⚜️ Saga 0: The Ash Years
📍 Lower East Side, New York City
🕯️ Early Spring, 2007
🏠 Setting: Devil May Cry (a bar, a home)
🎯 Theme: Found family. Healing as resistance. Truce, no declarations.
🛡 Sin System: Stability Phase | Bond Hibernation Mode Active
"Sometimes the devil doesn't need to be banished.
Sometimes he just needs somewhere to go when he's tired."
____
The old place smelled like wood smoke and spilled beer, the kind of scent that stuck to your jacket and said, "You're safe here—just don't cause trouble."
Jazz played out of speakers that never matched. The floorboards creaked like they were learning to trust the new owners. The brick walls had held secrets longer than anyone inside had been alive.
Out front, the sign just said:
Devil May Cry
The "Y" hung off the edge, always half-falling, like it hadn't made up its mind.
No demons hiding in the cupboards. No dead bodies in the alley. Just people—locals, tired folks, ghosts who paid their tabs mostly with silence and the occasional joke.
And for the first time in forever, Dante felt… okay with it.
[Sin System Log — Domain Secured]
Main Anchor: Devil May Cry
Mood: "Feels like home, finally."
Rival Bonds: Asleep for once.
Wanda: 87.0%
Jean: 70.8%
Dante: 67.9%
The house: Recognized. "This is home."
A paper envelope had shown up—no name on it. Red key, old letter. "Uncle Ramsey," the signature claimed, but nobody ever proved the guy existed. Dante didn't look for ghosts. He signed the deed and went inside.
Every part of Devil May Cry became theirs.
Wanda cleaned hex by hex, sitting cross-legged and humming as floors unstuck.
Pietro painted a little too brightly, like he was fixing shame with every swipe.
Jean, frowning at out-of-date wires, made the heater work again.
Nobody said "Phoenix" or "future kids." Some memories belonged between the silences, not inside them.
Wanda moved into the cozy upstairs room and threaded warmth into the old curtains.
Jean took the tiny room next to the supply closet—still called it "temporary," even months later.
Dante claimed the loft: books, weapons under blankets, and three jackets in a pile.
Pietro mostly camped on the roof, reading old poetry, fixing the TV antenna every other night, picking up groceries no one admitted they wanted.
Dante learned to cook—nothing fancy, but warming.
Wanda brewed coffee and added her magic to make it taste right.
Jean fixed the till and rolled her eyes whenever it glitched.
Pietro kept the oddest playlists running all evening.
Somehow, it worked.
By mid-April, the cold tap stopped gurgling. By May, the old jukebox played mostly blues and classic funk.
One rainy night, Dante stood behind the bar, towel in hand, leaning on the wood like he'd always belonged there.
Wanda dried glasses beside him, moving slow and easy.
Jean, in boots and neat jacket, perched on the counter, reading, lost in the noise of storms and laughter outside.
Jean asked, "You let this place keep you still?"
Dante shrugged an easy smile. "Beats fighting demons in the snow."
Wanda said, "You're different now. Not running, just… here."
He nodded.
"It feels good not to run."
Jean lifted her glass. "Cheers to that."
Nobody needed to say more.
[Sin System — Status: Calm, Not Bothered]
Dante: 74.1%
Jean: 70.8%
Wanda: 87.0%
Bonds: Safe and holding
Small rituals took over.
Pietro named Thursday "Soup Night" (never actually made soup).
Jean fixed the jukebox's heart whenever Wanda wouldn't "hex it back again."
Wanda left secret protective runes under Dante's boots—never said anything about them.
Most nights, it was just music, muted laughter, and soft lights—nothing to chase away.
One night, Dante saw Wanda dance—quiet, by herself, barefoot on tired floorboards. Old Sam Cooke, voice carrying hope and ache at once.
She wore a red sweater slipping off one shoulder, hair loose and wild.
No magic. No plan. Just movement—like she was letting grief and hope talk.
He didn't say a word. Just let her have that space.
The next night, when she bumped her head into his shoulder and left it there?
He didn't move away.
When Jean saw it, she just came over, nudged Dante's glass, and said, "You're not really mine. But I'd still burn for you."
Wanda glanced up, didn't speak. But she didn't look away, either.
Her silence felt gentle, like understanding.
Sometimes, peace isn't about keeping quiet.
It's about letting someone else share the room, and not fighting that feeling.
One night after closing time, Dante sat by himself in the empty bar.
Snow fell outside—late for spring, but beautiful.
He opened an old journal, not even his own.
Out slipped a photo—not Wanda, not Jean.
A sketch of a kid's face, red hair, bright smile. "Lioré" written on the back.
He let the silence sit for a minute.
Whispered, "Not yet."
Meant it.
[Sin System — Memory Logged]
Safe house, stable.
Future: Unwritten, but possible.
Anchor: Locked.
Rival stuff: On pause.
And for a little while—a rare hour—Dante just existed.
Home.
Between two women who didn't want to own him, and didn't want to leave.
No storms.
Just smoke, wood,
And something close to peace..
_______________