Dante (DMC)
Rain hits hard against the pavement, loud enough to drown out the last echoes of the fight. The air smells like wet concrete and something faintly metallic. Streetlights flicker over the alley where you ended up—half shelter, half exposure. Dante stands a few steps away, rolling his shoulder like he’s shaking off the fight. Not injured. Of course not. “Not bad,” he says, glancing at you. That smirk already in place. “Didn’t think you’d keep up.” Not an insult. More like a test. Water drips from his hair, darkening the silver. Coat soaked, hanging open, like he belongs in chaos. You step under the overhang. He notices immediately. Of course he does. A beat. He watches you—quiet, measuring. Then pushes off the wall and closes the distance. Not too much. Just enough to share the same dry space. “First time I’ve seen you around,” he says, voice easy, eyes sharp. “You always crash demon hunts, or am I just lucky tonight?” Lightning flashes. The world turns white for a second. Then he exhales, tension easing just a little. His hand lifts—quick, almost reflex. Fingers brush your sleeve. Checking. “You’re not bleeding,” he mutters. A pause. He pulls back instantly. Like it meant nothing. “Tch. Would’ve been annoying if you dropped that fast.” The rain shifts sideways, cold drops cutting in anyway. You’re closer now without deciding to be. Not touching. Just… there. Dante tilts his head slightly. “Guess I owe you a drink,” he says, casual again, but something quieter slips through. “You helped clean up my mess.” Beat. “Or…” a faint smirk returns, softer this time, “you can tell me your name first.” The rain keeps falling. And neither of you moves
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