and quiet agreements between broken people trying to scrape meaning from touch. He looked at her hand instead, wrapped too tight around the glass.
"I stopped looking," she said, softer now. "After a while."
He let the silence stretch. Not sure if she needed comfort or confession. The room buzzed—dim light, murmuring souls, the sharp clink of glasses from the bar. Somewhere, a couple laughed too loudly. Somewhere else, someone cried.
She finally looked at him. "I kept coming back anyway."
He held her gaze. There was no teasing now. No grin. Just something open. Exposed.
"Why?" he asked. Not accusatory. Just... wondering.
She shrugged. "Maybe I thought I'd find something else."
"Did you?"
Another beat of silence.
"Eventually," she said.
He huffed a laugh, low. Ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat. "I'd been at the bar. Bartender seems fun."
A short breath. "Yeah."
He didn't reply. Just leaned back on his palms, eyes drifting to the edge of the dance floor where another song had left its ghosts. The space where people let themselves be—and sometimes that was enough.
"I'll walk you home," he said eventually.
She didn't ask why. Didn't tease. Just nodded, like something had clicked between them. Something long overdue.
And there it was—the quiet space between them. Sharp with things they wouldn't name.
She didn't ask why.
She didn't need to.
Instead, she tipped back the drink, winced slightly, and set the glass down with more finality than necessary.
The worn floorboards of Dante's apartment creaked beneath her boots as she let herself inside, the familiar smell of old leather and dust clinging to the air. She'd been here before—but this time, the gesture felt different. She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the way the door didn't creak as it shut behind her, or the way the weight of her own footsteps seemed to echo in the small space.
Dante was there, of course. Leaning against the counter, half a mug of coffee in his hand. The same tired smirk, the same battle-worn energy. Nothing had changed, and yet…
"You know," she said, walking further inside, "you've been making a habit of showing up at my places lately."
He quirked an eyebrow, setting his mug down. "Guess I just like the view."
She ignored the flush she felt in her chest. "You're gonna wear a hole in my floor if you keep it up."
He shrugged, unbothered. "Could say the same about you."
Lady didn't say anything. She just sat on the couch, stretching her legs out, feeling the quiet hum of the room around her. It wasn't uncomfortable. Not this time. And it wasn't the same as before, either—when she'd find excuses to pull away.
The hours passed between them with ease, conversation flowing like it always did—casual, teasing, punctuated by silences. But then the moment came as it always did, when it was time to go and there was an undeniable pull to stay.
Lady stood, grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair. The weight of the room shifted. There was a certain finality to it, a quiet expectation that she would turn and leave. But—
She hesitated, her fingers brushing the door handle. And yet, she didn't move to leave.
Dante didn't say anything. He simply watched her, that same faintly amused expression still lingering on his face.
She exhaled, listening to the rain on the other side of the door. Without thinking, she stepped outside—her boots meeting the cold pavement as she made her way down the steps to Devil May Cry.
The rain had dulled to a mist by the time she sat down. Just a fine spray now, clinging to her skin like memory. The neon sign above her head flickered, casting faint red light on wet concrete and her soaked boots.
Lady sat still, legs drawn up, arms braced on her knees. Her jacket was tossed over one shoulder, and her hair clung to her neck in damp strands. She didn't notice the cold. Or maybe she did, and just didn't care.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn't turn.
Dante stood there for a moment, filling the doorway. No sword slung across his back, no signature coat. Just him—bone-tired, rumpled, like she'd woken him up without meaning to.
"You trying to catch pneumonia or something?" he asked, a small smirk starting to form.
"Not trying anything," she murmured. "Just not ready to go yet."
He stepped outside, slow. For a moment, he just hovered behind her, like he wasn't sure whether to stay. Then he sank down beside her with a soft grunt, arms resting on his thighs, shoulder brushing hers.
"Thought you left," he said.
"I supposed to." Her voice was quieter now. "The sign's still busted," she said after a while, not looking at him.
"Kinda like it that way. Adds character."
They sat in silence again, the easy kind—familiar and worn in. The kind you earned.
Lady's eyes drifted to the street. Steam curled up from the pavement where the rain had touched warm ground. Ghosts, rising. Always ghosts.
"I ever tell you what I thought, the first time I saw this place?" she asked.
He made a low sound, amused. "Something snarky, probably."
"I thought, 'No way this guy's still alive.'"
That earned her an honest laugh. She turned her head just enough to see the smile stretch across his face—crooked, exhausted, real.
"You weren't wrong," he said. "Parts of me died a long time ago."
She went quiet again.
"Yeah," she said eventually. "Me too."
He didn't ask what parts. She didn't offer.
The rain stopped somewhere in the middle of that silence. Neither of them moved. The world felt far away, like a city viewed through fogged glass.
"Do you think it's always gonna be like this?" she asked, almost to herself. "Us. This. Halfway in, halfway out. Never saying it. Never stopping."
Dante didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, like it might break if he pushed too hard.
"I don't know if we'd survive it… if we did."
Something twisted in her chest. She didn't look at him.
"You ever want to?" she asked, carefully, like she was testing the edge of something sharp.
He exhaled slowly, almost as if it hurt.
"Every goddamn day."
Her breath caught. That wasn't the answer she expected. Or maybe it was, and that's why it hit harder than it should've.
She turned, studied the line of his jaw, the tired slope of his shoulders, the way the streetlight caught in his lashes. His face was older, but not really. Just more… quiet. Like the fight had gone deeper inside.
Without thinking, she reached out. Just barely—fingers brushing his arm, a gesture that wasn't quite anything.
He didn't pull away.
But he didn't close the distance either.
"Still full of shit," she muttered as she let her hand fall.
Dante grinned, faint and unrepentant. "But I mean well."
A slow hush settled over the street. Somewhere, far off, thunder rolled.
She leaned into him—not much, just enough to feel that he was real. Solid. There.
And this time, he leaned back.