New York City, 2004
A couple of days later, after his first demon hunt.
The city that never sleeps. Neon signs hummed above crowded streets, car horns blared in endless traffic, and somewhere a siren wailed, cutting through the night. Dante walked with his hands shoved in his coat pockets, the crimson tails swaying with every lazy step. The smell of hot asphalt, pizza grease, and subway smoke wrapped around him like a second skin.
Dante had come to love this place. It was loud, filthy, alive — a far cry from the snowbound silence of his childhood. But sometimes, he missed those times.
His boots clicked against the wet pavement as he strolled on, head tilted lazily. But it wasn't the red coat that drew attention. It was the sword.
Rebellion, sheathed across his back, jutted over his shoulder like a steel tower. Pedestrians gave him a wide berth. Some muttered about cosplay, others just rolled their eyes. This was New York — everyone had seen something weird before.
Still, not everyone shrugged it off.
"Hey!"
Dante slowed, glancing over his shoulder. Two NYPD officers were heading his way, their expressions caught somewhere between tired and annoyed.
The taller one pointed a thumb at Rebellion. "Kid, you wanna explain why you're walking around Midtown with a six-foot blade strapped to your back?"
Dante blinked, then smirked. "This? Family heirloom. Cuts demons… and, y'know, bad attitudes."
The second officer snorted, but the taller one wasn't amused. "You think this is funny? People call that a deadly weapon."
"Correction." Dante leaned back on his heels, grin widening. "It's a demon-hunting weapon. Big difference."
For a moment, there was silence. Then the second cop actually laughed. "Oh great, another one. First mutants, now demon hunters. Kid, what is this, Comic-Con?"
Dante spread his arms, sword glinting in the streetlight. "What can I say? New York's got rats. I just hunt the big ones."
The taller cop scribbled something in his notepad, clearly done with the conversation. "Whatever. Just don't swing that thing around in public. We've got enough freaks in this city already."
"Freaks?" Dante tilted his head, grin flashing sharper. "Buddy, you don't know the half of it."
The cops walked off muttering, leaving Dante chuckling to himself. He stretched, adjusted the strap on Rebellion, and kept moving.
Up ahead, neon letters buzzed over a diner doorway. The smell of grease and garlic hit him before he even pushed open the door, the bell overhead jingling him into the familiar warmth.
It was late, but the place was far from empty. A couple of cabbies argued in a corner booth, a pair of college kids hunched over textbooks, and the jukebox near the wall blinked red even though no one had fed it quarters in years.
The waitress — an older woman with a smoker's rasp and a pencil tucked behind her ear — spotted him immediately. "The usual, Dante?"
He slid into his favorite booth, sprawling across the cracked leather seat like he owned it. "You know it. Extra cheese pizza and a strawberry parfait. Make it two parfaits if you're feeling generous."
She shook her head, scribbling. "Kid, one day your arteries are gonna kill you before the demons do."
Dante grinned, tapping the table with his ringed fingers. "Sweetheart, my arteries are the least of Hell's problems."
The younger waitress, new to the diner, blinked in confusion as she poured coffee at the next booth. "Uh… did he just say demons?"
The older waitress chuckled, waving her off. "Don't mind him. That one's been coming in since he was barely a teen. Sits in that booth, eats like it's his last meal, and swears he's gonna be a demon hunter someday."
The younger one raised a brow. "And you believe him?"
The older waitress leaned on the counter, smirking. "Honey, in this city? With mutants, masked weirdos, and God knows what else running around? I don't ask. I just keep the coffee hot."
Dante raised his parfait spoon in salute without looking up. "Best waitress in New York. Knows how to mind her business."
As the two waitresses walked away, Dante leaned back and let the diner's noise wash over him. A TV bolted above the counter played the nightly news, the anchor's voice fuzzy through the static.
"…reports continue to spread of a masked vigilante in Queens. Witnesses describe him as wearing red and blue, moving across rooftops faster than the eye can follow. Officials deny any confirmation, calling it an urban myth. But grainy photos are circulating…"
On-screen, a blurry streak of red and blue swung between skyscrapers. Spider-Man.
Dante smirked, muttering under his breath. "Guess I'm not the only freak punching above his weight class."
The broadcast shifted.
"…and in international news, billionaire inventor Tony Stark remains missing after his convoy was ambushed during a weapons demonstration in Africa. Stark Industries has declined to comment on the incident. The search continues."
Dante snorted, leaning back in the booth. "Oh, great. One less billionaire to care about."
He stretched, eyes wandering across the diner walls. Faded posters hung between neon beer signs and grease stains. One caught his eye: a vintage war recruitment poster, Captain America pointing directly at the viewer. I Want You to Join the Fight.
The edges were yellowed with age, but the symbol still hit hard. A hero who fought when the world needed one most — and maybe still did.
Dante tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. "Guess I'm late to sign up, huh?"
The waitress returned, sliding a steaming pizza across the table, followed by a tall parfait glass dripping with strawberries and cream. Dante dug in without hesitation, grease on his fingers, sugar on his tongue, and Rebellion leaning against the booth like a reminder that the fight was never too far away.
Outside, the city kept moving.
But from across the street, in the shadows of an alley, a pair of figures stood watching through the diner's windows. Their hoods hid their faces, but the faint green glow beneath their robes gave them away. Cultists.
One whispered to the other, voice hissing like smoke. "It is him. The bloodline of the Dark Knight walks among mortals."
The second inclined his head. "Prophecy speaks true. One of Sparda's heirs will open the gates of Hell."
Their eyes shifted to the faint crimson glow of the pendant resting against Dante's chest as he leaned back, laughing at something only he could hear.
The first cultist's grip tightened on his dagger. "Soon… the gate will rise, and the world will burn."
The two melted back into the night, leaving Dante oblivious inside — pizza in one hand, parfait spoon in the other, still smirking like he had all the time in the world.