Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The world had survived, though one would have been forgiven for believing otherwise.

New York no longer resembled the city that had once stretched proudly toward the heavens with towers of glass and steel. It had become something ancient and broken overnight, its skyline reduced to jagged silhouettes rising through curtains of smoke that still drifted lazily between fractured buildings. Entire avenues had vanished beneath mountains of concrete, twisted rebar clawed through the remains of collapsed offices, and abandoned military vehicles lay overturned where their crews had either fled or simply never returned. Somewhere in the distance, sirens still wailed, though whether they belonged to ambulances searching for survivors or patrols sweeping for the last remnants of Hell's invasion was impossible to tell. The war was over, at least that was what the television broadcasts insisted upon, but wars left echoes long after the final battle had ended. Evelyn Ashcroft had learned many years ago that echoes were often louder than the event itself.

Her car sat several streets away from the devastation, tucked beneath the shelter of a weathered stone library whose age had spared it from becoming another casualty. It was neither the newest nor the most expensive vehicle she could have afforded. Growing up surrounded by old money had taught her that extravagance attracted attention, and attention had never once improved her life. The black coupe was dependable, easy to repair, and—more importantly—it would still be standing tomorrow.

She had seen that much already.

The dream had come three nights earlier, one among countless others that had ceased feeling like dreams sometime during childhood. She had watched another office tower surrender to gravity with terrible inevitability, crushing everything unfortunate enough to remain beneath it. Hundreds of abandoned vehicles disappeared beneath the avalanche of steel and concrete. Her own had remained untouched, resting quietly beneath the shadow of an old library whose foundations had been laid long before the city had reached greedily toward the clouds. Some people believed in luck. Evelyn believed in paying attention.

She switched off the engine and sat for a moment with both hands resting lightly upon the steering wheel. Silence settled around her, blessed and unfamiliar after the endless chorus of voices that had accompanied the drive into the city. The wards stitched discreetly beneath the lining of her jacket pulsed faintly against her shoulders, enough to dull the constant murmur pressing against the edges of her mind but never enough to silence it completely. There was no such thing as true silence inside New York anymore.

Stepping out into the cold morning air, she buttoned her dark riding jacket against the wind before retrieving a worn leather satchel from the passenger seat. Everything inside occupied its proper place, just as it always had. Extra magazines rested beside bundles of ritual chalk wrapped carefully in linen to keep the moisture away. Six enchanted daggers lay secured in individual sheaths, each marked with hand-carved sigils worn smooth from years of handling. Folded wards, bundles of dried herbs, small glass vials filled with blessed salt, and a compact medical kit completed the collection. It looked less like the belongings of a warrior than those of an eccentric scholar, which suited her perfectly.

The dead noticed her the moment her boots touched the broken pavement.

Not because she was remarkable.

Because she could hear them.

"My son..."

"Please don't leave me here..."

"The fire... dear God, the fire..."

The voices drifted through the streets like scraps of paper carried upon the wind, overlapping until individual words became nearly impossible to distinguish. There had been a time when she answered every one of them. At twelve years old, she had believed every desperate whisper deserved compassion. By ten she had learned that grief was endless, and by twenty she understood that if she stopped to comfort every lost soul wandering New York, she would die of old age before reaching the next intersection.

"I'm sorry," she murmured beneath her breath, not expecting forgiveness. "I can't help all of you."

The whispers continued anyway.

She adjusted the strap of her satchel and continued walking.

The ruins of Manhattan lay like a wounded beast beneath the sullen sky, its once-proud towers reduced to jagged skeletons clawing at the heavens, while the streets below twisted through shadows thick with the memory of fire and despair. Devil hunting had never been a calling for Evelyn, no grand destiny whispered by ancient winds or etched in the stars as the bards of old might have sung. It was employment, plain and unadorned, a grim necessity born of the Hellgate's cataclysmic fall. Newspapers and heralds across the shattered world now trumpeted the tales of legendary heroes, of mighty military triumphs and miraculous rescues that lit the darkness like fleeting beacons. Yet none of those grand proclamations spoke of the lesser demons that lingered still, skulking like rats in the aftermath of a great wreck—hidden in the fetid depths of subway tunnels, the hollow husks of abandoned apartment blocks, or the skeletal remains of once-bustling office spires. These creatures, hungry, frightened, and all the more perilous for their desperation, prowled the city's festering wounds, waiting for the fragile guard of civilization to slip even a fraction.

Governments offered handsome bounties for confirmed kills, their ledgers stained with the ink of necessity, while private contractors, those shadowy figures who thrived in the margins of chaos, paid even more lavishly. Evelyn accepted both without ceremony, her choices guided not by glory but by the cold arithmetic of survival. Practicality had kept her alive through the long years, a steadfast anchor in a world unmoored by infernal fury. It was this same practicality that now carried her steps with measured confidence through the debris-choked avenues, where every shadow seemed a living veil capable of birthing nightmares untold.

She paused beside the shattered entrance of a once-elegant apartment building, its marble facade marred by deep, savage grooves carved by claws far larger and more terrible than any bear that had ever roamed the wilds of legend. Kneeling with the caution of one who had learned the cost of haste, she rested her gloved fingertips against the cold, damaged stone. The world lurched violently around her, as if the very fabric of time had been rent asunder. For a fleeting instant, she was no longer amid the rubble but thrust into the heart of a cataclysm: a roar unlike any earthly creature shook the air with primordial fury, a sound that vibrated through bone and soul alike. Something immense, a behemoth of black scales slick with acrid smoke and malevolent power, forced its way through the street as men and women fled in blind, animal panic. Gunfire erupted in futile flashes, sparks dying harmlessly against that armored hide. She glimpsed only fragments—a child's bicycle abandoned beside a burning taxi, its wheels still spinning lazily; the metallic taste of copper flooding her mouth like a harbinger of doom; terror so overwhelming it transcended the human, a primal abyss that swallowed reason whole. Then the vision shattered like brittle glass beneath a hammer, leaving her gasping.

Evelyn inhaled sharply, withdrawing her hand as though it had brushed against living flame. "Three hours," she whispered to the empty wind, her voice steady despite the lingering chill. The air still carried the creature's foul scent, a bitter tang of brimstone and decay that clung to the ruins like a curse.

She pressed onward, eastward through streets where the ghosts of the old world whispered from every corner. It was impossible to traverse this scarred heart of Manhattan without the past rising unbidden: familiar facades, now battered and forlorn, stirred memories of bustling crowds and ordinary days long devoured by chaos. Her gaze drifted inevitably toward a battered warehouse district several blocks distant, where a narrow brick building stood defiant amid the desolation. Faded lettering clung stubbornly above a dented metal door, proclaiming in weathered defiance: Devil May Cry. She had never met the man who dwelled there, not once in the flesh. Yet for two long years, she had quietly paid his rent through an anonymous account, a silent vigil ensuring that no opportunistic landlord, eager to reclaim losses in the wake of apocalypse, would clear the place out and scatter its secrets to the winds. It had been an absurd decision, she knew—rational souls did not squander coin on strangers' hearths. Then again, rational people rarely slipped through unlocked windows into the unknown.

She had done so only once, drawn by curiosity sharper than conscience after hearing the tale repeated by an elderly homeless veteran who slept beneath the elevated tracks nearby. The old man, his eyes clouded by drink and grief yet keen with the wisdom of the overlooked, insisted that soldiers had dragged the famed devil hunter away in chains during the government's zealous purge of demonic threats. Others dismissed him as another broken soul lost to the bottle, but Evelyn had learned long ago that the forgotten often glimpsed truths the mighty ignored. Inside the apartment, she had found chaos incarnate: bullet holes scarred the walls like pockmarks from some ancient war; furniture lay overturned as if a tempest had searched every inch for hidden sins. Empty pizza boxes mingled with unpaid bills amid weapons whose craftsmanship bordered on the divine—blades and firearms etched with runes that hummed faintly of otherworldly power. It felt strangely, defiantly lived in, a sanctuary of contradictions.

She had touched one of the bullet-riddled walls, and the vision had come in jagged shards: a golden pendant swinging through the air like a talisman of fate; a woman with short black hair and mismatched eyes burning with impossible, unyielding determination; the staccato roar of gunfire; blood spilling hot and vivid; the white-haired man laughing defiantly despite a bullet buried deep in his chest, the wound knitting itself together before her eyes in a miracle of infernal resilience. She had staggered backward, breathless, the weight of it pressing upon her soul. No mere human endured such things. Yet what lingered most powerfully within those walls was not raw power, but a profound loneliness—not the empty ache of abandonment, but the solitary burden of one who carried the weight of ages upon his shoulders while cloaking it in wry amusement, as if the cosmos itself were a jest only he understood. She had locked the window behind her upon leaving and begun paying the rent the following month. Perhaps one day he would return. Perhaps not. Either way, the city had claimed enough homes already; she would not let it take this one.

A harsh, guttural laugh echoed through the ruined streets, yanking her from reverie like a blade drawn in the dark. Evelyn froze, not from the sound alone, but from the words that slithered after it like venom. "Well," a demon rasped with unmistakable, malicious delight, its voice a grinding of stones and sulfur, "if it isn't the Son of Sparda." Another answered with a cruel chuckle that slithered through the air like smoke. "Mundus failed." A pregnant pause hung heavy. "I won't."

Evelyn's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, a subtle hardening of resolve beneath her composed features. Her pistol cleared its holster in one fluid, practiced motion, the report cracking the morning silence like thunder from on high. The lead demon's skull erupted into a cloud of black ash and fading embers before its raised claw could even descend toward the motionless figure sprawled beneath the collapsed overpass.

The remaining creatures wheeled toward her with snarls that rattled broken windows and sent shards of glass tinkling like malevolent chimes. "Oh," Evelyn sighed quietly, her tone laced with weary resolve, "there are three of you." The first demon lunged with reckless, blinding speed, its claws outstretched like scythes forged in the pits of damnation—twisted appendages that gleamed with unnatural hunger. She stepped aside with almost casual precision, allowing its momentum to carry it past in a whirlwind of fetid air and snapping jaws. In that instant, she drove one enchanted dagger deep into the cracked pavement. Pale, luminous lines erupted across the asphalt in a perfect, ancient circle, symbols of forgotten power flaring to life beneath the beast's feet. It slammed against an invisible barrier with bone-jarring force, shrieking as the ward seized not merely its corporeal form but its very essence, binding it in ethereal chains that pulsed with silver fire. The demon thrashed wildly, its howls echoing off the ruins, long enough for Evelyn to level her pistol and fire twice into its misshapen head. Black ichor burst outward in a foul spray, dissolving into drifting embers that scattered harmlessly before they could stain the ground.

The second demon, stronger and more cunning, seized the rusted remains of a steel beam from the wreckage, swinging it like a colossal warhammer with earth-shaking might. Concrete exploded in a shower of dust and shards where she had stood mere heartbeats before, the impact sending tremors through the street. She ducked beneath the returning arc, the beam whistling so close overhead that it tugged loose strands of her hair, whipping them across her face like a cold caress from the grave. Her free hand traced a intricate sigil through the air, fingers dancing with the confidence of long-honed ritual. The symbol flashed brilliant silver, streaking forth to strike the demon squarely in its armored chest. It faltered, staggering as arcane energies coursed through its veins like liquid lightning, buying her the precious moment she needed. Without hesitation, she closed the distance, her movements a deadly ballet amid the chaos. One dagger buried itself beneath its ribs with a sickening crunch, twisting to unleash a burst of purifying light. Her boot slammed into its knee with bone-cracking force, buckling the limb. A second shot from her pistol shattered its jaw in a spray of fangs and shadow, and the final bullet found its mark through one glowing eye, piercing deep into the core of its malice. The creature convulsed violently, its body breaking apart inward upon itself, crumbling into smoking fragments that scattered across the ruined street like dying stars borne away on an unforgiving breeze.

The last demon hesitated, its malevolent eyes widening with a flicker of true fear—a rare and satisfying sight. It turned to flee, claws scrabbling desperately over debris in a bid for the shadows. Evelyn drew a second pistol from beneath her coat with seamless grace, the twin weapons gleaming like instruments of judgment. One shot rang out, precise and final. The creature crumpled mid-stride, its form unraveling into nothingness before it had taken three faltering paces.

Silence descended once more, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the slow, mournful settling of damaged buildings, as if the city itself exhaled in relief. Evelyn waited several long seconds, her senses attuned to the fading wisps of infernal energy dissipating like mist before the dawn, before lowering her weapons. Only then did she approach the fallen figure the demons had been poised to slay. White hair, matted with grime and blood, framed a face etched by trials beyond mortal reckoning. A red coat, torn nearly beyond recognition, clung to his form, while crimson stained almost every visible inch of him—though many wounds had already begun their impossible, regenerative closure, knitting flesh with threads of otherworldly vitality.

For a long moment, she simply stared, the weight of legend and vision converging in the flesh before her. Then, yielding to the instinct that had guided her since childhood—a gift and curse intertwined—she rested two fingers lightly against the back of his hand. The vision struck harder than any before, a torrent that engulfed her senses: a mother smiling with gentle radiance beneath summer sunlight filtering through ancient trees; two boys racing through the halls of an old manor, laughter echoing like forgotten music; a sword gleaming with fateful purpose; a brother bound by blood and betrayal; flames consuming all in their path; an amulet pulsing with hidden power. Centuries of grief compressed into a single, shattering heartbeat. And through it all, a man who laughed defiantly so no one would notice how profoundly alone he truly was, bearing the mantle of the Son of Sparda like a crown of thorns and stars.

Evelyn's breath caught in her throat, the echoes resonating deeply within her. She had felt these fragments once before, within the walls of that abandoned loft. Slowly, almost reverently, she looked down at the unconscious man's face, where dirt and blood could not disguise the sharp, unmistakable features glimpsed in those fractured memories. "So," she murmured, her voice soft as a prayer carried on the wind, more to herself than to him, "you did come home."

And for the first time in two years, the apartment she had stubbornly refused to let slip into oblivion no longer felt empty, but alive with the quiet promise of stories yet to unfold amid the ruins.

Dante's POV

The darkness did not come gently to Dante. It drifted over him like an endless, lightless sea, cold and impossibly deep, carrying him farther from the ruined world above until even the memory of light began to dissolve into the void. Time held no meaning in that abyss. Whether minutes or dragging hours had passed since the rift sealed itself, he could not tell. His body lay crushed somewhere beneath a mountain of shattered concrete and twisted steel, broken in more places than he cared to count, yet his mind wandered through realms untouched by the physical devastation. Pain remained, ever faithful. It pulsed in every struggling breath, in every dull heartbeat echoing through his chest, in every muscle that refused to obey. Yet even that agony felt distant beside the heavier ache pressing upon his soul. His wounds would heal—they always did. The fresh wound of losing Vergil again was something else entirely.

His hand remained closed around the only things he had managed to keep. The old locket rested against his palm, worn smooth by the fall from the rift, its tiny hinge bent from brief moments of quiet reflection. Even without opening it, he could see every detail as clearly as if Eva had placed it there only yesterday: her warm smile that made the impossible feel ordinary, and beside her, two boys untouched by demons or destiny—children whose greatest worries had been wooden swords and imaginary monsters beyond the garden walls. One grinned with reckless confidence, the other gazed thoughtfully into the distance. Neither had known how little time remained before fire would devour their world.

Beneath the locket lay the broken halves of the amulet, their fractured edges digging into his fingers. They had finally been whole again, if only for a fleeting moment.

His thumb traced the jagged seam absently. Strange, how something could remain incomplete even after being reunited. Perhaps people were no different.

His thoughts returned, as they always did now, to those final moments before the rift closed. The image refused to leave him. Vergil standing alone, Yamato hanging loosely at his side, the collapsing gateway swallowing everything behind him. There had been no hesitation in the strike that sent Dante hurtling back toward Earth—the blade piercing his chest with precision, not to kill but to rob him of the strength to follow. Dante remembered the sickening fall through worlds, shouting his brother’s name until the roar of the rift devoured his voice. He remembered reaching desperately toward a hand vanishing behind curtains of blue light. And he remembered the last thing he saw: Vergil’s small, tired, almost peaceful smile.

It had not been the cold smirk of old, nor the bitter mask of a man chasing power. It had been something quieter. Resigned. Final.

Dante had been convinced Vergil was dead for so long—years of believing his brother lost forever in the aftermath of their old conflicts. Then, only a few days ago, the impossible had happened. Vergil was alive. They had found each other again, reunited amid the chaos of this new war against the Hellgate. Brief, charged moments of brotherhood—sharp words, shared battles, the old rhythm of their fractured bond beginning, against all odds, to mend. And then, just as quickly, to lose him again. To watch him choose to stay behind, sacrificing himself once more so that Dante could live.

“Why?” the question echoed endlessly through the darkness. Why stay? Why, after they had only just found one another again, choose to face an enemy neither could defeat alone? There had been no arrogance left in Vergil’s decision, no obsession with proving superiority. He had known exactly what awaited him. Mundus would show no mercy. There would be no escape, no hidden victory. Vergil had stayed anyway—not because he believed he could win, but because he believed Dante had to.

The realization carved something hollow inside Dante that even years of fighting had never touched. He had spent so long believing his brother gone, then the miracle of reunion, only for fate to rip him away again in the span of days. The irony was bitter as poison. After all this time, after finally beginning to bridge the chasm between them, it was Vergil who had protected him once more.

“You idiot…” he thought, the words carrying no real venom, only exhausted grief. “We were supposed to do this together. I’d have stayed with you.”

Silence answered. The darkness welcomed him deeper.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Dante wondered whether it would be easier to simply stop fighting. His demonic power had burned itself nearly dry battling through the recent horrors—Arius, Mundus, and now this fresh parting from Vergil. His Devil Trigger had vanished long before he struck the ground. Even the blood of Sparda had limits, and he had reached them all. Regeneration crept sluggishly through his body, closing some wounds while others remained open beneath the torn crimson fabric of his coat. Every attempt to move failed before it began. If something found him now, he wasn’t sure he cared.

The sound reached him first: three distinct sets of footsteps crunching across broken concrete. Not human. Their scent followed—thick with sulfur, stale blood, and the rot of lesser demons. He recognized them instinctively. Grunts.

One laughed, an ugly chittering scrape. “Look what the humans left behind.” Another answered with delighted disbelief. “The Son of Sparda.” “I thought he was supposed to be unbeatable.” Something sharp prodded his shoulder. His body refused to respond. A third voice drew closer, hot breath against his face. “Mundus failed.” A pause. “We won’t.”

Their laughter echoed, cruel and eager—the glee of scavengers finding a wounded predator too broken to fight back. He sensed one raising a claw for the killing blow. He should have reached for Ebony and Ivory. Instead, his fingers only tightened weakly around the broken amulet and his mother’s locket. If this was the end, perhaps these were fitting last things to hold. What's the point of living if the people he loves either die or abandon him?

The gunshot came like thunder, splitting the silence. It was followed by the wet impact of a body striking the pavement inches from his head. The demons’ laughter died. “What—?” “Someone’s here!” More shots rang out, measured and deliberate. Dante heard steady boots crossing broken pavement, the soft whisper of leather against fabric. Whoever it was did not run toward danger—they walked into it with calm purpose.

A woman’s voice carried through the ruins, calm, composed, almost strangely gentle. “Move.” A single word, spoken with such certainty that even the demons hesitated. Even half-conscious, Dante wondered who walked into a battlefield sounding less afraid of demons than of being late for an appointment. That thought faded as steel met claw and another gunshot swallowed the world.

The world slipped away in fragments. Sounds grew distant—the gunfire and dying snarls dissolving into murmurs. The ache in his chest drifted farther with each heartbeat. He fought to keep his eyes open, but his body had endured enough. His vision blurred until the city melted into shapes and muted colors. Yet through the haze, one figure came into focus, untouched by the dust and smoke.

She leaned over him, blocking the pale morning sky. The first thing he noticed were her eyes—deep, vibrant green like moss after rainfall, startlingly alive against the soot on her face. Strands of long, dark auburn hair had escaped their tie, stirred by the cold wind. Dirt smudged one cheek, and her dark riding jacket bore fresh tears from near misses, yet she carried an odd composure amid the destruction. Her full, petal-pink lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, as though she had solved a long puzzle.

“Oh,” she said softly, almost to herself, “looks like you made it home.”

The words reached him as if from a long corridor. Home. An odd thing to say to a stranger. He wanted to ask who she was, how she knew him, why she sounded relieved. But the questions never formed. His eyelids surrendered, and darkness claimed him once more.

--------------

Evelyn remained crouched beside him for several long seconds, her senses attuned to the fragile rhythm of life still clinging to the white-haired devil hunter. The ruined avenue lay hushed around them, as though the city itself held its breath in the aftermath of violence, the only sounds the distant wail of sirens and the occasional groan of settling debris. His breathing, though shallow, remained steady—a quiet testament to a resilience that defied mortal limits. Beneath the grime and dried blood caking his wrist, his pulse thrummed with remarkable strength, steady despite the catastrophic injuries that would have slain any ordinary man a dozen times over. The vicious wound piercing his chest had already begun the slow, unnatural process of knitting itself together, far more sluggishly than the flashes of miraculous healing she had glimpsed years ago within the shadowed walls of his apartment, yet no less wondrous and eerie. Whatever ancient, infernal blood flowed through Dante’s veins, it was certainly not wholly human; it sang of legacies older than the streets themselves, of powers woven into the fabric of myth and nightmare.

“Oh, shit,” the words slipped from her lips before she could restrain them, a quiet exhalation of disbelief laced with reluctant awe.

She reached out cautiously, poking his cheek with the back of one gloved finger. No response. The legendary Son of Sparda lay as still as one of the marble statues toppled in the invasion. “Hey,” she tried again, delivering a slightly firmer prod. “Wake up.” Nothing. With mounting exasperation tempered by concern, she placed both hands upon his broad shoulder and gave him an experimental shake. His head lolled limply to one side, utterly indifferent, as though consciousness had become an optional burden he had decisively abandoned.

“Dante.”

Silence answered, profound and unyielding.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, the sound carrying equal measures of resignation and weary disbelief. “Wonderful.”

Her gaze drifted across the devastated avenue, moving with the instinctive precision of one who had survived years of devil hunting by refusing to yield to panic. Problems, no matter how dire or inconvenient, usually concealed solutions if one possessed the patience and clarity to seek them. Corpses of lesser demons dissolved into drifting embers; abandoned military equipment lay scattered like forgotten relics; collapsed storefronts gaped like open wounds; and the scattered belongings of fleeing civilians told silent tales of chaos. None of it would serve. Then her eyes caught upon something half-buried beneath chunks of broken masonry: a white utility van, its rear doors hanging open where its previous owners had abandoned it in desperate haste. One tire sagged flat against the pavement, the windshield bore an impressive spiderweb of cracks from some earlier impact, and a sturdy ladder remained strapped securely to the roof despite the apocalypse that had swept through these streets. It was ugly, battered, and thoroughly mundane.

It was exactly what she needed.

Her attention returned to Dante. He was, she estimated, somewhere around six foot two, with broad shoulders and a solidly built frame honed by countless battles. Even unconscious, he looked infuriatingly heavy—an immovable weight of muscle, legend, and lingering demonic vitality.

Evelyn stood in thoughtful silence for a moment, weighing her options like a tactician on an ancient battlefield. Dragging him was immediately dismissed; the rough pavement and debris would only worsen his injuries. Lifting him outright lasted perhaps half a second in her mind before being discarded. She was fit, certainly—devil hunting had forged her into something far stronger than her lithe appearance suggested. Endless hours spent riding through forsaken districts, climbing through ruined structures with equipment strapped to her back, practicing ancient forms until her muscles screamed in protest, and surviving encounters that would have claimed lesser souls had left her capable of wrestling lesser demons, scaling crumbling facades, and holding her own in the face of terror. But she was not strong enough to hoist an unconscious man nearly a foot taller than herself over one shoulder and stroll casually toward the van as if he were no more burdensome than a sack of flour.

Her mentor’s voice surfaced unbidden from the depths of memory, calm and stern as it had always been amid the candlelit halls of the old order. “Strength is a poor substitute for leverage, Evelyn. Pride has buried more hunters than demons ever have.” Sister Magdalena had insisted that every student master the art of recovering wounded civilians from dangerous ground. She had taught battlefield medicine by lantern light—splinting shattered bones, stitching wounds with steady hands, and, most crucially, how to move someone twice one’s size without destroying one’s own back in the process. At fifteen, Evelyn had complained endlessly about those lessons, convinced they were relics of a gentler world she would never need in the hunt. She silently admitted, not for the first time, that Sister Magdalena had been right. Again.

Kneeling once more beside Dante, she carefully crossed one of his heavy arms over her shoulders, shifting her weight lower and sliding herself beneath him exactly as she had been taught so many years before. One foot planted firmly against the cracked pavement. Knees bent. Back straight. Lift with the legs, not the pride.

“Please,” she murmured under her breath, tightening her grip around his wrist as the full weight of him settled against her, “don’t wake up halfway through this.”

She braced herself, drawing a sharp exhale. Then, with every muscle in her body protesting the immense effort—the burn in her thighs, the strain along her shoulders and core—she began the painstaking task of hauling the legendary Son of Sparda toward the abandoned van. One careful, staggering step at a time, through the rubble-strewn street where the echoes of ancient battles and fresh loss seemed to watch her progress with quiet, almost amused interest. The van waited like a battered chariot of salvation, its open doors promising a fragile sanctuary amid the ruins. Evelyn’s breath came in measured gasps, her boots scraping against stone and ash, but she did not falter. Practicality had kept her alive this long. It would have to suffice a little longer.

Evelyn remained crouched beside him only long enough to confirm the steady, if shallow, rhythm of his breathing and the faint but resilient pulse beneath the grime and dried blood at his wrist. Satisfied that the legendary devil hunter would not slip away into the final dark while she worked, she straightened with a quiet exhale and turned her attention to the silent battlefield. The street had fallen eerily still once more, ash drifting lazily through shafts of pale morning light like the ghosts of fallen demons, settling in soft veils over broken masonry and the slowly dissolving remains of their foes. Most souls, upon discovering an unconscious stranger amid such devastation, would have considered their duty fulfilled the moment he was moved to safety. Evelyn knew better. Years of investigating the aftermath of supernatural carnage had taught her that battlefields were covetous things—they swallowed important relics and personal truths as readily as they claimed lives. She would not leave behind what the Son of Sparda could no longer protect.

By the time she had hauled him across the ruined street and into the rear of the abandoned utility van, her lungs burned fiercely and every muscle from her shoulders down to the arches of her feet screamed in protest. The journey had been less a graceful rescue than a grinding exercise in stubborn determination, punctuated by several pauses where she leaned against rubble, questioning every choice that had led her to this improbable moment. Through equal parts proper technique learned long ago and sheer, unyielding persistence, she had managed to guide his considerable weight up into the cargo space. He landed with a heavy thud upon the worn rubber flooring, one arm falling limply across his chest as the vehicle rocked gently beneath the impact. Evelyn remained bent forward for a long moment, hands planted firmly on her knees, drawing measured breaths while trying to ignore the deep ache spreading through her back.

“I sincerely hope,” she muttered between gasps, the words vanishing unanswered into the empty cargo hold, “that you’re worth the hernia.”

Straightening slowly, she looked him over once more to ensure none of the wounds that had only just begun their impossible work of closing had reopened in the process. His breathing remained steady, and though the blood soaking through the crimson coat painted a grim and visceral picture, she had seen enough in her visions and in the present moment to know that appearances were profoundly deceptive where Dante was concerned. Whatever ancient heritage coursed through his veins, his body refused to surrender as easily as any mortal frame would have.

She closed the van doors only halfway before turning back toward the site of the skirmish. Her gaze swept methodically across the rubble, patient and discerning. There—half-buried beneath a slab of fractured concrete protruded the unmistakable hilt of an enormous sword. With careful effort, she wedged her hands beneath the stone and shifted it aside just enough to free the weapon without marring its blade. Even at rest, it possessed an undeniable, almost living presence; the metal felt cool and weighty beneath her gloved fingertips, strangely familiar despite her never having held it before. She recognized it at once from the fragmented visions that had washed over her years ago within the walls of his apartment. This was no mere weapon. It carried the weight of history, of grief and generations of blood and sacrifice woven so deeply into its forging that the very air around it seemed reluctant to release its hold.

The instant her fingers settled fully around the grip, a sharp pulse of sensation flashed through her mind: a towering figure clad in black, a great sword raised against impossible darkness; a woman’s laughter riding upon the wind like distant bells; two boys practicing beneath ancient trees, their voices echoing with innocent joy. The vision faded as swiftly as it had come, leaving only a faint pressure behind her eyes and a lingering echo of sorrow.

“Enough,” she murmured quietly, deliberately loosening her grip. “I don’t need to know everything.”

She rested the sword carefully against the interior wall of the van before returning to the shattered pavement. Several feet away, glinting beneath scattered shards of glass, lay two familiar pieces of blue and red. Kneeling, she retrieved them with surprising reverence. The amulet—broken cleanly into two halves. She turned the fragments over in her palm, studying the aged stones. There was no mistaking the quiet sorrow that clung to them like a shroud; she needed no vision to understand they had once been whole, bound together by bonds deeper than mere craftsmanship. Some things announced their importance without the aid of clairvoyance.

Nearby, the old locket lay partially hidden beneath a torn fold of Dante’s coat where it had slipped free during the struggle. The tiny clasp had sprung open upon impact, revealing the faded photograph within. Evelyn’s expression softened almost imperceptibly as she gazed upon the smiling woman embracing two young white-haired boys. Time had yellowed the edges of the image, but the affection captured there lingered as vividly as the day it had been taken—a fragile window into a world long lost to fire and shadow. She did not linger overlong. Closing the locket gently with her thumb, she tucked it safely beside the broken amulet into one of the padded pockets of her satchel, treating them as the treasures they clearly were.

Only one thing remained. The pistols. She found the first several yards distant, wedged stubbornly beneath the twisted axle of an overturned military vehicle. The second rested near the crater where Dante had struck the earth, almost completely concealed beneath a blanket of pulverized concrete dust. Lifting them free, she paused despite herself. They were surprisingly well maintained despite years of relentless abuse, their balance perfect and almost unnaturally intuitive in her hands, every scratch and worn edge earned through countless battles. These were no collector’s pieces or mere tools of the trade. They were extensions of the man who wielded them—faithful companions through solitude and war.

She checked each chamber with practiced care, confirmed they were safe, and laid them reverently beside the sword inside the van before closing the rear doors with a firm, metallic clang that echoed down the empty street.

For a brief moment, she rested one hand against the weathered paint of the vehicle and looked back toward the devastated avenue. The city stretched before her in solemn silence, its broken skyline vanishing into drifting smoke while distant helicopters circled overhead like carrion birds seeking signs of life. Somewhere, the slow machinery of recovery had already begun. Somewhere else, another hunter was doubtless collecting another bounty on lesser prey. None of them knew that the legendary devil hunter—believed by many to be dead or long missing—now lay unconscious in the back of an abandoned contractor’s van.

Evelyn slipped into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and was rewarded by an engine that coughed twice before roaring reluctantly to life. She fastened her seatbelt with a quiet click and glanced once toward the rearview mirror, where only the faint outline of Dante’s boots was visible beyond the partition.

“All right,” she said softly, more to the sleeping legend behind her than to the ruins outside, “I suppose you’re coming home with me.”

The drive through the ruined city proved mercifully uneventful, though tension clung to every turn like a shadow. Emergency vehicles clogged the main thoroughfares, military checkpoints bristled around the worst scars of destruction, and helicopters continued their slow, predatory circles overhead. Yet the side streets remained eerily deserted, most civilians having either evacuated or wisely barred themselves behind locked doors. Evelyn kept to routes she knew by heart, navigating with quiet confidence through alleys and lesser avenues, avoiding unnecessary scrutiny until the familiar, steadfast silhouette of the old stone library rose into view. Her black coupe waited precisely where she had left it, untouched amid the chaos. The sight drew an involuntary sigh of relief from her lips—at least one small mercy had held true in this absurd day.

She eased the stolen utility van into the narrow service alley beside the library, positioning it carefully so both vehicles lay concealed from the street by a row of overgrown hedges and the deep shadow cast by the building itself. The engine gave one final, exhausted rattle before falling silent, leaving the alley wrapped in a stillness broken only by the distant wail of sirens drifting across the wounded city.

For several long seconds, Evelyn simply sat behind the wheel, staring through the rearview mirror at the unconscious devil hunter sprawled in the cargo bay. “This is kidnapping,” she said aloud, the words hanging heavy in the confined space.

She paused.

“Well…”

Another pause.

“Technically.”

The distinction did remarkably little to ease the growing knot of absurdity tightening in her chest. She climbed out and opened the rear doors once more. Dante remained exactly as she had left him, sprawled with all the elegance of a man who had been dropped unceremoniously from another dimension—which, she supposed, was not entirely inaccurate. His white hair had grown even more unruly during the drive, dust clinging stubbornly to the strands, while fresh blood continued to stain the remnants of his crimson coat despite the slow, relentless work of his unnatural regeneration.

Evelyn folded her arms, regarding him with a mix of dry amusement and mounting disbelief. “You know,” she informed the unconscious legend, “if anyone happens to walk into this alley right now, there is absolutely no version of this that ends with me sounding innocent.”

Dante, unsurprisingly, offered no rebuttal.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead before glancing from the van to her own sleek coupe. The difference in size was almost comical. One was a spacious commercial beast built for hauling equipment across construction sites. The other was decidedly not designed for transporting six-foot-two unconscious devil hunters. Still, she preferred abandoning a stolen van to explaining its presence outside her secluded cottage. Resigned, she set to work once more.

Sister Magdalena’s lessons returned to her with automatic precision. She crouched beside Dante, carefully maneuvering one of his heavy arms across her shoulders and lowering her center of gravity exactly as taught. Lift with the legs. Keep the spine straight. Let momentum and leverage do what brute strength could not. It sounded wonderfully straightforward in theory. In practice, Dante weighed what felt suspiciously close to a small horse.

“Oh…” she breathed as she managed to pull him upright, muscles burning with the effort. “You are unbelievably heavy.”

Every slow, staggering step toward the coupe became an exercise in stubborn determination. His boots dragged across the pavement despite her best efforts, forcing her to pause every few yards to readjust her grip. More than once she caught herself glancing nervously toward the mouth of the alley, irrationally certain that some unfortunate soul would appear at precisely the worst moment. She could already imagine the conversation: Officer, I promise this unconscious man climbed into my vehicle of his own accord. She closed her eyes briefly. No. That somehow sounded even worse.

By the time she reached the passenger side of the coupe, a fine sheen of perspiration had formed on her skin despite the cool morning air. Opening the door while supporting nearly all of Dante’s weight proved awkward, and easing him inside was less a graceful maneuver than a desperate negotiation with gravity. After several failed attempts, one muttered apology, and a particularly undignified moment in which his boot lodged stubbornly against the dashboard, she finally managed to settle him into the reclined passenger seat. He immediately slumped sideways. She caught his shoulder before his head could strike the window.

“There,” she said, gently adjusting him until he rested as comfortably as the circumstances allowed. “That wasn’t so terrible.”

A beat passed.

“It absolutely was.”

Closing the passenger door with no small measure of satisfaction, Evelyn returned to the abandoned van one final time. She retrieved Rebellion first, lifting the massive sword with both hands and laying it carefully across the folded rear seats of the coupe. The blade barely fit, stretching diagonally across the interior like a sleeping dragon. Next came Ebony and Ivory, each wrapped in a spare wool blanket before being tucked securely beneath the seat. Finally, she took the padded satchel containing the broken amulet and Eva’s locket, checking once more that they remained safe before placing the bag within easy reach.

She gave the cargo bay one last thorough inspection. Nothing. No forgotten weapon, no discarded keepsake. Nothing that belonged to Dante remained behind. Satisfied, she pulled the rear doors shut with a quiet clang and left the keys in the ignition. Some unfortunate construction company would likely report the van stolen by evening. She sincerely hoped they recovered it before then.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of her coupe, Evelyn rested both hands on the steering wheel and glanced sideways at the unconscious man now occupying her passenger seat. His head had tilted toward the window, his breathing shallow but noticeably steadier. In sleep, the hard lines of exhaustion and grief that etched his features had softened somewhat, leaving behind only the faint echo of the young man smiling beside his mother in the old photograph she had found inside the locket.

She stared for another moment before letting out a long, weary sigh. “I rescued a legendary devil hunter,” she murmured. “Stole a van. Transferred an unconscious man between vehicles in a deserted alley. Am currently transporting him to a secluded cottage in the middle of the woods.” She rested her forehead lightly against the steering wheel. “…This is going to sound incredibly illegal if I ever have to explain it.”

Just as her hand settled upon the ignition, another realization struck her with the force of a physical blow. The military checkpoints. Her gaze shifted slowly toward the road leading out of Manhattan before returning to Dante. Every major route leaving the city would be heavily controlled by soldiers. Vehicles searched. Identification checked. Anyone even remotely suspicious detained and questioned.

These were not normal circumstances.

Only a few days ago, every television in America had broadcast the face of a white-haired man standing beside Mundus himself—Vergil. The entire country now knew what the Sons of Sparda looked like. Government analysts had dissected the invasion footage frame by frame, speculating endlessly about the mysterious swordsman at the center of the catastrophe. News anchors debated whether he had been humanity’s greatest enemy or its reluctant savior. The public might not know the full story, but they knew enough. Anyone manning a checkpoint who had watched even a few minutes of the news would recognize the resemblance immediately.

Evelyn looked back at Dante. “…Oh, this is bad.”

She rubbed a tired hand over her face before studying him more closely. Even unconscious, the similarities were unmistakable: the same sharp jawline, the same striking white hair, the same features that had dominated every broadcast for days. Most people wouldn’t know the difference between identical twins they had never met. To a nervous soldier carrying a rifle? Close enough would be more than sufficient.

“You couldn’t have inherited literally any other hair color,” she murmured dryly. “Brown. Black. Blond. I would have accepted silver. But no.”

Dante remained blissfully unaware of the logistical nightmare he had become.

She leaned over the center console and reached behind the driver’s seat, rummaging through emergency supplies until she found an old charcoal knit beanie. It was nothing special—just something she kept for cold mornings riding through the mountains near her cottage—but it would serve. Carefully, she lifted his head just enough to slide the beanie into place, gently tucking the unruly white strands beneath the wool until almost none remained visible. A few stubborn locks escaped around his temples. She tucked them back with surprising patience before leaning away to inspect her work.

“It’ll have to do.”

Unfortunately, concealing his face solved only half the problem. The blood still seeping slowly through the ruined fabric of his coat was another matter entirely. Anyone glancing through the passenger window would notice it immediately. Evelyn climbed out, opened the trunk, and retrieved the thick wool blanket she always carried for long drives. Returning to the passenger side, she unfolded it carefully and draped it over Dante’s torso, taking care not to press against the wound. From the outside, he now looked like nothing more than an exhausted traveler asleep beneath a blanket.

She reclined the passenger seat another few inches. Better. Pale. Tired. Forgettable. At least until someone looked too closely.

Her eyes drifted toward the back seat. Rebellion lay hidden beneath another blanket, though its enormous shape remained unmistakably sword-like. Ebony and Ivory rested securely beneath the driver’s seat. Eva’s locket and the broken amulet waited safely inside her satchel. She stared at the collection for a long moment. A wanted devil hunter. The legendary sword of Sparda. Twin custom pistols. Family heirlooms. And herself.

If anyone searched this car, there wasn’t a jury in the world that would believe she had stumbled into this situation by accident.

Evelyn slowly rested her forehead against the steering wheel. “I have unintentionally committed…” She counted silently. “…at least six federal crimes before noon.”

Lifting her head again, she looked sideways at Dante. “You owe me.”

He continued sleeping with impressive dedication.

The engine turned over with a quiet growl as she eased the coupe out of the alley and merged onto the road leading north. Several blocks ahead, concrete barriers narrowed the street into a single lane where armed soldiers inspected each departing vehicle beneath the shadow of armored personnel carriers. Floodlights, portable fencing, and military tents lined the roadway, while overhead another helicopter thundered across the skyline.

Evelyn tightened her grip on the steering wheel as the line of cars crept forward. “Please,” she whispered under her breath, eyes fixed on the checkpoint ahead, “just this once… don’t wake up.”

The line of vehicles lurched forward another few feet before grinding to a halt once more. Soldiers moved methodically from car to car, rifles slung across their chests, their practiced eyes sweeping through windows and open trunks with the weary efficiency of men who had not slept properly in days. Evelyn watched as one serviceman asked an elderly couple to step out of their sedan while another waved a delivery truck into a secondary inspection lane. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the steering wheel.

“…I really should have listened during those cloaking lessons,” she thought, a flicker of dry amusement cutting through the tension.

She let out a quiet sigh, more at her own expense than anything else. “No,” she corrected herself under her breath. “I should have been less stubborn about learning them.”

Sister Magdalena had tried—repeatedly. Illusion magic had never come naturally to Evelyn. Wards, protective sigils, purification rites, and spirit work she could perform with remarkable precision, but anything requiring sustained visual deception demanded a level of delicate concentration she had always struggled to maintain. The few times she had attempted proper cloaking spells as a teenager had ended in spectacular failure: objects turning only half-invisible, glamour charms dissolving at the slightest sneeze, and one particularly memorable occasion where only her clothes had vanished while the rest of her remained perfectly, mortifyingly visible. Magdalena had laughed exactly once. Evelyn still maintained it had been deeply unprofessional.

Now, watching another soldier peer into the backseat of a pickup truck ahead, she found herself wishing she had endured a few more humiliating lessons. “I really wish I’d been better at not being such a stubborn witch,” she murmured, glancing briefly toward Dante’s sleeping form. “A proper cloaking spell would be incredibly useful right about now.”

The line crawled forward another car length before finally stopping beneath a temporary floodlight. Concrete barriers funneled every vehicle into a single lane where armed soldiers worked with the quiet efficiency of people running on fumes. Portable generators hummed in the background, their steady drone mingling with the distant chop of helicopter blades overhead. Every few moments another trunk slammed shut, another license was returned, another anxious civilian waved through. It was systematic. Thorough. Entirely too professional for Evelyn’s liking.

She watched as the vehicle ahead rolled forward and vanished beyond the barricades.

Then came the sharp rap of gloved knuckles against her driver’s side window.

Her pulse jumped, but years of discipline gently pressed it back into place. Breathe. Not too deeply. Just enough. She drew one slow breath through her nose and released it with equal care. By the time her hand reached for the window controls, the nervous flutter in her chest had been tucked neatly away behind a composed expression perfected over years of necessity. Boarding school had taught etiquette. Her affluent upbringing had taught presentation. Every charity gala, every formal dinner, every tedious conversation with wealthy patrons who judged worth by posture and diction had instilled one unbreakable lesson: no matter how uncomfortable you are, never let anyone see it.

The smile she offered was practiced enough to appear genuine without veering into enthusiasm—warm, respectful, and entirely forgettable.

The window slid down with a quiet mechanical hum.

A young military officer leaned slightly toward the opening, exhaustion carved into the shadows beneath his eyes. Dust coated his boots and the sleeves of his uniform, and a fresh bandage disappeared beneath the collar of his tactical vest. He could not have been much older than thirty. Whatever optimism he had carried before the invasion had long since been worn away by the grim professionalism of sorting survivors from casualties.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said politely, fatigue thickening his voice. “Sorry for the delay. Just a few routine questions before we let you through.”

Evelyn inclined her head with effortless courtesy. “Of course, Officer. I completely understand.”

If there was one thing her former life had taught her before she abandoned it, it was that people often mirrored the energy they were given. Anxiety invited suspicion. Irritation invited resistance. Quiet confidence and courtesy usually encouraged the same in return.

The officer glanced briefly toward the passenger seat. “Is he all right?”

Evelyn followed his gaze as though noticing Dante for the first time since entering the car. The charcoal beanie concealed nearly all of his distinctive white hair, while the wool blanket covered the worst of the blood staining his coat. Reclined in the seat, he looked less like the legendary Son of Sparda and more like an ordinary man who had simply pushed himself far beyond his limits.

She allowed the faintest trace of concern to soften her expression. “My cousin,” she answered smoothly. “Part of a parking structure came down during the evacuation. He hit his head rather badly.” The explanation sat easily on her tongue because it stayed close enough to the truth. “He finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago.”

A flicker of sympathy crossed the officer’s face. “Concussion?”

“So the paramedics believed.”

“I hope he got checked out.”

“He did.” Evelyn offered a grateful smile. “They wanted to keep him longer, but there were people in much worse condition. They patched him up, told me what warning signs to watch for, and suggested I get him somewhere quiet so he could rest.”

The officer nodded slowly, though his eyes lingered on Dante for another moment. Evelyn kept her attention fixed on the man before her, resisting every instinct to glance sideways. “I understand,” he said at last. “Mind if I take a quick look inside the vehicle?”

For the first time since arriving at the checkpoint, the smile on Evelyn’s face threatened to falter—only for the briefest heartbeat. Then it returned, as composed as ever.

“Not at all, Officer.”

He nodded politely and shifted his weight, one gloved hand already reaching toward the rear passenger door. Evelyn’s stomach tightened. The blanket might conceal Dante’s injuries from a passing glance, but it would never survive a proper inspection. Rebellion occupied nearly the entire back seat beneath another wool covering, its shape unmistakable to anyone who looked too closely. Ebony and Ivory rested beneath the driver’s seat. Eva’s locket and the broken amulet lay tucked inside her satchel. One thorough search would unravel everything in seconds.

She drew another slow breath. I really am sorry, Sister.

Her fingers curled almost imperceptibly against the steering wheel. To any observer, the movement might have looked like nervousness. In truth, she was tracing the first half of an old sigil against the worn leather beneath her thumb—one so subtle it required neither chalk nor blood, only memory and unwavering focus. The symbol never appeared to the naked eye. It existed only in intention.

Illusion had never been her strongest discipline. Wards came naturally. Purification was second nature. Spirit work had followed her since childhood whether she welcomed it or not. Illusions, however, demanded delicacy. They did not rewrite reality. They merely encouraged the mind to see what it already wished to see.

The officer took another step toward the rear of the coupe.

Evelyn closed her eyes for the briefest heartbeat. Just enough. Nothing more.

She reached carefully toward the edges of his awareness, where thoughts rose and fell like ripples on still water. His mind felt exhausted, stretched thin by endless hours of inspections and uncertainty. She did not force her way inside—Sister Magdalena had forbidden such violations long ago. The mind is sacred, she had often said. If you ever learn to violate it, you’ve already become the sort of monster we hunt.

So Evelyn did not command. She suggested.

A distant voice. A familiar urgency. The remembered cadence of a superior officer.

“Lieutenant Harris. Checkpoint Four needs additional personnel immediately.”

The officer frowned almost imperceptibly. His head turned toward the neighboring barricade before he seemed to realize it.

“Vehicle cleared. Move the line.”

For one precarious moment, nothing happened. Then his radio crackled—static, followed by a burst of hurried conversation from another channel. The words were indistinct, lost beneath interference, yet they arrived at precisely the right moment.

The officer blinked. His expression shifted, as though struggling to recall whether someone had just spoken. “Right…”

He glanced back toward Evelyn, his gaze settling on the driver’s license still resting in his hand.

Ashcroft.

Recognition flickered—not personal, but the name itself. Old money. Philanthropic foundations. Hospitals. Scholarships. Families whose influence occasionally appeared in briefings whenever relief efforts were discussed.

He looked back toward the checkpoint supervisor waving another convoy through. A decision settled quietly across his features. He handed the license back through the window.

“My apologies for the delay, Ms. Ashcroft.”

Evelyn accepted it with steady hands despite the dull ache already blooming behind her eyes. “No apology necessary.”

He offered a tired smile and stepped aside, motioning toward the open roadway. “You’re clear. Drive safely.”

The moment her tires rolled beyond the final barricade, the pressure behind Evelyn’s eyes sharpened into a pulsing headache that spread from her temples to the base of her skull. She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter until it passed, resisting the urge to check the rearview mirror.

One illusion. Barely thirty seconds. And already she could feel why Sister Magdalena had insisted she master every other discipline first. Magic, as her mentor had so often reminded her students, always collected its debt.

Evelyn drove on without looking back. The checkpoint shrank into the distance as the broken skyline of New York slowly yielded to stretches of forest and winding mountain roads. Beside her, Dante slept on, blissfully unaware that the first obstacle on his journey home had been crossed—not through effortless deception, but because one stubborn witch had finally made an illusion spell work when it mattered most.

The Ashcroft Cottage sat on the northern edge of the family’s old property, nestled deep among towering white pines and ancient sugar maples that had stood sentinel long before the city’s sprawl ever crept northward. It was a modest cedar home compared to the sprawling Ashcroft estate several miles south, built by her grandfather decades earlier as a quiet refuge from board meetings, glittering charity galas, and the suffocating weight of expectations that came with the family name. While the main mansion boasted marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and enough guest rooms to host half the city’s elite, the cottage had never pretended to impress. It had been built simply to be lived in, honest and unassuming, its weathered cedar siding and pitched roof blending seamlessly into the surrounding woods as though the forest itself had decided to shelter it.

A wide wraparound porch overlooked a tranquil lake whose surface, on still mornings, mirrored the surrounding forest so perfectly that the trees appeared to continue beneath the water in a second, submerged world. A weathered wooden dock stretched out toward deeper water, where an old canoe remained tied each spring with fresh rope. Beyond the shoreline, wildflowers bloomed in careless, colorful patches among moss-covered stones, and a narrow path wound away into the deeper woods where Evelyn often walked when the ghosts in her mind grew too loud to ignore.

Inside, the cottage carried the faint, comforting scent of cedar, old books, and whatever tea happened to be steeping on the stove. It held only two bedrooms, though that had always been more than enough. Evelyn occupied the larger one overlooking the lake, waking each morning to sunlight filtering through delicate lace curtains and the gentle sound of water lapping against the dock. The second bedroom had belonged to her grandparents. She had changed almost nothing after inheriting the house. Her grandmother’s hand-stitched quilt still lay neatly across the bed, her grandfather’s reading glasses remained folded atop the nightstand beside the last novel he had never finished, and every few weeks Evelyn found herself quietly dusting the room despite rarely stepping inside. Closing the door on that space had never felt quite right.

The office was perhaps the most lived-in room in the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, bowing slightly beneath the weight of old demonology texts, collections of folklore, handwritten journals passed down from Sister Magdalena, and leather-bound volumes documenting creatures most ordinary people insisted existed only in fairy tales. Maps covered one entire section of the wall, each annotated in Evelyn’s tidy handwriting with sightings, ley lines, abandoned churches, forgotten cemeteries, and places where the veil between worlds felt perilously thin. Her grandfather’s old oak desk stood beneath the window overlooking the lake, its surface worn smooth by decades of elbows resting there while writing letters or balancing accounts. Now it held ritual chalk, magnifying lenses, carefully labeled jars of herbs, scattered case files, and stacks of notes connected by colored ribbons. It looked less like the workspace of a witch and more like the study of a scholar who had accidentally wandered into the supernatural and decided to stay.

The kitchen remained the warm heart of the cottage. It was small enough that only two people could comfortably cook together, yet the old cast-iron stove had never failed her. Copper pots hung from hooks above the island—hooks her grandfather had installed himself—while bundles of rosemary, lavender, sage, and thyme dried from the exposed ceiling beams. Fresh bread often cooled beneath linen towels, and the teakettle seemed almost permanently at home atop the stove. One entire shelf had been dedicated to tea, each tin labeled in neat handwriting that tended to grow messier after particularly difficult hunts.

The living room centered around an enormous stone fireplace built from fieldstones gathered around the lake generations ago. In winter, it burned nearly every evening, filling the cottage with warmth and the comforting crackle of seasoned oak. Well-loved armchairs flanked either side of the hearth: one upholstered in faded forest-green fabric where her grandfather had always read the newspaper, the other beside a standing lamp where her grandmother had embroidered blankets while soft classical records played in the background. Evelyn had inherited both chairs along with the habit of curling up there after long days, a blanket draped over her legs, a mug of tea balanced on the armrest, and one of the countless books pulled from the surrounding shelves.

There were no expensive paintings upon the walls. Instead, framed botanical sketches hung beside old family photographs, pressed wildflowers collected over decades, and small charcoal drawings Evelyn had made absentmindedly while trying to piece together fragments of clairvoyant visions. Protective wards had been carved discreetly into the doorframes and window casings years ago by Sister Magdalena herself, their grooves darkened with age until they blended seamlessly into the wood. Visitors never noticed them.

Demons did.

Perhaps the most faithful visitors, however, arrived each morning just after sunrise. The deer had been coming for years. At first there had been only one aging doe that wandered cautiously to the edge of the garden while Evelyn’s grandfather scattered handfuls of strawberries and blackberries onto a flat stone near the porch. After he passed, the doe returned alone for nearly a week before vanishing into the forest. The following spring she came back with two fawns. They had never stopped coming.

Now it was common to see three or four deer appear with the morning mist, waiting patiently beneath the old apple tree until Evelyn stepped onto the porch carrying whatever berries she had picked the day before. They accepted the offerings with quiet familiarity, sometimes venturing close enough for their soft noses to brush against her fingertips before disappearing soundlessly back into the woods. They never seemed frightened of her. Animals rarely were.

Unlike people, they never questioned why the woman who lived beside the lake occasionally paused mid-offering because she was listening to voices no one else could hear. They simply accepted her presence as naturally as she accepted theirs, and in that quiet understanding, the cottage became exactly what her grandfather had always hoped it would be: not a monument to the Ashcroft name, not an inheritance measured in dollars or legacy, but simply a home. A place where, for a little while at least, Evelyn Ashcroft could lay down the weight of the world, breathe in the scent of cedar and pine, and remember what silence truly sounded like.

The cottage stood exactly as she had left it, a quiet sanctuary of cedar and memory nestled beneath the whispering canopy of white pines. Warm amber light spilled softly from the porch lantern she had forgotten to extinguish before dawn, illuminating the familiar siding and the climbing ivy that had slowly claimed one corner of the wraparound porch over the years. Beyond the railing, the lake rested serene beneath the fading afternoon light, its surface scarcely disturbed save for the occasional ripple left by a trout breaking the water. A cool breeze wandered through the trees, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth, cedar, and the lingering sweetness of wild blueberries growing near the treeline. It was astonishing how swiftly the world could transform—from the smoking ruins of Manhattan, filled with ash and restless spirits, to this pocket of stillness where only birdsong and the gentle creaking of the dock answered.

For the first time since leaving the city, Evelyn allowed herself a full, steadying breath. The wards carved discreetly into the cedar posts hummed almost imperceptibly as she stepped onto the property, recognizing her presence before settling back into silence. The oppressive pressure that had clung to the edges of her thoughts since entering New York eased at once. No desperate voices called from forgotten tragedies. No lingering echoes clung to the land. Only the ancient, patient forest remained, precisely as her grandfather had intended when he built this refuge long ago.

She turned off the engine but made no immediate move toward the passenger door. Instead, she sat for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, contemplating the increasingly ridiculous sequence of events that had brought her here: an unconscious devil hunter, one legendary sword, two custom pistols, a broken family heirloom, and a cottage that had, until this morning, been blissfully free of six-foot-two men bleeding across its furniture.

“…Right,” she sighed. “Priorities.”

Her grandfather’s old advice surfaced in her mind: Start light, then finish heavy. It had served her well enough for chopping firewood, repairing docks, carrying groceries, and now, apparently, transporting unconscious half-demons. Dragging Dante inside only to trek back for his belongings would waste energy she could not afford. Light first. Heavy last.

Decision made, Evelyn climbed from the driver’s seat and crossed to the rear of the coupe. Rebellion lay wrapped in one of her oldest wool blankets. She slid both hands beneath the immense sword and lifted carefully, feeling its considerable weight settle against her forearms. It was heavier than any weapon she had trained with, yet remarkably well balanced, as though centuries of use had taught the blade precisely how it wished to be carried. For the briefest moment she hesitated, sensing through her gloves the quiet resonance of history pressed into cold steel.

“You’ve seen far too much,” she murmured, more to the sword than to herself.

She carried it inside first. The front door opened into the familiar warmth of the cottage, where polished oak floors stretched toward the living room and the scent of cedar mingled with rosemary drying from exposed kitchen beams. The stone fireplace stood dark but ready, neatly stacked logs waiting in the hearth. Shelves overflowing with books lined the far wall, interrupted only by family photographs and pressed wildflowers. Everything occupied its proper place—until she leaned the enormous sword carefully against the stone chimney beside the fireplace.

“There,” she said quietly after stepping back. “That seems… relatively safe.”

Returning to the car, she gathered Dante’s remaining belongings one careful armful at a time. Ebony and Ivory disappeared into the locked drawer of her grandfather’s old writing desk. Eva’s locket and the broken halves of the amulet she placed atop the desk upon a folded linen cloth beneath the reading lamp, treating them with the reverence they deserved. Only after every weapon and keepsake had been safely brought inside did she return to the driveway.

Dante had not moved. His breathing remained steady beneath the blanket, though the rise and fall of his chest seemed a little stronger than before. A faint line of dried blood traced the corner of his jaw, and even in unconsciousness an unmistakable exhaustion lingered upon his face.

Evelyn rested one hand lightly upon the roof of the car. “Well,” she told the sleeping devil hunter, “you’re officially the heavy part.”

A dry laugh escaped her as she walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. She crouched beside him, sliding one arm beneath his shoulders and the other beneath his arm, carefully guiding him upright until his weight rested against her. His boots scraped against the gravel while she shifted her footing, preparing for the slow journey toward the front porch.

The journey from driveway to front door took far longer than she cared to admit, requiring several strategic pauses and one particularly undignified moment where Dante’s boot caught against the porch step and nearly sent them both tumbling backward into her herb garden. She caught herself against one of the cedar posts with a quiet grunt, adjusted her grip, and continued onward with the stubborn determination that had carried her through countless hunts.

“I rescind every complaint I’ve ever made about carrying sacks of flour,” she muttered beneath her breath.

The front door swung shut behind them with a soft click. Warmth greeted them immediately, along with the comforting scents of cedar, old books, and dried lavender woven into the very walls. Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows overlooking the lake, painting long golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. Evelyn guided Dante toward the large sectional that curved comfortably around the stone fireplace—her grandparents’ indulgence after decades of making do with smaller furniture. With one final controlled effort, she eased him backward onto the cushions. His height barely fit even across the sectional, one boot hanging slightly over the edge. She caught his arm before it slipped toward the floor and gently rested it across his stomach.

“There,” she said, stepping back to catch her breath. “Much better than the floor.”

There was no time to linger. She kindled a fire in the hearth with practiced ease, sending a shower of sparks dancing across the kindling until warm orange light filled the room. Satisfied, she disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned with a large ceramic basin of steaming water, clean linen cloths, bandages, antiseptic, jars of homemade salves, and a small wooden box of dried herbs. Everything settled neatly upon the coffee table.

Years of devil hunting had made field medicine second nature. Even so, she studied Dante’s condition with growing concern. His regeneration was working—slowly. Far slower than the glimpses she had witnessed years ago suggested. The wound through his chest remained partially open, the flesh knitting itself together thread by agonizing thread.

“You’ve completely exhausted yourself,” she murmured.

She prepared a simmering herbal infusion of comfrey, yarrow, calendula, willow bark, and lavender, its earthy aroma gradually filling the room and softening the lingering scent of smoke and blood. The salve would not accelerate his unnatural healing, but it would ease inflammation and support a body already pushed beyond its limits.

Only then did the next practical problem present itself.

She looked from the basin of warm water to Dante and back again.

“…Right.”

His coat would have to come off. She wasn’t about to pour herbal medicine through layers of leather and fabric.

“This is strictly medical,” she informed the unconscious man, as though obtaining permission after the fact made the situation less awkward. “Please don’t wake up.”

Carefully, she searched along the seams until she found the hidden zipper and worked it free. Supporting his shoulder with one hand, she gently rolled him onto his side just enough to ease the heavy leather from his arms. The material clung stubbornly where blood had dried, forcing her to work slowly and pause whenever she met resistance. One sleeve. Then the other. Piece by piece, she worked the upper portion of the coat and undersuit down until the fabric rested around his waist, exposing his chest and shoulders while leaving the rest of his clothing undisturbed.

The injuries came into full view. Evelyn’s expression sobered. Scars—dozens of them—crisscrossed his torso. Some had faded into thin silver lines woven through muscle and skin. Others remained jagged and pronounced, reminders of battles that had come terrifyingly close to ending him. The newest wound, the puncture through the center of his chest, had missed his heart by mere inches. Though the flesh was slowly drawing itself back together, it remained severe enough that any ordinary human would never have survived.

She reached for the warm cloth, professional and methodical. Whatever stories those scars carried could wait until he was awake enough to tell them himself.

The coat came off entirely next, followed by his boots, which she placed neatly by the front door. The dark jumpsuit beneath proved more challenging. After searching for buttons that weren’t there, she located the nearly invisible zipper along the back seam.

“Whoever designed this clearly enjoyed making life difficult,” she mumbled.

Steadying his shoulder, she drew the zipper downward and carefully worked the fabric away from his skin, dampening stubborn patches with the warm cloth before gently peeling them free. She refused to rush. Supporting his weight to keep him from rolling awkwardly, she eased the upper half of the jumpsuit down until it rested securely around his waist, exposing only what was necessary to tend his injuries. Respect, her grandfather had taught her, was measured in the small choices made when no one else was looking.

For the first time since finding him beneath the collapsed overpass, she truly saw the toll his body had taken. Her breath caught. So many scars. None of them random. Every mark spoke of survival—of blades, claws, bullets, and things that likely had no names in any living language. The newest wound still seeped sluggishly, staining the cloth wrapped around his waist.

Evelyn stared in silence, the basin momentarily forgotten. The visions from his apartment had shown her glimpses of violence and loneliness, but nothing had prepared her for this. No one accumulated scars like these without carrying an unbearable weight alongside them.

Her eyes drifted upward to his face. Without the blood, dirt, and the defiant grin she had glimpsed in fractured memories, he looked younger somehow. Tired. The lines of tension had softened in unconsciousness, revealing a man who had simply reached the end of what he could endure.

Almost without realizing it, she reached for the warm cloth again.

“Dante…” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the crackling fire. “…whatever happened to you?”

The herbal poultice had done what she hoped it would. After carefully cleaning the wound and applying the salve, Evelyn secured fresh bandages across Dante’s chest with practiced hands, checking twice that the dressing would remain in place without restricting the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. His regeneration continued its patient work beneath the linen, drawing the torn flesh together by degrees that only someone watching as closely as she could have noticed. Satisfied that the bleeding had finally slowed to little more than an occasional crimson stain upon the gauze, she leaned back on her heels and allowed herself the smallest measure of relief.

“That,” she said quietly, wiping the back of her wrist across her forehead, “is one problem solved.”

There were, unfortunately, several others. She exchanged the basin of cloudy water for a fresh one, adding a small measure of mild soap before soaking a clean towel. Steam curled gently from the surface as she wrung it out and returned to the couch. Beginning with his face, she worked slowly and carefully, wiping away layers of soot, dried blood, and dust that had settled into every line of his skin. Beneath the grime, the sharpness of his features gradually returned. She cleaned around the healing cuts along his brow, brushed dried blood from his temple, and paused only long enough to ensure she wasn’t disturbing the bandages across his chest.

The towel traveled lower, removing streaks of dirt from his neck, shoulders, and arms before she carefully washed the exposed skin across his torso, replacing the water twice before she was satisfied. The cottage grew quiet once more, save for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the gentle tapping of tree branches against the windows. Outside, a loon called across the lake before silence settled again over the property.

Evelyn set the towel aside. Then looked at Dante. Then at the couch. Then back at Dante.

His clothing was ruined. Every practical instinct told her that leaving him in blood-soaked fabric would only invite infection and ruin her grandparents’ furniture. She closed her eyes. “…I really hate that this is the logical option.”

The medical shears made quick work of what remained of the jumpsuit. Evelyn cut carefully along the seams, lifting sections away one at a time until the bloodstained material could be discarded. Working with quiet efficiency, she finished changing him into the clean borrowed clothes from her grandfather’s wardrobe. The charcoal pajama pants sat a little short around his ankles, and the dark cotton T-shirt fit snugly across his broad shoulders. The blood-soaked remnants disappeared into a canvas laundry basket to be dealt with later.

As she reached beneath him one final time to straighten the shirt across his back, her fingertips brushed lightly against his shoulder.

The living room dissolved into brilliant white light.

Not sunlight.

Smooth white walls enclosed a quiet room she had never seen before. The air carried the faint scent of antiseptic beneath something warmer, more intimate. A woman’s laughter echoed softly, followed by the unmistakable sound of teasing between quiet smiles. The vision shifted in fractured impressions.

Dante—healthier than he was now, alive with a warmth she had not yet seen on his unconscious face. A woman stood beside him, her short black hair framing features both striking and unmistakably human. One eye was a deep emerald green, the other a vivid crimson, their mismatched colors impossible to forget. There was an undeniable confidence about her.

Then the vision shifted again.

The warmth of tangled sheets and passionate intimacy filled the memory. Dante and Lady were both undressed, their bodies pressed together in the bed. They kissed with unrestrained hunger, mouths moving passionately against one another as hands explored with familiar need. Dante moved above her with powerful, confident thrusts, his hips rolling in a steady, devastating rhythm that drew breathless moans from her lips. He touched her with surprising tenderness even in the heat of passion—strong hands caressing her skin, fingers tracing curves as though memorizing every inch of her. Lady arched beneath him, her mismatched eyes half-lidded with pleasure, moaning his name as he drove deeper.

“Dante…”

The way he spoke hers in return—low, breathless, and entirely unguarded—carried a tenderness that needed no explanation.

Evelyn felt heat rush through her, a sudden unwelcome arousal pooling low in her stomach at the sight of his raw physicality, the flex of muscle, the way he moved with such commanding yet attentive grace. For a disorienting moment she could almost feel the echo of that passion, the intensity of being wanted so completely by such an attractive man. A sharp pang of loneliness followed, laced with the faintest sting of jealousy that this woman—Lady—was the one beneath him, receiving that focused devotion.

She snapped out of the intrusive thought, mortified.

The vision shattered.

The warmth of the cottage rushed back around Evelyn all at once. Firelight flickered across the stone hearth. Cedar and lavender replaced the memory’s scent. She stumbled backward so abruptly that her hip struck the arm of the sectional, forcing her to catch herself before she lost her balance.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

“Oh…”

She covered her face with one hand. “Oh, no.”

Her clairvoyance had never possessed boundaries. It cared little for propriety, privacy, or timing. Usually she received only emotions or fragmented images. This had been something else entirely.

“I was absolutely not supposed to see that.”

She let out a long, mortified groan, dragging her hand slowly down her face before daring another glance toward Dante, who remained blissfully unconscious.

“So…” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “It seems you already have someone.”

Lady. The name lingered quietly in her thoughts. Whoever she was, she had clearly meant something to him. Evelyn had no desire to know anything further. Some memories were deeply personal, and witnessing even that brief fragment felt like accidentally reading a page from someone else’s diary.

“I’m… incredibly sorry,” she murmured, gently pulling the blanket back over him. “That was none of my business.”

She silently resolved then and there that if Dante ever woke up, she would never mention what she had seen. Some visions were meant to be forgotten, no matter how impossible that might prove.

-------

The last of the daylight lingered over the lake in ribbons of amber and violet, the water catching the fading sun like polished glass before surrendering it to the coming dusk. Long shadows stretched across the yard as the surrounding pines swayed gently in the evening breeze, their branches whispering against one another with the familiar voice Evelyn had known since childhood. Inside the cottage, the fire burned steadily within the great stone hearth, filling the living room with a comforting warmth that softened the cool air creeping in from the forest. Every so often another log settled with a quiet crack, sending a brief shower of sparks dancing upward before disappearing into the chimney.

Dante hadn’t stirred. Evelyn had checked on him three times already, though she knew there was little more she could do beyond changing his bandages if necessary and ensuring his fever never climbed too high. His breathing remained deep and even, his face noticeably more relaxed than when she had first dragged him through her front door. Color had begun returning to his complexion, and although the bandages around his chest still bore faint traces of blood, they remained far cleaner than they had been only an hour earlier. His regeneration, while frustratingly slow, was unmistakably working.

Satisfied there were no immediate emergencies demanding her attention, Evelyn wandered into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, then frowned at its meager contents: enough milk for tomorrow morning, half a carton of eggs, butter, a wedge of sharp cheddar, and one lonely apple that had seen better days. She crouched to inspect the vegetable drawer with diminishing optimism.

“…One carrot, bacon, eggs, flour mix, butter, milk...”

Silence.

“…And parsley.”

She closed the refrigerator with a resigned sigh. A grocery trip had already been on tomorrow’s list before Manhattan had quite literally fallen apart around her. Under ordinary circumstances she would have climbed onto her motorcycle and made the drive into town before sunset. Tonight, however…

She glanced toward the living room. Leaving an unconscious devil hunter unattended in her cottage while she browsed the produce aisle seemed like the sort of decision that eventually turned into a newspaper headline.

“No,” she murmured. “That can wait.”

Instead, she pulled open the kitchen drawer where years’ worth of takeout menus had accumulated beneath spare batteries, rubber bands, and instruction manuals she had never needed but couldn’t quite bring herself to throw away. She settled on the Chinese restaurant. Mr. Zhang knew her well enough by now that he answered before she had finished introducing herself.

“The usual, Miss Ashcroft?”

She smiled despite herself. “Please. Extra dumplings.”

She considered the unconscious man occupying her sectional. “…Make that two orders.”

By the time she ended the call, the familiar comfort of routine had begun settling her nerves. Tomorrow morning, assuming the world remained relatively intact, she would make breakfast herself. Tonight, someone else could do the cooking.

She wandered toward the cabinet above the counter, hesitating only briefly before opening it. A single bottle of red wine rested near the back. Evelyn stared at it for several seconds. She rarely drank. Almost never, in fact. Her abilities demanded clarity. Still… today had been rather exceptional. She retrieved a single wine glass, poured only enough to cover the bottom, and regarded it thoughtfully.

“One,” she informed herself. “Then tea.”

It felt like a reasonable compromise.

Cradling the glass in one hand, she had barely crossed the living room when a sharp tapping interrupted her thoughts.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She stopped. Another knock sounded against the window overlooking the porch. Evelyn smiled before she had even turned around.

“You’re late.”

Perched upon the railing outside sat a small Eastern screech owl, feathers mottled in intricate shades of gray and russet that blended almost perfectly with the bark of the surrounding trees. Enormous golden eyes regarded her through the glass with unmistakable expectation, while his head tilted almost completely sideways as though questioning why the door had not already been opened.

She crossed the room and unlatched the window. “Come on, then.”

The owl wasted no time. With a quick flutter of broad wings, Bramble slipped effortlessly into the cottage before landing upon the back of the sectional. He ruffled his feathers with quiet satisfaction, blinking once as though inspecting the room for any unauthorized changes.

Then he noticed Dante.

His head snapped toward the couch. One eye. Then the other. Slowly, almost theatrically, Bramble turned his head toward Evelyn. Back to Dante. Back to Evelyn again. His expression—or at least what Evelyn had long ago decided counted as an owl’s expression—looked unmistakably judgmental.

“Oh, don’t start.”

The little owl answered with a soft, questioning trill.

“I know exactly how this looks.”

Another tilt of his head.

“No, I didn’t kidnap him.”

Silence.

“Well…” Evelyn sighed into her wine glass. “Not intentionally.”

Bramble blinked once. Twice. Then, with the complete confidence of a creature who believed the cottage belonged to him as much as anyone else, he launched himself from the back of the couch and landed lightly upon Evelyn’s shoulder. Tiny talons settled comfortably against the leather of her jacket as he fluffed his feathers, still staring at the unconscious white-haired stranger stretched across the sectional.

“You don’t believe me either, do you?”

The owl responded with a quiet chirrup before returning his attention to Dante, as if deciding he would personally keep watch over the mysterious guest until further notice.

Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You and I,” she said, scratching gently beneath Bramble’s tiny beak, “are going to have a very interesting week.”

Evelyn reached up and gently scratched beneath Bramble’s tiny beak, earning a pleased little trill that ruffled the feathers around his face. The owl shifted his footing on her shoulder before settling comfortably against the collar of her sweater, as though he had every intention of remaining there for the foreseeable future.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, glancing toward the sectional where Dante continued sleeping through the entire exchange, “since you’re here…”

Bramble looked at her.

“…I’m putting you on nurse duty.”

Another inquisitive chirp.

She nodded solemnly, as though assigning him the greatest responsibility imaginable. “That’s right. Keep an eye on our guest while I take a much-needed shower in my very fancy clawfoot tub.”

The words came out in an exaggerated, impossibly posh old-money accent—the sort she had perfected as a teenager whenever she wanted to poke fun at the circles her parents had insisted she move through. She even gave a tiny flourish with her free hand, lifting her chin with theatrical elegance.

“‘Do try not to let the gentleman expire whilst I’m indisposed,’” she declared grandly. “‘It would be frightfully inconvenient.’”

Bramble stared at her for a long moment.

Then he answered with a single, unimpressed chirp.

She couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

The owl blinked once, slowly, before turning his head almost completely around to inspect Dante again. His golden eyes lingered on the unconscious devil hunter, studying him with the cautious curiosity only wild creatures seemed capable of. After another moment, Bramble gave a quiet, questioning trill and fluttered from Evelyn’s shoulder to the back of the sectional.

He landed without making a sound.

There he remained, scarcely larger than a pinecone against the cushions, feathers puffed comfortably as he continued his silent vigil over the stranger occupying the couch.

Evelyn smiled to herself. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The hot water had scarcely stopped running before Evelyn was stepping out of the clawfoot tub, wrapping herself in one of the thick cotton towels her grandmother had insisted were “worth every penny.” Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror, softening her reflection into little more than a silhouette as she quickly dressed in an oversized forest-green sweater and a pair of comfortable lounge pants. Damp strands of dark auburn hair remained twisted loosely in a towel atop her head while she rubbed absently at the lingering stiffness in her shoulders.

Then she glanced toward the front window.

Headlights.

Right on schedule.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I knew it.”

She slipped into a pair of wool socks before padding quietly across the hardwood floor. Years of living alone had made the cottage strangely predictable. She knew precisely how long it took the delivery drivers to reach her house from town, which roads they preferred after sunset, and which bend in the forest caused their headlights to briefly disappear before reappearing through the trees. It wasn’t clairvoyance this time. Just familiarity.

Still… she enjoyed letting people think otherwise.

By the time the delivery van rolled to a stop outside the porch, Evelyn was already standing behind the front door with one hand resting on the knob. She counted silently. One… Two… Three…

A polite knock echoed through the cottage.

She opened the door immediately. The poor delivery driver hadn’t even lowered his hand from knocking. He blinked.

“…Miss Ashcroft.”

“Good evening, Mr. Zhang.”

The middle-aged man chuckled, shaking his head as he balanced two paper bags against one hip. “I swear one of these days you’re going to tell me you’ve been watching from the window.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t even hear you walk over.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know.” He laughed again. “Doesn’t make it any less unsettling.”

Evelyn accepted the bags with an expression of complete innocence. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Oh, I know.” Mr. Zhang leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice despite there being no one else for half a mile. “My daughter still tells people you’re a witch.”

Evelyn widened her eyes with exaggerated surprise. “Still?”

“Ever since you told her it was going to rain twenty minutes before the weather report.”

“It did rain.”

“It did.”

“And I was correct.”

“You were.”

He pointed an accusing finger at her, though he was smiling too broadly for it to be taken seriously. “Exactly. That’s the problem.”

Evelyn laughed softly. “I suppose I’ll have to work harder if I’m going to preserve my creepy witch credentials around the neighborhood.”

“You’ve already succeeded.”

Before handing over the receipt, however, Mr. Zhang’s smile softened into something more earnest. “I heard on the radio they finally reopened part of Manhattan this afternoon.” His eyes searched hers for a moment. “You were there today, weren’t you?”

Evelyn hesitated only briefly before nodding. “I was.”

“The rubble?”

“Most of the afternoon.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. “My wife thought so. She said she saw your car heading south this morning.”

“I had some work to do.”

He studied her face, taking in the faint scratches along her jaw that she’d missed while cleaning up, the tiredness lingering beneath her eyes, and the subtle stiffness in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “…You all right?”

The question was simple. Uncomplicated. And entirely genuine.

Evelyn offered him a reassuring smile. “I’ve had better days.”

“I imagine everyone down there has.”

“They have.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. The evening breeze stirred the pine branches overhead while somewhere across the lake a loon called into the gathering dusk.

Mr. Zhang finally nodded. “I’m glad you made it home.”

“So am I.”

The warmth in her voice surprised even herself.

He cleared his throat, the familiar smile returning. “Well…” He lifted the larger paper bag. “The wonton soup’s on the house.”

She looked up. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “And neither did you.” He smiled kindly. “My wife still talks about how you stayed with my mother after she slipped on the ice last winter while we were driving back from Albany. You missed work because of it.”

“It wasn’t a problem.”

“It was to us.” He tapped the second bag. “So… wonton soup. Orange chicken, too. And a lemon soda.”

She opened her mouth to protest.

“No arguing.”

“I was only going to thank you.”

“I’ll accept that.”

For just a moment, the weight of Manhattan, the ruined streets, and the unconscious devil hunter sleeping inside her cottage seemed very far away.

“Thank you,” Evelyn said quietly.

Mr. Zhang tipped an imaginary hat before walking back toward his van. “You be careful if you head back into the city.”

“I always am.”

“And Miss Ashcroft?” She looked up. “If you happen to see any ghosts tonight…” he said with a grin, “…tell them they’re not getting free delivery.”

Evelyn laughed, a genuine laugh this time. “I’ll be sure to pass along the message.”

He waved as he climbed into the driver’s seat, and a few moments later the van disappeared between the pines, its taillights swallowed by the winding road. Cradling the warm bags against her chest, Evelyn remained on the porch for another moment, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest settling into night. It struck her then that perhaps the little town didn’t think she was strange in spite of who she was. They simply accepted that the peculiar woman by the lake knew things she shouldn’t, always seemed to appear exactly when someone needed help, and somehow managed to make people feel safer for it. That was a reputation she didn’t mind keeping.

Evelyn closed the front door with her foot, balancing the warm paper bags against one hip before engaging the deadbolt out of habit. The familiar sounds of the forest settled once more around the cottage as Mr. Zhang’s delivery van disappeared down the winding road. For a brief moment she simply stood there, breathing in the mingled aromas of ginger, sesame oil, and fresh wonton broth while the fire continued its gentle dance across the stone hearth.

Then something moved.

It was subtle. Barely more than the twitch of a hand beneath the wool blanket.

Evelyn’s attention snapped toward the sectional. Dante’s brow had furrowed almost imperceptibly, his breathing changing from the deep, even rhythm of complete unconsciousness into something less settled. One hand tightened weakly against the blanket before relaxing again, as though caught somewhere between dream and memory. He wasn’t awake. Not yet. But something had found him.

She quietly carried the paper bags into the kitchen, setting them upon the counter before turning her full attention back toward the living room. Her footsteps were almost soundless against the hardwood floor as she approached the couch once more. The fire cast a warm amber glow across Dante’s sleeping face, softening the sharp lines that grief and exhaustion had carved there over the years. Without the perpetual tension resting upon his features, he appeared strangely young.

Carefully, she knelt beside the sectional. “Dante?”

No response. Only another faint crease forming between his brows.

Almost without thinking, she reached out and rested her fingertips lightly against his cheek, brushing an unruly lock of white hair away from his forehead.

The vision came all at once.

Bright summer sunlight filtered through towering maple trees whose leaves shimmered in a warm afternoon breeze. Children’s laughter echoed through the air while swings creaked rhythmically beneath the weight of little legs kicking toward the sky. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with wild clover, and somewhere nearby a woman called gently for her child to come home before supper.

Two boys darted across the playground. White hair flashed beneath the afternoon sun. One laughed loudly as he climbed to the very top of the jungle gym without the slightest concern for how far he might fall. The other remained below, quieter, watching with cautious amusement before eventually following despite his better judgment.

Dante. Vergil. Children. No older than seven.

The memory drifted through the playground with effortless innocence, untouched by the horrors that would one day define both their lives.

Then Evelyn noticed something that stole the breath from her lungs. She knew this place. Not merely because of the vision. Because she had stood there herself. The old playground sat less than fifteen minutes from the cottage, hidden behind an aging church whose bell no longer rang on Sundays. The enormous oak tree still stood exactly where it always had.

Just beyond the playground… there had once been an estate. A beautiful old manor. It had burned to the ground decades ago.

The vision shifted. A little girl wandered into view carrying a handful of dandelions. Dark auburn hair. Bright green eyes. No older than six. It was her.

She watched her younger self hesitate at the edge of the playground while a group of children whispered among themselves. “Don’t play with her.” “She talks to people that aren’t there.” “My mother said she’s weird.”

The little girl lowered her gaze to the flowers clutched tightly in her hands.

Then one of the white-haired boys looked up. Vergil. He wasn’t smiling. He sat alone beneath the oak tree. Little Evelyn wandered over hesitantly. Neither of them spoke at first. She simply sat beside him. After a long silence, she held out one of the dandelions.

Vergil looked at it. Then at her. “…They’re saying there’s a little girl over there.” His voice was quiet. Young. Curious. Evelyn followed his gaze toward the empty swings. “…She’s been crying all morning.”

He frowned. “I don’t see anyone.”

“I know.”

Another silence settled between them before Dante came barreling across the playground, already halfway through whatever adventure his imagination had invented. “Vergil!” he shouted. “Come on!”

He stopped abruptly upon noticing the unfamiliar girl sitting beside his brother. “Oh.” His expression brightened almost immediately. “Do you want to play pirates?”

The memory blurred into laughter. Three children racing across the playground. Wooden swords. Imaginary sea monsters. An afternoon so ordinary that none of them could possibly have understood how precious it truly was.

The vision dissolved.

Evelyn inhaled sharply as the cottage returned around her. The fire. The bookshelves. The lake beyond the windows. She stared at Dante in stunned silence before her eyes slowly drifted toward the small oak desk where Eva’s locket rested beneath the reading lamp.

Almost mechanically, she rose and crossed the room. Opening the tiny clasp with careful fingers, she looked once more at the faded photograph inside. Eva. Dante. Vergil.

Her gaze lingered on the faces of the two little boys. Then understanding settled over her with quiet certainty.

“…Wait…” She looked back toward the sleeping man. “…It really was you.”

Those strange twin boys. The ones who had appeared at the playground for only a handful of afternoons before disappearing from her life as suddenly as they’d entered it. She remembered now. Not everything. Only little things. Dante always wanted to turn every game into an adventure. Vergil preferred sitting beneath the old oak with a book until someone convinced him to join in. The other children rarely included either of them. As for Evelyn… no one wanted to be friends with the peculiar little girl who insisted the empty swing beside them wasn’t empty at all.

Three lonely children. Finding each other without realizing they would never meet again.

Only weeks later, her parents had packed her belongings and sent her away to boarding school. By the time she returned the following summer, the old estate had burned, the family was gone, and the playground had become just another place filled with whispers she no longer wished to hear.

Evelyn looked at Dante once more, her expression softening with a mixture of disbelief and melancholy. “I suppose,” she murmured quietly, “we’ve been strangers for a very long time.”

The cottage had settled into the comfortable rhythm of evening by the time Evelyn retreated deeper into her thoughts. Outside, the last traces of sunlight disappeared beyond the pines, leaving only the moon’s pale reflection dancing across the still waters of the lake. Somewhere in the distance, frogs had begun their nightly chorus, accompanied now and then by the gentle rustle of leaves as deer wandered through the garden in search of clover. The warmth of the fireplace carried faintly down the hallway, mingling with the rich aroma of sesame oil and ginger that rose from the carton of orange chicken balanced carefully in one hand.

She settled into her grandfather’s old oak chair with a quiet sigh. The office was as she had left it that morning, save for the addition of Dante’s belongings resting upon the desk. Maps covered one wall, pinned beside handwritten notes documenting demon sightings and strange occurrences. Shelves bowed beneath the weight of grimoires, folklore collections, journals, and field reports accumulated over years of hunting. Most people would have mistaken the room for the study of an eccentric historian. Only Evelyn knew how many of those books had once belonged to people who had disappeared.

Balancing the carton beside an open notebook, she reached toward a weathered leather-bound volume resting near the edge of the desk. The cover bore no title, only an intricate circular sigil burned into the hide. She had recovered it nearly six months earlier from the cellar of an abandoned monastery. Tonight, she opened it once more.

The brittle pages crackled softly beneath her fingertips as she turned past chapters devoted to spirit pathways, dreamwalking, and protective circles. Eventually, her eyes settled upon a section she had read several times without ever attempting.

Astral projection. Not merely observing another plane. Walking within it.

Several pages later another passage caught her attention. Healing. Not through herbs. Not through wards. Through one’s own life force—or the life force of what surrounded her.

She frowned. The instructions were remarkably simple in theory and impossibly complicated in practice. Rather than drawing power from external sources in a way that drained the caster, the practitioner became the conduit. Energy flowed through intention, discipline, and an intimate understanding of the body’s natural desire to repair itself. The spell did not create healing. It encouraged it. Supported it. Strengthened what already existed.

The warning at the bottom of the page had been underlined by at least three different hands over the centuries. “Give only what you are willing to lose.”

Evelyn read the sentence twice. Then a third time. Her eyes drifted toward the doorway, toward the living room beyond, toward the unconscious devil hunter sleeping before the fire.

Closing the grimoire around one finger to mark the page, she carried both the book and her bowl of takeout into the living room. The fire had burned lower, casting gentle shadows that danced across the bookshelves while Bramble remained perched atop one of the exposed ceiling beams, one eye half-open as though pretending to sleep while secretly watching everything.

The little owl tracked her movements.

“So do you think this is a terrible idea?”

Bramble blinked once.

“I appreciate your confidence.”

Setting the half-finished bowl aside on the coffee table, Evelyn knelt beside the sectional once more. Dante had not moved. His breathing remained slow and steady, though the color in his face had improved considerably since she’d found him beneath the overpass. Carefully, she untied the fresh bandage crossing his chest and folded the linen back. The wound looked better. Not by much. Its edges had drawn together another fraction of an inch, but the flesh remained torn, stubbornly resisting even his remarkable ability to heal.

She studied it for several moments. Then glanced toward the open grimoire resting beside her. “…Maybe I should just try.”

Evelyn remained kneeling beside the sectional long after the warmth had left her fingertips. The fire crackled softly in the hearth behind her, its amber glow dancing across the bookshelves and polished oak floors, while the rest of the cottage settled into the quiet stillness that always accompanied nightfall beside the lake. Dante’s breathing had become a little steadier than before, his brow no longer drawn quite so tightly with unconscious pain, yet the wound beneath the bandages remained frustratingly slow to close. It had improved—she was certain of that—but not enough to justify the heavy fatigue now pressing against her own limbs. Her shoulders felt leaden, her temples throbbed with a dull ache, and even lifting her hand from his chest required noticeably more effort than it should have.

“No…” she murmured quietly.

The single word disappeared into the room before she leaned back against the edge of the couch, her gaze drifting toward the open grimoire resting upon the coffee table. Something about the warning continued to bother her. She had read it several times already, yet every time she did, it seemed less like a command and more like an incomplete thought.

“Give only what you are willing to lose.”

Her eyes lingered on the sentence. It never specifically said your life. Only… life. The distinction settled into her thoughts with surprising clarity.

Evelyn reached forward almost absently, turning another fragile page with careful fingertips. One sentence, however, remained remarkably legible. “Life recognizes life. The source is yours to choose.”

She read it once. Then again. A slow smile spread across her face. “…Of course.”

The realization struck her with almost embarrassing simplicity. Sister Magdalena had always taught that magic was rarely about creating something from nothing. True magic merely redirected what already existed within the world. Fire required fuel. Rivers followed gravity. Wards borrowed strength from intention. Healing should have been no different.

Why had she assumed the energy had to come from her?

She stood so quickly that Bramble lifted his head from atop the bookshelf, giving a questioning trill as he watched her disappear into the kitchen. The little owl tracked her movements with enormous golden eyes while she crossed toward the dining table where a simple ceramic vase rested in the center. Her grandmother had painted it by hand decades ago, decorating its pale blue surface with tiny sprigs of lavender and forget-me-nots. Fresh wildflowers still filled the vase, gathered only the previous afternoon from the meadow bordering the lake. Purple asters, black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, sprigs of lavender, and delicate white daisies leaned gently toward the warmth radiating through the cottage.

Evelyn stopped before them. For a long moment, she simply looked. They were alive. Not in the same way people were. But alive nonetheless.

She reached down and lightly brushed her fingertips across the petals of one of the asters. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. The apology came instinctively. Her grandfather had spent years teaching her to respect every living thing growing upon the property.

Cradling the vase carefully against her hip, she returned to the living room and placed it upon the coffee table beside the grimoire. The flowers caught the firelight beautifully, each blossom seeming almost luminous against the darkened room. Bramble fluttered silently from the bookshelf to the back of an armchair, his head turning from the flowers to Dante and back again with obvious curiosity.

“This is either going to work…” Evelyn said quietly, “…or I’m about to discover why nobody has written about it.”

She reopened the grimoire to the marked page, reading the instructions one final time before closing her eyes. This time she did not search within herself. Instead, she reached outward.

The cottage disappeared around her little by little until only stillness remained. She slowed her breathing, allowing her awareness to settle gently upon the living things surrounding her. The warmth of the fire. The ancient cedar beams supporting the roof overhead. The herbs drying quietly from the kitchen rafters. The towering pines beyond the windows whose roots had gripped the earth for generations.

And finally… the flowers.

They glowed within her senses like tiny candles burning steadily against the darkness. Their life force was gentle, uncomplicated, carrying none of the weight or complexity of a human soul. She did not seize it. She did not command it. Instead, she extended only the faintest invitation, opening herself like a bridge rather than a vessel.

For several heartbeats… nothing happened.

Then came the answer. A warmth unlike any she had ever experienced drifted slowly through the stems of the flowers into her waiting hand. It felt impossibly light, carrying the quiet innocence of spring itself. The energy flowed through her body without lingering, passing gently across her chest and down her opposite arm before settling beneath her palm resting over Dante’s bandaged wound. There was no pain this time. No draining heaviness stealing strength from her muscles. She merely stood between two living things, allowing one to lend what it could to another.

Golden threads shimmered faintly beneath the linen. Not bright enough to illuminate the room. Only enough to catch the corner of her vision. They spread carefully through torn muscle and battered flesh, weaving themselves alongside Dante’s own remarkable regeneration rather than replacing it. She could feel his body responding almost immediately, the sluggish current of healing awakening with renewed determination as though recognizing an old friend arriving to help shoulder the burden.

Time seemed to lose meaning. Whether minutes or seconds passed, Evelyn could no longer tell.

Eventually the warmth began fading naturally, the flow slowing until it ceased altogether.

She opened her eyes.

The cottage returned. The fire continued crackling softly within the hearth. Bramble remained perfectly still upon the armchair, watching her with an intensity unusual even for him.

Slowly, Evelyn lowered her gaze toward the vase. The flowers had changed. The vibrant purple asters now bowed gently beneath their own weight. The white petals of the daisies had begun curling inward at their edges, while the lavender drooped ever so slightly against the rim of the vase. Their colors remained beautiful, but muted now, as though several autumn days had quietly passed over them within the span of a single evening.

They had given something. Not everything. Just enough.

A quiet sadness settled across Evelyn’s face as she reached out to stroke one wilting blossom with remarkable tenderness. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Only then did she turn back toward Dante. His chest rose more deeply than before, each breath noticeably easier than the last. Carefully lifting the edge of the bandage, she found the wound had closed another significant measure, healthy new skin steadily replacing what had only an hour earlier been torn nearly beyond recognition. His own demonic healing had not been replaced. It had simply been… encouraged. Supported. Strengthened.

Evelyn couldn’t help smiling. She looked once more at the grimoire lying open upon the table before her gaze drifted toward the fading bouquet. “Life recognizes life,” she said softly into the quiet room.

For the first time since opening the ancient book, she felt as though she truly understood what its unknown author had been trying to teach. Magic was never about domination. It was about balance. About knowing when to take nothing, when to give of yourself, and when to simply become the bridge that allowed one life to gently sustain another.

The cottage settled into silence once more.

Evelyn gently closed the grimoire and rested it upon the coffee table beside the now-wilting bouquet, her fingertips lingering for a moment against the weathered leather cover. She felt neither triumphant nor disappointed. The spell had not been miraculous, nor had she expected it to be. Dante’s body remained battered beyond anything she had ever witnessed, but for the first time since dragging him from the ruins of Manhattan, his healing no longer seemed to be fighting an uphill battle alone. Her contribution had been modest—a quiet encouragement, a bridge of borrowed life force that simply gave his demonic regeneration something more to work with. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen.

She stood slowly, stretching the stiffness from her back before wandering toward the kitchen. The aroma of takeout had long since filled the cottage, competing pleasantly with the scent of cedar and the fire burning steadily in the hearth. Bramble remained perched upon the armchair, his enormous golden eyes following her every movement while occasionally glancing toward the sleeping devil hunter as though personally supervising his recovery.

“I suppose I’ve earned dinner,” Evelyn murmured.

She retrieved a pair of chopsticks and settled onto one of the stools overlooking the kitchen island. Outside, darkness had fully claimed the lake, transforming its calm waters into polished obsidian beneath a canopy of stars. It had been an impossibly long day. Between the ruins of Manhattan, the rescue, the stolen van, carrying an unconscious man nearly twice her size, and experimenting with centuries-old magic that Sister Magdalena almost certainly would have forbidden, she decided she was entitled to one uninterrupted meal.

She had barely managed three bites.

A soft creak echoed from the living room.

Evelyn paused.

Another.

Not the settling of old wood.

Movement.

She slowly lowered her chopsticks and looked around the corner toward the sectional.

The blanket had slipped onto the floor.

Dante was sitting upright.

For one bewildering heartbeat she simply stared.

His movements were strangely mechanical, almost dreamlike. His silver-blue eyes remained only half-open, their focus distant and unfixed as though he were seeing something far beyond the walls of the cottage. He didn’t look around. Didn’t acknowledge the unfamiliar surroundings. Didn’t appear to notice the fire, the bookshelves, or even Evelyn herself.

He simply stood.

A little unsteadily.

Then began walking.

“Dante?”

No response.

He passed the coffee table without so much as a glance, one hand brushing absently against the edge to steady himself before continuing into the kitchen with slow, determined steps. Evelyn watched in complete silence, uncertain whether to intervene or simply observe.

He stopped directly in front of the paper bags from the Chinese restaurant.

His nose twitched faintly.

Without a single word, he opened the nearest carton.

Then all semblance of restraint vanished.

He attacked the food with the singular focus of a man whose body had remembered hunger long before his mind remembered anything else. Rice disappeared in astonishing quantities, followed immediately by orange chicken, dumplings, and vegetables, each mouthful swallowed almost before the previous one had been chewed. It wasn’t sloppy. It was instinct. Raw, overwhelming instinct.

Evelyn blinked.

“…Good Lord.”

Within moments one carton sat empty. He reached for another without hesitation. By the time she’d recovered enough to move, Dante had already drained the first glass of water he found beside the sink. He immediately refilled it from the tap and emptied that one just as quickly, water spilling unnoticed down the side of his jaw before disappearing beneath the collar of the borrowed T-shirt. A third glass followed.

She had spent years observing strange phenomena. This somehow ranked surprisingly high on the list.

“I… was going to offer you a plate.”

Nothing.

He continued eating with the quiet determination of someone whose body had finally decided it refused to starve another second.

Only after the last dumpling disappeared did his movements begin to slow. The glass lowered from his hand. His shoulders sagged. For the first time since standing, his eyes seemed to truly open.

They found Evelyn.

He stared.

Not at her.

Through her.

Something softened across his face with heartbreaking relief.

“…Lady…”

The name escaped in a whisper so quiet she almost missed it.

His breathing caught.

“…You’re…”

A slow blink.

“…alive.”

He took one uncertain step toward her.

“I thought…”

His voice cracked.

“…I thought I…”

Another step.

“…couldn’t…”

His eyes glistened with exhaustion more than tears.

“…lose you too.”

Before Evelyn could answer, Dante closed the remaining distance between them.

His arms slipped around her shoulders in a loose, weary embrace that held none of the confidence one might have expected from the legendary Son of Sparda. Instead, it carried only profound relief, as though he’d been wandering through an endless nightmare and had finally found someone he believed was safe.

Evelyn froze.

For a heartbeat she wasn’t entirely sure what to do. She knew enough from her visions to recognize the name. Lady. The woman with short black hair and mismatched eyes—one emerald green, the other vivid crimson. He wasn’t seeing Evelyn. He was still trapped somewhere between memory and waking.

Very slowly, careful not to disturb the healing wound across his chest, she rested one hand gently between his shoulder blades.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “You’re safe.”

Dante’s grip loosened almost immediately. The strength seemed to drain from him all at once, his weight suddenly becoming far heavier than his exhausted body could support. His eyelids fluttered, each blink slower than the last, until they finally closed altogether.

“…Home…” he murmured sleepily.

Then his knees nearly gave way.

“Oh!”

Evelyn caught him beneath the arms before he could collapse onto the hardwood floor.

“Dante…”

He was asleep again. Standing. Or rather, trying very hard not to.

Suppressing a tired sigh, Evelyn shifted his arm across her shoulders and carefully guided him back toward the living room, Bramble watching the entire procession from the armchair with unmistakable curiosity. The little owl let out a soft questioning trill as they passed.

“I know,” Evelyn whispered with a faint smile. “It’s been a strange day.”

Together they reached the sectional once more. She eased Dante carefully back onto the cushions, adjusted the pillow beneath his head, and drew the wool blanket over him again. Within seconds his breathing had settled into the deep, peaceful rhythm of genuine sleep, as though the brief journey to the kitchen had never happened at all.

Evelyn stood there for a long moment, studying the man sleeping before the fire.

He had consumed enough food for three people. Drunk nearly an entire pitcher of water. Mistaken her for someone he clearly loved. And remembered none of it.

Quietly, she reached down and tucked the blanket a little more securely around his shoulders.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “You’ve earned it.”

Across the room, Bramble gave one last soft chirp before tucking his head beneath his wing, while outside the windows the lake reflected the moon in perfect silence, keeping watch over the little cottage where, for the first time in years, two lonely souls slept beneath the same roof.

The cottage had grown quiet once more.

Dante slept deeply upon the sectional, his breathing finally settling into a slow, peaceful rhythm that no longer carried the strain of a body desperately clinging to consciousness. Bramble had relocated to the top of one of the bookshelves overlooking the living room, his feathers puffed comfortably as one golden eye remained lazily trained upon the unconscious guest below. Outside, the forest had surrendered completely to the night. Moonlight shimmered across the lake beyond the windows, turning its still surface into polished silver while the occasional chorus of crickets drifted through the cracked kitchen window.

Satisfied that Dante wasn’t likely to wake again anytime soon, Evelyn quietly carried her empty bowl into the sink before making her way down the hallway toward her office.

The room welcomed her with the familiar scent of old paper, cedar, and leather bindings. She settled into her grandfather’s worn oak chair, its cushions sinking beneath her weight exactly as they always had, and reached beneath the desk. After a moment of rummaging, she pulled out her aging silver laptop—a bulky relic from another era.

“Yay, technology,” she muttered, pressing the power button.

The machine answered with the cheerful startup chime she’d heard a thousand times before.

“I know you’re loud.”

The screen flickered.

“My thoughts are too.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips.

Eventually the desktop appeared. She connected to the cottage’s temperamental internet, waited patiently for the browser to load, and typed the first name that had been lingering in her thoughts ever since Manhattan.

Vergil.

Hundreds of articles appeared almost immediately. Photographs. Government briefings. Opinion pieces. News broadcasts. Every major outlet seemed to have something to say about the man now being referred to almost universally as the Makaian Ambassador.

Evelyn clicked one of the more comprehensive articles.

A large photograph filled the screen. Vergil stood before a bank of microphones dressed in an impeccably tailored dark coat, his expression unreadable as reporters shouted questions from every direction. There was an unmistakable authority about him now, a quiet confidence that bordered on intimidating. The shy little boy she’d known for only a handful of afternoons beneath the old oak tree had vanished beneath years of hardship, replaced by someone the world either feared, admired, or simply failed to understand.

She leaned back slowly. “…You’ve certainly changed. And quite handsome too.”

Her eyes lingered on the photograph. Then drifted away. Against her better judgment, the memory from the playground returned. A quiet little boy sitting alone beneath the oak while other children played without him or called him “white hair” as a way to make fun of him. The way he’d accepted a dandelion without quite knowing what to say. The careful politeness that had always seemed at odds with children his age.

She looked back at the screen. “I suppose,” she murmured softly, “life wasn’t especially kind to either of us.”

Closing the news article, Evelyn opened another browser tab. There was one other thread she wanted to follow.

Darkcom.

She had known of the organization for years. Any devil hunter worth their salt had heard whispers of it—a private agency specializing in supernatural incidents too strange, too dangerous, or too politically inconvenient for ordinary authorities to acknowledge. She had never worked alongside them, though more than once she’d quietly arrived at a scene only to discover someone from Darkcom had beaten her there by a matter of hours.

The homepage loaded after a brief delay. Professional. Minimalist. Photographs of investigators. Case studies. Recovery operations. Personnel profiles.

She clicked through the staff directory absentmindedly until one particular photograph made her hand freeze over the trackpad.

Short black hair. A confident expression. One emerald-green eye. One crimson.

Recognition struck immediately. It was her. The woman from Dante’s memories. The woman whose name he had whispered in his sleep.

Evelyn clicked the profile.

The page expanded.

Mary Ann Arkham.
Field Operative.
Codename: Lady.

For several long seconds she simply stared at the screen.

“Mary…”

The name sounded strangely ordinary compared to the woman she’d glimpsed through Dante’s memories.

“So that’s your real name.”

Her eyes drifted toward the living room doorway. Toward the sleeping man beyond. Lady hadn’t been a hallucination. Nor some forgotten dream. She was real. A highly decorated Darkcom operative with years of documented experience combating demonic threats.

Evelyn smiled faintly to herself. “I suppose your taste is rather good.”

The words escaped before she realized she’d spoken them aloud. Immediately, she shook her head. “None of my business.”

She closed the profile.

Still… one question refused to leave her thoughts.

If Dante had been missing for two years… If Mary Arkham—Lady—had survived… Then why hadn’t they found each other?

Evelyn rested her chin lightly against her folded hands as the laptop’s screen cast a pale glow across the office. Somewhere in the answer to that question, she suspected, lay the story of how the legendary devil hunter had ended up unconscious beneath a pile of rubble—and why, even in his deepest sleep, the first name his heart reached for had not been his brother’s.

It had been hers.

Evelyn remained seated at her grandfather’s desk for another minute, replaying the vision over and over in her mind. Dante’s voice had carried a certainty that still lingered in her ears.

“Remember that diner around the corner from my place?”

“When this is all over… I want you to meet me there.”

“Promise me you’ll be there.”

It wasn’t a grand declaration. It wasn’t some dramatic confession uttered beneath a dying sky. It was wonderfully ordinary. A diner. Coffee. A promise to meet after surviving the impossible. Something so painfully human that it made her chest ache.

She turned back toward her laptop, opening a map of lower Manhattan. Using Dante’s apartment as her reference point, she searched the surrounding streets until several diners appeared within walking distance. She eliminated two almost immediately before her eyes settled on the third.

A small family-owned diner. Just around the corner. Exactly where the memory had placed it.

She glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. One hour before closing.

“…Worth a shot.”

Picking up her phone, Evelyn dialed the number listed online.

The line rang twice. A third time. Then someone answered.

“Restaurant Fredi, this is Cindy speaking.”

“Hi,” Evelyn began politely. “I know this is going to sound like a very unusual question.”

Cindy laughed softly. “We’ve had a strange couple of days. Go ahead.”

Evelyn hesitated only briefly. “I’m looking for a woman. Short black hair.” She paused. “One green eye… and one red.”

Silence. Not the silence of confusion. Recognition.

When Cindy finally spoke again, her tone had changed completely. “…Who are you?”

“My name is Evelyn Ashcroft.”

“And why are you asking about her?” Cindy asked.

Evelyn looked through the office doorway toward the sleeping figure on the sectional. “I’m trying to help someone.”

The waitress didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she asked a question of her own. “…Is Dante all right?”

Evelyn felt a small wave of relief. “You know him.”

“I know enough.”

She looked toward the living room once more. “He’s alive.” The words came gently. “He was injured… pretty badly… but he’s alive.”

A long exhale drifted through the speaker. “Oh… thank God.”

Neither woman spoke for several seconds.

Finally Evelyn asked quietly, “…Was she there?”

Cindy’s answer came without hesitation. “Last night.”

Evelyn straightened in her chair.

“She came in just before sunset.” The waitress’s voice softened as though replaying the memory herself. “She sat in the bar where Dante would sit. The very bar from his vision. She ordered coffee. Didn’t drink much of it.” A small smile touched Cindy’s voice. “She just… waited. Until she finished writing the letter.”

The words landed heavily.

“Every time the front door opened, she’d look up. I don’t think she was waiting for him to step through the door.”

Evelyn closed her eyes. “…Did she say anything?”

“Only that if Dante ever comes in to give him the letter.”

Another silence settled between them.

“When it became obvious she wasn’t going to wait…” Cindy sighed. “…she smiled.”

That surprised Evelyn. “She smiled?”

“A sad one.” The waitress hesitated. “She said… ‘If Dante didn’t make it here… then something must’ve happened. Even if nothing happened, I can’t stay in this city. I have somewhere else to be.’”

Evelyn felt her throat tighten.

“She never sounded angry. Just… empty.”

Cindy continued quietly. “Before she left, she handed me an envelope. ‘If he comes in tomorrow,’” she recited from memory, “‘or the day after… or next month… give this to him.’”

The office suddenly felt much smaller.

“…You still have it?”

“I do. I locked it in the office after we closed.”

Another pause. “If you’re really with Dante…”

“I’m with him. He can’t travel yet.”

Cindy seemed to consider that. “…Would you be willing to keep it safe until tomorrow? I can come pick it up.”

“Of course. I’ll leave a note for the morning shift.”

Evelyn nodded even though the woman couldn’t see her. “Thank you.”

Before ending the call, Cindy spoke one last time. “…Miss Ashcroft?”

“Yes?”

“If he’s awake when you see him…” Her voice became very quiet. “…just tell him she waited for a while.”

The line clicked dead.

Evelyn slowly lowered the phone into her lap. She sat there for several long moments before turning toward the living room.

The fire continued burning softly. Dante remained asleep beneath the blanket, completely unaware that only the night before, a woman named Mary Arkham had kept the promise he had asked of her. She had gone to the diner. She had waited until closing. And when he never arrived… she had simply left him a letter.

Evelyn remained seated long after the call had ended, the phone still resting loosely in her hand as the silence of the office settled around her once more. The only sounds were the soft ticking of her grandfather’s old mantel clock and the distant crackle of the fire burning in the living room. Moonlight spilled across the floorboards through the window overlooking the lake, painting pale ribbons of silver across the worn oak beneath her feet.

She should have felt relieved. Lady was alive. Dante was alive. Somewhere between them sat a letter that, by tomorrow afternoon, might finally bridge two years of unanswered questions. So why did the knot in her stomach refuse to loosen?

Evelyn leaned back in her chair and stared absently at the darkened laptop screen, watching her own reflection stare back at her. The vision replayed itself. “Promise me you’ll be there.” “I promise.” Lady had kept her word. She had gone to the diner. She had waited until she decided she could not stay any longer. And yet… something about the memory refused to sit comfortably with her.

Perhaps it was simply intuition. Clairvoyants learned early to trust the quiet feelings that arrived without explanation, those subtle currents beneath conscious thought that often proved just as important as visions themselves. She had ignored them before. She rarely made that mistake twice. A quiet unease settled over her. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Just… a feeling she could not quite name.

Her fingers absently traced the rim of her teacup as she looked toward the living room where Dante slept. “You love her,” she whispered so softly the words were nearly lost to the room. It was not difficult to see. It had been there in the way he had spoken her name while trapped inside a nightmare. In the relief that had washed across his face before he had mistaken Evelyn for someone else. In the ordinary promise of meeting for coffee after surviving what should have been the end of the world. That was not infatuation. It was not convenience. It was love. Real love. The kind people quietly carried through impossible circumstances.

Evelyn lowered her eyes. “But…” The word lingered heavily on her tongue. She did not know Mary Arkham. Not truly. A few visions. A personnel file. A promise kept. That was all. Yet something deep within her refused to settle. A whisper at the edge of her thoughts kept insisting that whatever waited inside that unopened envelope would not bring Dante the peace he deserved. She hated herself a little for even thinking it. Maybe she was wrong. She hoped she was. With all her heart. Because if that uneasy feeling proved true… if, somehow, despite waiting for him, Lady could no longer love him in the way he still seemed to love her… then the man sleeping before the fire would have survived Hell itself only to come home and discover that the hardest battle awaiting him was not with Mundus, Argosax, or losing his brother. It would be learning how to gather the broken pieces of his own heart.

Evelyn closed her eyes for a brief moment and quietly shook her head. “I hope,” she murmured into the stillness, “my intuition is wrong.” For once in her life… she wanted her gift to fail her.

Sleep claimed Evelyn more quickly than she expected. She had not even meant to fall asleep. One moment she sat curled in her grandfather’s old leather chair, the grimoire still open across her lap while the dying embers of the fireplace cast long shadows through the office doorway. Her reading glasses had slipped halfway down her nose, the half-empty glass of wine remained untouched beside a cooling cup of tea, and somewhere in the living room she could still hear the steady cadence of Dante’s breathing. The weight of the day settled over her all at once, heavier than any spell or demon hunt had ever managed, and before she realized it, her eyelids surrendered.

The cottage disappeared. There was no sensation of dreaming. No gradual descent into sleep. Only the peculiar feeling of opening one door and finding herself standing somewhere entirely different. The air struck her first. Hot. Oppressively so. It carried the bitter taste of sulfur and ash, each breath scraping against her lungs as though the very atmosphere objected to human life. Gone were the comforting scents of cedar, lavender, and the freshwater lake behind her cottage. In their place lingered the unmistakable odor of scorched stone and old blood.

Evelyn slowly opened her eyes. She stood within an enormous cavern whose ceiling disappeared into darkness far above. Jagged pillars of volcanic rock rose from the ground like the ribs of some long-dead leviathan, while crimson rivers of molten stone wound silently between black cliffs polished smooth by unimaginable ages. Strange crystals protruded from the cavern walls, glowing faintly with an eerie violet light that offered just enough illumination to reveal how utterly alien this place truly was. Nothing grew here. Nothing sang. No birds. No insects. No whispering pines stirred by gentle wind. Only silence. A silence so complete it felt almost alive.

Her pulse quickened. “…Makai.” The word escaped in little more than a whisper. Every illustration she had ever studied. Every forgotten manuscript. Every warning Sister Magdalena had ever given her. None of them had prepared her for the oppressive enormity of Hell itself.

“This is not a dream,” she breathed. No. It felt far too real. The rough volcanic stone beneath her boots possessed texture. The dry heat pressed against her skin. Somewhere in the vast darkness beyond the reach of the glowing crystals, something immense shifted, sending a low vibration rolling through the cavern floor.

Then… a cough. Not distant. Close. Human. Painfully human. Evelyn turned immediately toward the sound. It came again, followed by the unmistakable scrape of someone attempting to steady himself against stone. Without thinking, she began moving. The cavern narrowed into a winding passage before opening once more into a smaller chamber hidden from the larger expanse. Broken pillars littered the ground alongside the remains of creatures she did not care to identify. Fresh cuts carved deep grooves through the black rock, evidence of a battle fought not long ago.

There, against the far wall, sat a man. His breathing was ragged. One gloved hand pressed tightly against a wound in his side while the other rested upon the hilt of a familiar katana driven point-first into the stone beside him. His dark coat was torn in several places, stained with dust and blood alike, while strands of white hair clung damply to his forehead. Vergil.

For a heartbeat, Evelyn simply stared. The little boy beneath the oak tree. The stern ambassador standing before reporters. The swordsman from Dante’s memories. All of them seemed to exist simultaneously within the battered man before her. He was strikingly handsome in a statuesque, almost classical way, the kind of presence that seemed carved from marble and tempered by fire—sharp features, piercing eyes, and an unyielding poise that made the surrounding hellscape feel smaller by comparison.

She frowned softly. “He cannot see me,” she murmured to herself. Astral projection. That was what the grimoire had described. She was not truly here. Merely an observer. Carefully, she stepped closer. Vergil remained motionless, his head bowed as though gathering enough strength simply to breathe.

Before she could reach him, his head lifted. Slowly. Deliberately. Piercing ice-blue eyes locked onto hers with startling clarity. Not through her. At her. Every instinct screamed at her to step back.

“You…” His voice was quiet, though every syllable carried the effortless authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed. He studied her face as though searching memories long buried beneath years of war and loss. “…What are you doing here?”

The question stole the breath from Evelyn’s lungs. For several stunned heartbeats she could only stare back at him. The grimoire had never mentioned this. It had never once suggested that someone could see an astral traveler. Much less speak to one.

Her mouth opened before any coherent thought had time to form. “…You can see me?”

For the first time since she had found him, the corner of Vergil’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly. Whether it was amusement or disbelief… she could not tell.

Vergil did not answer at once. He watched Evelyn with the unnerving stillness of a man who had learned, long ago, that every movement revealed something, and that silence could be as sharp a weapon as any blade. The cavern around them seemed to breathe with heat, its black stone walls glistening faintly beneath veins of violet light that ran through the rock like trapped lightning. Somewhere beyond the chamber, Makai groaned in its sleep, ancient and hungry, while ash drifted lazily through the air and settled upon the torn shoulders of his coat. He should have looked diminished by his injuries. He should have seemed mortal, bloodied as he was, one gloved hand pressed tightly to his side and Yamato planted in the stone beside him to keep himself upright. Instead, Evelyn found herself struck by the severe beauty of him, the cold symmetry of his face, the aristocratic line of his posture, the way even pain could not make him bow. He looked less like a wounded man than a statue carved from pale marble and shadow, cracked in places, yes, but still refusing to fall. It was an inconvenient thing to notice, particularly while standing in Hell.

“I can,” he said at last.

His voice was quiet, but there was authority in it, not the loud sort men used when they needed to convince themselves they possessed power, but the effortless kind that belonged to someone who expected the world to listen because it usually did. His gaze moved over her carefully, assessing the shape of her, the strange absence of weight in her footsteps, the faint shimmer that clung to her outline whenever the cavern light shifted. “You are not a demon,” he said.

“No,” Evelyn replied.

“You are not dead.”

“Last I checked.”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and though exhaustion shadowed his face, his mind remained terrifyingly alert. “You are projecting.”

The realization seemed to settle over him before she had time to confirm it, as if he had already moved beyond surprise and was merely arranging the facts into their proper order. “Your body remains elsewhere.”

Evelyn blinked, thrown more by the calm certainty of the statement than by the danger surrounding them. “How did you know that?”

“I have traversed realms for decades.” There was no arrogance in the answer, only fact, and perhaps that was what made it more unsettling. “You carry no physical presence. No scent of blood. No displaced air. Yet your soul is unmistakably human.”

She gave a soft laugh despite herself, because the alternative was admitting how deeply unnerved she was. “I suppose that answers my question.”

“And what question was that?”

“Whether this spell actually worked.”

For the first time, something like disbelief touched his expression. Not much. Vergil seemed like the sort of man whose face had been trained against unnecessary emotion, but his brow lifted just enough to betray him. “You experimented with astral projection without first knowing whether you could return?”

Evelyn shifted awkwardly, suddenly feeling very aware of herself beneath that piercing blue stare. “When you say it out loud…”

“It sounds remarkably foolish.”

“…Yes.”

A ghost of amusement moved across his face, so faint she might have imagined it had she not been watching so closely. “You possess courage.”

“I’ve been called stubborn.”

“I imagine both are true.”

The small exchange ended when a violent cough seized him. Vergil turned sharply away, his hand tightening around Yamato’s hilt as he braced himself against the stone and forced the sound back into his chest as though even pain was something to be disciplined into obedience. When the fit passed, his breathing had grown shallower, each inhale measured and controlled, but Evelyn saw the blood fresh against his glove and the way his fingers remained pressed to his ribs a second longer than pride likely permitted. Only then did the rest of him come into focus. The immaculate figure she had seen on television—the composed Makaian ambassador standing before cameras and governments with cold elegance—was gone. His coat was torn nearly beyond recognition, slashed through at the shoulder and side. Deep lacerations disappeared beneath dark fabric, and dried blood marked him in streaks of rust and black. He was still beautiful in the way ruined things could be beautiful, but he was also injured, hunted, and very nearly spent.

From beyond the narrow tunnel came the scrape of claws against stone.

Then another sound.

Metal striking rock.

A low, guttural roar answered from somewhere deeper in the labyrinth, followed by shriller cries that echoed through the cavern passages in terrible harmony. They were not wandering aimlessly. They were searching.

For him.

Evelyn instinctively stepped closer. “You’re being pursued.”

Vergil did not bother denying it. “They have not stopped.”

“For how long?”

“I lost count.”

He said it so evenly that the words felt heavier than they should have. Evelyn looked toward the mouth of the tunnel, where the violet light failed to reach and the darkness seemed to gather with intention. Whatever was coming knew these caverns better than she did. Better than he did, perhaps. Without thinking too long about the absurdity of kneeling beside an injured man in Hell while her actual body was asleep somewhere beside a fireplace, she moved closer and lowered herself beside him.

“You need help.”

“I need time.”

“Then let me help.”

His expression hardened immediately, the door between them closing almost before she saw it open. “No.”

“You haven’t even heard my idea.”

“I do not require rescuing.”

“No,” Evelyn replied, keeping her voice calm despite the growing roar in the distance, “but judging by the amount of blood you’ve managed to leave on several different continents…” Her gaze dropped meaningfully to the wound beneath his hand. “You might require a bandage.”

For the first time, genuine surprise crossed his face. It was small, fleeting, almost absurdly controlled, but it was there. Then, against every expectation she had formed of him in the last several minutes, he exhaled once through his nose in something dangerously close to laughter.

“You are…” He seemed to search briefly for the appropriate word, as though several presented themselves and none were suitable. “…unusual.”

“I’ve heard stranger descriptions.”

His eyes settled on her again, sharper now but not quite as cold. “Who are you?”

“Evelyn.” She hesitated, though she did not know why the next part suddenly felt more intimate. “Evelyn Ashcroft.”

The name stirred no immediate recognition in him. Of course it didn’t. Years had passed. Entire worlds had burned. Still, something in her tightened at the absence.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she said.

“I don’t.”

“We met when we were children.”

Silence fell between them, deeper than the cavern’s heat. Evelyn glanced toward the tunnel, then back to him. “There was a playground near the old estate. You and Dante used to go there.” A sad smile touched her mouth before she could stop it. “I was the little girl everyone avoided because I talked to ghosts.”

For the briefest heartbeat, something changed. Not recognition exactly, but the first trembling edge of it.

“A dandelion,” he said quietly.

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “You remember.”

“Barely.” His voice softened almost imperceptibly, as though the memory had emerged from a place he had long ago sealed away. “You sat beneath the oak.”

“You were reading.”

“And Dante attempted to convince us both we were pirates.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, warm and startled and completely out of place in Makai. “That sounds exactly like him.”

For a moment, the cavern seemed less terrible. For a moment, the blood and ash and hunting cries beyond the tunnel gave way to a summer afternoon beneath a broad old tree, to wooden swords and dandelions and three lonely children who had not yet learned how cruel the world intended to be. Then the memory vanished, and Vergil’s face returned to the present.

“Why are you here?”

Evelyn drew a slow breath. “I found him.”

Every trace of softness disappeared from his expression. “Found whom?”

“Dante.”

Vergil went utterly still. Not calm. Not composed. Still, as if his entire body had become a blade held motionless in the air.

“I pulled him from the rubble in Manhattan after the rift closed,” Evelyn said carefully, watching him as she spoke. “He was unconscious. He still is, more or less. I brought him home with me. To my cottage, about an hour outside the city, near the lake. I cleaned his wounds, bandaged him, used herbs, and managed to support his regeneration a little.”

Only then did something shift behind his careful mask. It was tiny, almost invisible beneath all that discipline, but Evelyn saw it because she had spent her whole life noticing the things others missed. Relief. It crossed his face like the first break in a storm cloud.

“He lives,” Vergil said.

“He does.” Evelyn smiled, gently now. “He’s safe.”

Vergil closed his eyes. The tension that had held his shoulders rigid since she arrived eased by the smallest degree, as if he had allowed himself, for one breath, to set down a burden he had been carrying since the moment he threw his brother back through the rift. He said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“Thank you.”

Two simple words. Perhaps the hardest ones he had spoken in years.

Before Evelyn could answer, a roar tore through the cavern with such force that dust and stone rained from the ceiling. The warmth between them vanished instantly. Vergil’s hand tightened around Yamato, and when his eyes opened again, the wounded brother was gone. In his place stood the swordsman, the soldier, the man who had survived sixteen years in Hell and still refused to kneel.

“They’ve found me.”

The roar reverberated through the cavern like thunder trapped beneath the earth. Fragments of black volcanic stone broke free from the ceiling, clattering across the uneven ground as another chorus of guttural cries answered from somewhere deeper within the labyrinth. The echoes multiplied against the cavern walls until it became impossible to tell how many creatures were closing in.

Vergil rose anyway. Not quickly. Not gracefully. He planted Yamato firmly against the stone and used it to force himself upright, every movement betraying wounds his pride desperately refused to acknowledge. Fresh blood darkened the fabric around his side, and for the briefest instant his knees threatened to buckle beneath him before he steadied himself with a slow breath.

“You should leave,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes from the tunnel ahead.

Evelyn remained exactly where she was. “I do not think I can.” His brow furrowed. “My body is still back home.” She gestured vaguely toward herself. “I am fairly certain my soul is stuck here until I wake up.” Another distant roar answered her. She sighed. “So… unless you have a return portal hidden somewhere…” She shrugged. “…I am afraid you are stuck with me.”

Vergil regarded her for only a heartbeat before looking back toward the tunnel. “…Unfortunate.” “For you or me?” “Both.”

The first demon emerged from the darkness almost immediately afterward. It was larger than the grunts she had hunted in Manhattan, its skeletal frame wrapped in sinewy black muscle while two elongated forelimbs dragged jagged claws across the cavern floor. Glowing amber eyes fixed upon Vergil with unmistakable recognition. Then another appeared. And another. Within moments nearly a dozen had begun spilling into the chamber, spreading outward with practiced coordination instead of the mindless frenzy Evelyn had come to expect from lesser demons.

“They are driving you toward something,” she observed. “They have been.” Vergil rested one hand upon Yamato’s hilt. “They are learning.” “That is comforting.” “It should concern you.”

The nearest creature lunged. Yamato cleared its sheath. A single flash of blue. The demon’s momentum carried it forward another two steps before the upper half of its body slid silently from the lower, collapsing onto the stone in two impossibly clean pieces. The others hesitated. Only for an instant. Then they charged together.

Evelyn’s hands moved before conscious thought caught up. Years of habit had long ago replaced panic with instinct. From the inner pockets sewn discreetly into her coat, she drew two enchanted daggers whose silvered blades caught the violet glow of the cavern crystals. Their edges bore delicate runes etched by Sister Magdalena decades earlier, each line painstakingly carved to weaken creatures born of infernal realms.

“Well,” she muttered beneath her breath. “I suppose we are doing this.”

The first demon reached her. She did not meet strength with strength. She stepped aside. Its claws carved through empty air while one dagger swept upward beneath its arm, slicing across the exposed tendons of its shoulder. Before it could recover, the second blade plunged into a glowing sigil already forming beneath its feet. The rune ignited instantly. Brilliant white light erupted across the stone. The demon shrieked. Chains of luminous energy burst upward from the sigil, wrapping around its limbs before slamming it violently back against the cavern wall.

Evelyn was already moving. “Left!” Vergil did not ask why. He pivoted exactly as she called, cutting through the space she had indicated an instant before another creature emerged from the darkness. It died before fully realizing it had entered the fight.

More followed. Evelyn never remained still long enough to be surrounded. She fought like flowing water, weaving between claws and shattered stone while silver blades flashed through the air in graceful, economical arcs. Whenever she could not kill outright, she redirected. A dagger buried itself in the cavern floor before exploding into a circle of glowing wards that forced three advancing demons backward. Another blade ricocheted from the stone, striking precisely the rune she had painted moments earlier with a flick of her own blood, causing the entire sigil to erupt beneath an unsuspecting pack.

The chamber filled with bursts of white light. Ancient symbols burned briefly across the black rock before fading as quickly as they had appeared. Vergil noticed. “Order magic.” She ducked beneath another claw. “My instructor was an ex-nun.” A slash. A kick. Another ward blossomed beneath a demon’s feet. “Long story.” “I imagine.” He severed another creature cleanly in half. “It is.”

A larger demon crashed into the chamber, its massive frame forcing the others aside as it bellowed loud enough to shake the cavern. Evelyn instinctively reached for another dagger. Nothing. Her fingers found only empty leather loops. “…That is all of them.”

Vergil glanced toward her without turning his head. “You carry only six?” “I usually do not fight Hell.” He almost smiled. Almost.

The massive creature charged. Without thinking, Evelyn snatched a handful of chalk dust from one of the small pouches still hanging from her belt and threw it across the stone floor in a wide arc. Her fingers traced symbols through the air so quickly they blurred together, years of repetition allowing muscle memory to finish what conscious thought had only begun. The dust struck the ground. Every grain ignited. An enormous ward spread outward beneath the charging demon, intricate circles blooming across the cavern floor in brilliant white and pale gold. The creature faltered. Not trapped. Slowed. Just enough.

“Vergil!” He understood immediately. Yamato vanished into its sheath. For one impossibly still heartbeat, the cavern fell silent. Then— Judgment Cut. Reality itself fractured. Blue-white slashes erupted throughout the ward she had created, each dimensional tear intersecting perfectly with the sigils holding the creature in place. Space folded inward around the demon before exploding outward again in a storm of impossibly precise cuts. When the light faded… Nothing remained. Only silence.

Evelyn lowered her trembling hands, breathing harder than she had realized. “…Well.” She looked around the devastated chamber. “I have officially had stranger Tuesdays.”

Despite the blood staining his clothes and the exhaustion etched across every line of his face, Vergil regarded her with something she had not expected. Respect. “You adapt quickly.” She gave a tired smile. “I have had excellent teachers.” A faint, almost imperceptible nod. “So have I.”

The quiet moment lasted only seconds before another distant horn echoed through Makai. Lower. Deeper. Older. Vergil’s expression hardened immediately. “No…” Evelyn looked toward the tunnel. “What?” He gripped Yamato’s hilt once more. His voice was barely above a whisper. “…That was not a scouting party.”

The oppressive silence that followed somehow felt far more frightening than the battle itself. “They have sent something else.”

The cavern fell silent once more.

Not with peace.
With a low, electric anticipation that prickled across the skin like the charge before lightning. Whatever had answered that distant horn was drawing nearer, its unseen weight pressing down on the air itself. The lesser demons had already scattered into the shadows, as if even they feared to stand in the path of something ancient and unforgiving.

Evelyn scarcely noticed.

Her focus had narrowed entirely on Vergil.

He stood like a blade driven into stone—still upright, but only by sheer, stubborn will. Blood seeped steadily from beneath his coat, pooling darkly on the volcanic rock with every measured breath he took. Each inhale carried the faint hitch of pain he refused to name. Yet his grip on Yamato never faltered, knuckles pale against the hilt. He was already shifting his weight forward, ready to walk deeper into hell itself.

Even if it killed him.

Without hesitation, Evelyn moved directly into his path, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his bloodied coat.

“Vergil.”

He stopped. His ice-blue eyes locked onto hers, unreadable as ever.

“You should return to Earth.”

“I cannot.”

“You can.” Her voice sharpened with frustration. “Stop pretending this is the only path.”

“No.”

The refusal landed like a door slamming shut—cold, absolute.

“My task remains unfinished.”

Evelyn’s chest tightened. She stepped closer, refusing to yield even an inch, her boots nearly brushing his. “So does your life, damn it.”

He regarded her with that cool, aristocratic detachment, but she caught the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“My life ceased being relevant long ago.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than she intended, echoing off the cavern walls. She jabbed a finger toward the blood at his feet. “It didn’t. Not to Dante. Not to me.”

Vergil’s gaze flickered—something dangerous and unsettled moving behind the mask. He didn’t step back. If anything, the space between them felt smaller, heavier.

“You are exhausted,” she pressed, voice low and insistent. “You’re bleeding out faster than you’ll admit, and whatever’s hunting you isn’t going to wait for you to catch your breath.”

He remained silent, but his jaw tightened.

She took another half-step. Close enough now to smell the metallic tang of blood and the faint ozone of his power. “Look at me.”

Her tone softened, but the tension in her body didn’t. “I don’t know every detail of this mission you’ve chained yourself to. I don’t know what guilt or pride is driving you to do this alone. But I do know you’re going to die if you keep going like this.”

The words hung between them like a challenge.

Vergil stared at her. Not with anger. With a flicker of raw disbelief that cracked his composure for the first time.

“…Wait.”

His voice dropped, quieter, almost accusatory. “How could you possibly know that?”

Evelyn exhaled, holding his gaze despite the way her pulse hammered. There was no point hiding it anymore.

“I see things, Vergil. I always have.”

She watched his expression shift as she spoke—guarded, wary, but undeniably curious. The air between them crackled with something unspoken.

“When I was a child, the others thought I was strange… because I spoke to people they couldn’t see. I see spirits. I have visions.” Her voice lowered. “Sometimes when I touch something—or someone—I catch fragments of their past.”

His eyes sharpened dangerously at that. She felt the weight of his stare like a physical touch.

“I can walk between planes,” she continued. “And apparently I have a talent for stumbling into places—and people—I was never meant to find.”

Vergil studied her in heavy silence. The distant horn sounded again, closer now, but neither of them moved.

“You…” His voice carried a rare note of recognition, almost reluctant. “You’re clairvoyant.”

She nodded once.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“No,” he murmured, gaze drifting for a moment before snapping back to her face. “Such gifts rarely come with a choice.”

The space between them felt charged, intimate in a way that made her skin prickle. She pressed on.

“I’ve seen pieces of your life. The old estate. The playground. Two little boys who should’ve had more than the world gave them.” Her voice softened with reluctant sorrow. “I know Dante is alive. I pulled him from the rubble. I’ve been helping him heal… even if he mostly healed himself with an obscene amount of Chinese food.”

A ghost of something—almost a smile—touched the corner of Vergil’s mouth. It was gone in an instant, but it left a crack in the armor.

“That sounds like Dante,” he said quietly.

“It does.” She hesitated, then added, “He mistook me for someone named Lady. I think he misses her.”

Vergil looked away for the first time, lowering his gaze. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.

Evelyn’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “You’ve been carrying the weight of the world since you were a child. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

For a long moment, Vergil said nothing. He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly through the pain. When he opened them again, the distant rumble of Makai seemed to fade beneath the intensity of his stare.

“Clairvoyants,” he said, almost to himself. “Exceedingly rare.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He regarded her for several long, searching seconds. The tension between them thickened—frustration, reluctant respect, and something sharper, more dangerous, simmering underneath.

“I underestimated you.”

“I get that a lot,” she replied, a faint, defiant smile tugging at her lips.

“No.” His voice was solemn, but his eyes lingered on hers a beat too long. “I suspect many do.”

The cavern fell silent once more.

Not with peace.
With a low, electric anticipation that prickled across the skin like the charge before lightning...

Another horn blast tore through the darkness—much closer now. Vergil’s hand tightened on Yamato. For a heartbeat, his gaze held hers, torn between duty and the unexpected anchor she had become.

Then he stepped past her.

Or tried to.

Two strides later his leg buckled. The proud Son of Sparda stumbled, his body finally betraying the limits he had ignored for so long. Evelyn moved without thinking, catching him as he fell heavily into her arms. His weight pressed against her—solid, warm, and far heavier than she expected. Blood soaked through her shirt where his side met her chest. One of his hands instinctively gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in as he tried to steady himself.

“Vergil—” Her voice cracked with alarm.

He didn’t answer. His breathing was ragged, forehead nearly resting against her temple. For a moment they stayed like that, locked in an unwilling embrace, the heat of his body and the metallic scent of his blood surrounding her.

Evelyn shifted her grip, sliding one arm around his waist to support him. “This way,” she whispered fiercely. “Come on.”

Using nothing but raw intuition and the faint psychic pull that had guided her this far, she led him deeper into the cavern system. She navigated narrow passages and shadowed alcoves with unerring certainty, choosing paths that felt hidden, muffled, safe. The demonic presence that had been pressing down on them receded slightly as she found a small, enclosed chamber—little more than a jagged hollow shielded by fallen rock and ancient crystal formations. It felt… quiet. Protected.

She eased Vergil down onto a relatively flat section of stone, his back against the wall. He winced but made no sound of complaint.

“Can you set up wards?” she asked quickly, kneeling in front of him. “A barrier? Something to hide yourself until you’re strong enough to leave Makai?”

Vergil’s eyes met hers, dull with exhaustion but still sharp. “I do,” he rasped. “But I fear I don’t have the energy to sustain it.”

Evelyn took a slow, steadying breath, her pulse loud in her ears. The closeness of the space made every word, every breath feel intimate. “Okay… Can you heal yourself with your own energy?”

He gave a single, weary shake of his head.

She didn’t hesitate. Reaching forward, she took both of his hands in hers. His palms were calloused and surprisingly warm despite the blood loss. Vergil stiffened at the contact, his fingers twitching as if to pull away, but he didn’t. Their eyes locked—his guarded, hers determined and tinged with something softer.

Evelyn closed her eyes and reached inward, channeling her own life force through their joined hands. A soft, silvery glow bloomed between their palms, warm and steady. She felt the transfer like a living current—her energy flowing into him, knitting torn flesh, easing the worst of the bleeding. The connection was intimate, almost too much. Flashes of his memories brushed against her mind unbidden: cold nights in the estate, the sting of betrayal, the endless drive for power… and beneath it all, a bone-deep loneliness.

Vergil’s breath hitched. His grip tightened on her hands, not in resistance but in something closer to surprise—or need. The tension between them thickened, charged with the raw vulnerability of the moment. He was a man who never accepted help, now literally being held together by a woman he barely knew, yet who seemed to see straight through him.

“Evelyn…” he murmured, voice low and rough, almost a warning. But he didn’t let go.

She kept the flow steady, cheeks flushed from the effort and the strange intimacy of it all. “Just… take what you need. For now.”

Outside the chamber, another distant roar echoed through the caves, but inside their hidden sanctuary, the only sound was the shared rhythm of their breathing and the quiet hum of energy passing between them. Vergil watched her with an intensity that made her heart stutter—pride, frustration, and a reluctant spark of something deeper warring behind his eyes.

For the first time in ages, the legendary demon hunter wasn’t facing the darkness alone. And the weight of that realization hung heavy in the narrow space between them.

Evelyn stayed with him, hands still clasped tightly around his, pouring more of her energy into Vergil until the worst of the bleeding slowed and some color returned to his face. The silvery glow between their palms gradually dimmed as his body began to stabilize. His breathing grew steadier, deeper. The rigid tension in his shoulders finally eased by a fraction.

After several long minutes, Vergil slowly opened his eyes. He looked at her—really looked at her—with an intensity that made the narrow chamber feel even smaller.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly. The words sounded foreign on his tongue, but sincere.

Evelyn managed a tired smile, her own strength beginning to fray at the edges. “Don’t mention it. Just… don’t go charging off to die the second I leave.”

She reached for him once more, intending to check the worst of his wounds, but her fingers had barely brushed his coat when the world tilted violently.

Her astral form flickered.

The cavern, Vergil’s piercing gaze, the distant demonic roars—all of it dissolved like smoke.

---

Evelyn jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her physical body convulsing in the chair in her office. For a moment she couldn’t move, every limb heavy as lead. The energy she had channeled into Vergil had taken far more out of her than she realized. Her vision swam, and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion pressed her into the cushion of the office leather chair.

She tried to sit up. Failed. With a frustrated groan, she rolled onto her side and schlepped herself upright the best she could, half crawling, half stumbling down the hallway toward her bedroom. Her legs felt like jelly. The walls blurred as she leaned against them for support.

She finally reached her room and collapsed onto the bed with an ungraceful plop, face-first into the pillows. The soft mattress welcomed her like an old friend.

From the living room, she could hear Dante’s loud, rhythmic snoring drifting down the hall. The big idiot had clearly passed out on the couch again, probably surrounded by empty takeout boxes. The familiar sound brought a faint, exhausted smile to her lips.

Evelyn turned her head just enough to glance toward the open doorway, catching a sliver of the living room in the dim light. Dante’s sprawled form was just visible—long legs hanging off the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor.

She let out a slow breath, eyes already slipping shut.

“Both of you…” she murmured sleepily, voice barely audible. “Stubborn as hell.”

Then she surrendered to the pull of sleep, her body finally giving out after the long night. Vergil’s quiet “thank you” and Dante’s obnoxious snoring mingled in her fading thoughts as the rest of the world disappeared.