The sun crawled up over Redgrave City, smothered in haze and brushfire gold. Towers of glass and steel caught enough light to fake the promise of hope, but down in the gutters, Redgrave was already showing her teeth. Sirens screamed in the distance—interrupted by something guttural, inhuman, echoing off concrete like a dare.
Dante never cared what monsters looked like. Every goddamn morning, Redgrave's alleys stank of demons who wore human skin: bankers, junkies, priests—they all bled the same. Today, the city smelled different. The blood was closer.
He stretched awake on the battered couch, half-buried by the armor of his own life: empty whiskey bottle, Rebellion's hilt propped beside the door, pizza box sprouting green mold, a .45 balanced on the table beside a postcard from hell ("Visit scenic Fortuna – Eat your soul out!"). Morning light sliced through the cracks in the blinds, dust motes waltzing in the air. One caught on his cheek—he brushed it away, the movement sharp, irritable.
Pressed above his desk, the photo of Sparda and Eva seemed to watch him. Not haunting, just... patient. He smirked and flipped them off. "Morning, 'rents. I know, the place looks like shit. Blame your kid."
Dante never used the name Naruto. The village that gave it to him, the ones who made him their scapegoat—fuck 'em. He'd been the black sheep, a shadow in his own home, while his "sister" bathed in love and training for a fate that wasn't hers. The wound stung, but he'd been through worse. Monsters didn't cry.
He walked naked to the window, muscles tracing demon-lit scars beneath his skin, and lit a cigarette. The city below was waking: steam-vented manholes, hookers trading jokes with paramedics, a pastor tongue-kissing last night's regret behind a dumpster. "Hell's playground," Dante muttered, exhaling a scrawl of smoke.
His body vibrated with the leftover power of the orb—Seraphiel's death wasn't done punishing him. Heat slithered behind his eyes; for a second, the world bled red. He grinned, savage. "Might wanna blow off some steam before breakfast."
A knock at his door—urgent, insistent, followed by a fresh chorus of gunfire downstairs. Dante pulled on his jeans, buckled his boots, and slung Rebellion across his bare shoulder. Blood was already seeping under the crack of his door. "Damn. And I didn't even make coffee."
Three cultists, teeth filed to nubs, shoulder-tattoos glowing blue, crashed through. First one got a bullet in the chest, splattering viscera on the wall behind. The second screamed, "The Nephilim will cleanse this city!" before Dante caved his skull in with a whiskey bottle and laughed as glass sparkled in the air, catching sunlight and blood.
The last—a woman in a shredded business dress—didn't attack. She dropped to her knees, bowing her head, hands trembling as she bared her throat.
"Please. They said you'd eat us. Make it quick, Nephilim."
Dante rolled his neck, jaw set. "People always praying for the wrong things."
He lifted her chin. Her eyes were wild, worship and terror braided together. Her breath was feverish against his palm.
He cocked his head. "Tell your bosses I'm not here to save you. I'm not here to doom you either. The only ones who burn are the ones who deserve it."
Tears shimmered. She muttered, almost inaudible, "Redgrave belongs to hell." She lunged—a blade appearing from nowhere—but Dante caught her wrist, smirked, and snapped it with languid brutality.
He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, his voice low and lethal. "You want a taste of hell? See you in your next life."
A single twist. The bone popped. The knife clattered. Her scream faded into city noise.
He cleaned blood from his hands, stalked outside. Daylight in Redgrave always tasted like iron and regret. Charred billboards, neon signs flickering even in morning, alleys rivers of trash. Hookers and hustlers eyed him—not with fear, but recognition. The city's stray dogs knew not to bark.
Dante stalked through the market, toward Tony's bar, savoring the glances and whispers tailing him. Sex and violence lingered in the air; a woman behind a counter locked eyes with him, lips curling in a dare. In this city, power was the only currency.
A tall man with obsidian skin and a priest's collar blocked his path. "We've seen the signs. Blood marks and Nephilim prints. The final omen walks among us. Are you—"
Dante's voice was a knife. "You got a confession, Father? Or you just looking to be punished?"
A sardonic smile. "Everyone in Redgrave has something to confess. Even you, son of devils."
Dante grinned. "I'm no one's son. Not anymore."
He left the priest in the gutter—no savior, no father, no need for forgiveness.
Tony's Bar—Hunger and Flesh -
Tony's was half-empty, shadows licking the battered bar, soft jazz murmuring under swampy light. Dante dropped onto a stool, glancing at the blonde bartender in a skin-tight leather skirt. Tattoos spiraled down her thighs, words in dead languages.
She poured him bourbon, burning strong. "Rough morning, D?"
"Seen worse." His eyes flicked to her hands—bruised knuckles, fresh scratches. "Trouble?"
She shrugged. "Not for you, mister devil. The city's gone feral. Only the predators left."
He smirked, finishing the shot. "Predators sit and fuck in every city. Some of us do both."
She gripped his chin, hard. "Maybe you should teach me to bite."
Dante didn't flinch. Their kiss came sudden, bruising—heat flaring, hands roaming. He pushed her against the back wall, bodies colliding. Blood and lipstick, sweat and bruises; the room spun, and for a moment, he was nowhere and everywhere at once—her pulse wild, his touch rough, his body needing. There was nothing soft about either of them. Redgrave didn't do gentle.
After, they laughed—sharp, tired, satisfied.
As he buttoned his pants, an explosion cracked the street. Smoke bled into the sky. He looked back at the bartender—she handed him a gun, then stroked his jaw.
"City's tearing itself apart, D. Don't let it take you too."
He kissed her again, rough and final. "Won't. Hell's just warming up."
-
He stalked into the chaos—Redgrave on fire, cultists screaming prayers, demons rampaging, sirens melting into the growling of engines and monsters. Rebellion in his hands, his eyes were alive with hellfire.
He wasn't the angel, wasn't the monster. He was Dante—the Nephilim, the judge, the executioner, the only one damn willing to keep Redgrave's dying heart beating just a while longer.
Final Beat -
He stepped onto a corpse-strewn street, watching flames climb toward the dawn. Blood flecked his knuckles, sweat stung his eyes, and the city's ghosts pressed in close as lovers.
He grinned, savage and sure. "You want a monster? Guess what, Redgrave—I'm the last fucking thing you pray for."
And with that, Dante vanished into the coming storm—alive, unrepentant, and ready for whatever devil or deity dared cross his path.