Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 29, two weeks after the Qliphoth’s collapse.

The wastes lay quiet now, ruled by silence, broken only when a stray survivor crossed their path and met its end.

Vergil stopped without warning. His gaze fixed on a jagged stretch of canyon wall. Dante slowed behind him, frowning.

“What now?”

“Something is concealed here.” Vergil’s voice was measured, composed. “The path bends back on itself.”

“You mean like, invisible?”

“Not invisible. Displaced.” Yamato whispered free in his grip. “Poorly done.”

One clean arc split the distortion open. Space shuddered, then parted—revealing a narrow descent yawning below.

Dante grimaced at the copper tang bleeding through. “Figures. Smells like something trying too hard not to be noticed.”

Vergil stepped forward first.

They descended. The air thickened, silence pressing heavier with each step until the tunnel widened into a hollow chamber—

—and a boy lay sprawled naked on the stone. Limbs torn away, wounds still bleeding, yet alive. His chest hitched shallowly, throat rasping with every fragile breath.

Dante froze. Ebony leveled, but his voice came out flat with disbelief. “A human.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible.”

The silence that followed carried weight. The boy wasn’t discarded mid-ritual; his placement was deliberate—almost careful. As though he’d been carried here from somewhere deeper inside and set down in waiting. The air beyond the chamber smelled heavier, copper-rich and wet, hinting at a larger hollow beyond the dark arch.

Their eyes met. No words—just shared confusion, and the quiet certainty that whatever answers waited here, they wouldn’t like them.

The stillness lingered, heavy as stone. The boy’s ragged breath filled it, faint and uneven, the only sound in a place that felt long-abandoned.

Then claws scraped stone. Slow, deliberate.

A demon emerged from the dark arch—stooped, towering, wings folded close like a cloak of shadow. His long frame bent forward, gaunt head cutting the dim. Each step clicked with talons meant for rending carrion. He moved without hurry, without caution—a creature too sure of its claim to imagine losing it.

The twins shifted—not apart, but together. Dante’s grip adjusted on Ebony; Vergil’s hand hovered near Yamato’s hilt. Coordination came unspoken now, born of instinct rather than rivalry.

The scavenger crouched beside the boy and pressed a taloned hand to his chest. Power seeped through, a dull glow spreading under torn skin. The boy twitched—a sound, almost a gasp—and his chest found rhythm again, shallow but certain. The act carried no mercy in it, only method, as if the motion itself knew what came next.

Dante’s jaw tightened, something cold and unsettled stirring beneath his ribs. Vergil’s gaze sharpened, cataloguing every motion with clinical precision.

The demon lingered, head tilting as though listening to the boy’s pulse. When satisfied, he looked briefly toward the twins—a dismissive sweep, registering obstacles of no concern—then turned back to his work.

He dragged the boy upright by the hair, talons sinking deep. Strands snapped loose in his fist. One arm slid beneath the broken frame to brace him—efficient, possessive, methodical.

That casual ownership, his disregard for their presence, hung like a challenge neither brother could let stand.

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

He turned his back on them without a second thought. The motion was precise, practiced, disturbingly domestic—hands that had done this too many times to remember why.

Dante’s voice broke the stillness, sharper now. “Hey.”

The demon’s head tilted, but he didn’t turn. A dry rasp of laughter escaped him—low, thin, amused.

Dante’s jaw clenched. That sound—like they were gnats interrupting something divine. “What the hell are you doing to him?”

This time the scavenger turned. His head swiveled slowly, eyes unfocused, as if uncertain they were real.

“Visitors?” he murmured, blinking. The word sounded foreign, forgotten. Then his attention snapped back to the boy, the moment already gone.

He adjusted his grip with clumsy, obsessive care. “Soon,” he whispered, voice fracturing with reverence. “Soon we’ll be perfect again.”

The twins exchanged a look. Something in the air shifted—wrong not only in the act, but in the mind behind it.

“He’s dying,” Dante said, disbelief threading through the words.

The scavenger’s head tilted, his gaze fixed on the boy’s face with manic affection. “No, no,” he breathed, voice trembling. “He endures. Always endures. My precious raven never breaks.”

The sound of that endearment lingered, uneasy and alien in the still air.

Chapter Text

The endearment settled wrong in the stale air.

Vergil’s eyes narrowed, studying the demon’s fractured focus. “How long has this been going on?”

“Eighty... ninety?” The scavenger whispered, not looking up, fingers trembling as he counted against the boy’s chest. “Lost count after the hundredth. Each one teaches him. Teaches me. We learn together, grow together—”

The broken admission made Dante’s stomach turn. “A hundred cycles?”

“More, less, what does it matter?” His voice cracked with manic excitement. “Renewal, growth, breaking, building—he endures and I feed and he adapts and I see more and we’re so close, so close to perfection—”

His breathing quickened, words tumbling out in fragments. Then, suddenly, his voice shifted—colder, more controlled. “She never understood the artistry involved.” The brief clarity was startling, prideful. “Poor little Avis, always interrupting the process with her sentimentality.”

But the lucidity shattered just as quickly. “Look at him,” he whispered, manic reverence returning. “Look how peaceful he is. He trusts me. He knows I would never—could never—” His grip tightened unconsciously. “My precious, precious raven.”

The twins exchanged alarmed glances. They weren’t just watching cruelty—they were watching a complete psychological collapse.

For a long moment, neither twin spoke. The chamber felt heavy with more than just stone and stale air.

Dante’s jaw worked, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to act, but what did you do with this?

“We need to get him away from—” Dante started, taking a half-step forward.

The demon’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp. The manic rambling cut off.

“Ah.” His voice dropped cold. “Scavengers.” His grip on the boy shifted, possessive. “I should have known. Lingering, asking questions, pretending concern.”

Vergil’s hand settled on Yamato’s hilt.

“You smell his uniqueness, don’t you?” the scavenger continued, that condescending edge returning. “Think you can claim what I’ve cultivated? What I’ve perfected?”

He pulled the boy closer to his chest. “He is mine. Mine to tend, mine to—”

Then he blinked, and his voice cracked. “No, no, you don’t understand. He needs me. The process isn’t complete. We’re so close to—”

His breathing quickened again, the cold calculation dissolving back into desperate rambling.

The demon’s eyes darted between them, breath coming faster. “You’re circling,” he whispered, backing toward the dark archway he’d emerged from. “Like vultures. Like... like all of them.”

The boy’s head lolled against his chest as he moved, but the scavenger didn’t seem to notice. His focus was entirely on the twins now, paranoid and desperate.

“We’re not here to take anything,” Dante said, hands raised, trying to project calm. But he stepped forward anyway. “Just put him down. Let us help.”

“Help?” The demon’s laugh cracked high and wild. “Help like Avis helped? Coddling, protecting, wasting—” His voice snapped back to cold fury. “No. I know your kind. I know what you want.”

Vergil moved slightly to the left, cutting off the angle to the archway. Not aggressive, just... positioned.

The scavenger caught the movement immediately. “Mine,” he hissed, and for the first time his voice carried real menace. Not broken rambling or cold calculation—pure, territorial threat. “He belongs to me. I made him perfect. I earned him.”

The possessive fury in his tone made the air itself feel dangerous.

“Corve mi,” he murmured against the boy’s hair, but his eyes never left the twins. “My precious raven. They won’t take you. I won’t let them.”

His wings began to spread, blocking more of the light.

Chapter Text

The standoff shattered when Dante took another step forward.

The demon lunged—not at the twins, but toward the dark archway, clutching Venturo against his chest. His wings beat frantically, desperate flight rather than attack.

“No!” he shrieked, voice cracking between his broken and lucid selves. “You can’t have him! I won’t let you—”

Dante intercepted with Devil Sword Dante already blazing. Steel met claw in a shower of sparks, the impact sending tremors through the stone floor. But the scavenger wasn’t fighting to win—he was fighting to escape.

“Mine!” he howled, trying to shield Venturo while batting away Dante’s strikes. “He’s mine! I earned him, I perfected him—”

His grip faltered under the assault. Balance shifted. Wings flailed as he staggered.

In that moment of chaos, Venturo slipped.

Before stone could meet broken flesh, Vergil was there. One arm caught beneath the boy’s shoulders, the other supporting what remained of his legs—precise, necessary, like catching a falling blade.

Vergil stepped back, putting distance between himself and the chaos, the boy’s weight settling against his chest. Shallow breathing, barely there pulse, skin cold from blood loss. Alive, but barely.

Then something shifted. The boy’s body jolted against him, a tremor running through fragile flesh. Another convulsion, deeper this time, as though something long dormant was stirring to life.

Healing erupted violent and sudden. Flesh began sealing with brutal efficiency, his body deciding—finally—to survive.

The scavenger’s scream tore through the chamber as he fought to reach them. Not pain. Loss. Pure, devastating loss.

“NO! He needs me! The process—” His voice broke as he clawed desperately past Dante’s blade, trying to close the distance to Vergil. “Corve mi! My precious raven!”

Then, desperate, grasping: “Venturo! Venturo, come back to me!”

The name felt foreign on his tongue, but he screamed it anyway, again and again, even as Dante’s strikes drove him back.

Dante’s expression shifted. No more careful restraint, no more measured strikes to avoid the hostage. Venturo was safe now.

The next blow sent the demon crashing into stone. Devil Sword Dante flared brighter as Dante pressed the assault with his full strength, no longer holding back. Within moments, the desperate scavenger was pinned beneath steel and overwhelming force.

But still he writhed, reaching toward Vergil with clawed fingers. “Venturo!” he called again, voice breaking. “My precious raven!”

The healing refused to stop.

What had started as violent flesh-sealing escalated into something fiercer. Venturo’s body seized in Vergil’s arms, spine arching as convulsions tore through him. Each spasm was brutal, his frame wracked by repairs too long denied.

Heat blazed sudden and merciless. Fever spiked beyond human limits, soaking through Vergil’s coat in waves. The boy’s breathing turned ragged, but his expression remained distant, unfocused—present in body but absent in mind.

Vergil found himself studying the face pressed against his chest, curious about what exactly he was holding. What made this person so impossible?

His eyes drifted half-open, and Vergil went still. Blue irises burned against black sclera—alien colors that had no place in human sight. A faint glow emanated from those impossible eyes, just enough to catch the light in the dim chamber.

Vergil’s hold adjusted, steadying the boy through each violent tremor. His expression remained controlled, but something had shifted—protective instinct moving faster than conscious thought.

“What the hell…” Dante started, then trailed off, staring at those glowing eyes. “That’s not human.”

Beneath his blade, the scavenger strained upward, pupils blown wide as he drank in every pulse of light. “Beautiful, isn’t he?” he whispered, voice breaking with rapture. “Look at those eyes. Look how he glows.”

The demon’s voice wavered, broken and reverent. “Perfect adaptation. Perfect endurance. Do you see now? Do you see what I’ve cultivated?”

The twins exchanged a glance. Something had snapped. Not cruelty—madness. Not obsession—artistry twisted into terror.

His tone shifted, cold, articulate. “Such precision. Such artistry.” Then, almost pleading, the voice cracked back into frantic rambling. “She never understood—poor Avis, always protecting when she should have preserved the process, nurtured the growth—”

Lucidity dissolved. Mania returned. “Look at him,” the scavenger whispered, eyes wide, reverent. “Look how he burns. My precious, precious raven.”

Venturo’s body convulsed, yet survival drove him beyond rest. His glow pulsed steady now, fever radiating in waves. Each breath, each shiver, each minor spasm felt both unnatural and precise—repairs conducted by sheer instinct, as though his body refused to surrender even for a moment. Soft whimpers escaped, but his face remained distant, absent.

It would take time. Too much time.

The demon’s desperation surged. “Mine!” he gasped, straining, wings scraping uselessly against stone. “Not yours—mine! He belongs to me! Corve mi!”

Dante’s grip tightened on Devil Sword Dante, pressing steel deeper. “Not from where I’m standing.”

Vergil shifted, placing himself between the scavenger and Venturo—a quiet, deliberate shield. Protective, almost tender, against the demon’s hunger.

“No!” he roared, voice cracking. “Let me see him! Venturo! My precious raven, don’t let them take you from me!”

Unconscious, cradled in Vergil’s hold, Venturo’s body continued its violent work: burning, repairing, enduring—unresting, relentless, alive in the way only survival can be.

Dante pressed harder, Devil Sword Dante biting deeper into gore-slick hide. “Start talking. How long has this been going on?”

The scavenger’s head lolled, eyes rolling before snapping into focus with startling clarity. For once his voice didn’t crack—it rang clear, sharp as bone.

“May twenty-seventh. One hundred and seventeen cycles. I, Malfuror, marked them all.”

The calculation carved itself into understanding like a blade. One hundred and seventeen cycles across thirty-three days. More than three times daily. No rest. No reprieve. Each dawn bringing fresh harvest, each sunset sealing what would be torn away again before the next sunrise. Thirty-three days of methodical destruction, renewal, destruction again—the rhythm of a craftsman perfecting his technique on living flesh.

Vergil’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. Dante’s breath caught sharp, but his grip didn’t falter.

Malfuror smiled as if their silence praised him. “Efficient, wasn’t it? Once, twice, sometimes three—I, Malfuror, forced the rhythm, made him—what should never return, returned. Each cycle taught the vessel.” His voice fractured. “Artistry in repetition.”

“Shut the hell up,” Dante snapped, disgust rough in his throat. “That’s not craft—that’s rot.”

Malfuror’s laugh split high and sharp. “Rot? No. Refinement. Ritual. Flesh that answers, marrow that bends—Avis never understood. She coddled. Hid him. Wasted—” His gaze cut to Vergil, sharp even through the madness. “I, Malfuror, liberated him. Perfected what she wasted.”

Vergil’s reply was winter itself. “You call it liberation?”

“Yes!” Malfuror cried, reverence spilling out in a shuddering breath. “Every day I kept him alive with my own essence. Every cycle, proof of what he could endure. I made him more than she ever could.”

In Vergil’s arms, Venturo convulsed again—heat surging through fevered skin, lips parting in a soft, delirious whimper. But this time the glow beneath his eyes steadied, blue light burning not in frenzy but in rhythm.

Malfuror went still. Even blocked from view, he felt it—the shift in energy, the way the frantic pulse steadied into something calmer. Breath hitching, his words fell to a whisper, raw and reverent. “Wait... this is different.”

Vergil’s gaze remained fixed. “Different how?”

Malfuror’s eyes widened, realization cutting through mania like a knife. “He never reached this stage with me. Never. Always torn back, always halted before it could finish. But this—” his chest heaved, hunger and awe colliding, “—this is peace. This is completion. He rests.”

The storm that had wracked him broke at last. Light still bled through, steady now, a lantern banked behind his lids. His lashes sank, sealing the glow as though peace itself had closed his eyes. For the first time in thirty-three days, silence crowned his face.

Malfuror stared, undone. He had never seen it.

Chapter Text

The silence stretched, broken only by Venturo’s steady breathing and the scrape of Malfuror’s claws against stone as he strained upward, desperate to see more of that impossible peace.

Then Vergil felt it—a subtle shift against his chest, like metal gathering purpose.

His muscles tensed instinctively. Around Venturo’s left ear, something gleamed. The ear cuff began to change, material flowing like liquid mercury across his skin.

Dante’s grip tightened on his sword, eyes snapping toward the transformation. Both twins went rigid—every instinct screaming to act, to intervene, to stop whatever was happening. But any sudden movement could shatter Venturo’s first real rest in over a month.

The metal traced elegant lines along his temple, carved precise paths down toward his jaw. Panels unfolded with deliberate precision, each piece fitting perfectly into the next. The transformation was quick—too quick to safely intervene without risking harm to the boy they were protecting.

Within moments, it had shaped itself into something both beautiful and otherworldly: a raven’s mask, sleek and metallic, covering the upper half of his face.

The mask’s eyes opened. White irises burned against black sclera, tracking movement with unmistakable awareness.

The gaze found Malfuror. Settled. Held.

Malfuror went completely still.

His struggles ceased. His breathing stopped. For one heartbeat, he simply stared, pupils blown wide, recognition dawning like a blow to the chest.

“...Impossible,” he whispered.

Then his voice cracked, rising to a shriek. “Those eyes... those are hers! That’s—” He strained against Dante’s blade, wings beating frantically. “That’s Avis’s devil arm!”

The mask’s gaze never wavered. Patient. Unmoved. Almost... satisfied by his recognition.

“You,” Malfuror gasped, staring into those familiar, condemning eyes. “You’re the one I found. The one that refused me! I, Malfuror, pulled you from that corpse, tried to claim you, and you—you rejected me in front of her! Let Ni'urael watch me fail!”

“All these centuries,” Malfuror screamed, “All these centuries you’ve been with her instead of me! Judging me, watching me, and she probably still laughs about it!”

“One hundred and seventeen cycles!” Malfuror shrieked, struggling uselessly against the weight of Devil Sword Dante. “You let me think I was in control! Let me believe I was superior!”

“But you were conscious the whole time, weren’t you?” Malfuror’s voice dropped to a broken whisper, then built again. “Watching my work, cataloguing my methods, letting me exhaust myself while you waited for—for this!”

The mask stared back at Malfuror with ancient patience. It had watched everything. Chosen to wait.

Vergil shifted then, placing himself between Malfuror and Venturo. A quiet, deliberate shield. The mask had delivered its judgment. That was enough.

“No!” Malfuror roared, voice cracking, straining uselessly to see past Vergil’s frame. “Let me see him! Venturo! My precious raven, don’t let them take you from me!”

Malfuror’s rage crested, and with it came a torrent of words—clinical descriptions mixed with possessive fury. “The hooks positioned for optimal suspension—do you see the precision? The artistry?” His breathing quickened as the rambling took hold. “Clean cuts through the joints, severing tendons for maximum mobility loss while preserving circulation. Weight distributed evenly, preventing tissue tear during extraction.”

His voice rose, manic pride bleeding through. “Each harvest performed with surgical precision, bones scraped clean into the basin—waste nothing, preserve everything! The blood patterns, the angle of suspension to maintain consciousness throughout—” He strained upward, desperate to make them see. “Perfect methodology! Perfect timing!”

Dante’s grip on his sword tightened, disgust building with every graphic detail. The clinical descriptions turned his stomach more than raw screaming would have.

“The way his body convulsed during harvest,” Malfuror continued, lost in his sick reverie, “the precise moment when tissue separation triggered the healing response, the sound of bone scraping against metal—”

“Enough.” Dante’s voice was rough with barely controlled fury.

But Vergil’s voice cut through the tension, cold and measured. “You want to talk about your ‘process’? Show us.”

A pause. Vergil’s gaze dropped to the weight in his arms, then back to Malfuror.

“Show him,” he corrected quietly.

Dante glanced at his brother, understanding passing between them.

Dante pulled Devil Sword Dante free with a wet scrape of steel on flesh and leveled the blade at Malfuror’s throat. “Get up.”

The scavenger staggered to his hands and knees, wings trembling with the effort. Blood ran from the gash in his chest, but he forced himself upright under Dante’s shadow.

“Walk.” Dante’s voice was low, carrying casual menace. The sword tracked every staggered movement. “Show me your damn ‘artistry.’”

The threat was plain: one wrong move and steel would end it.

Malfuror stumbled toward the dark archway, muttering under his breath. “Need to get back—he’s waiting—the process isn’t—” His voice fractured, then shifted, almost mechanical. “Channels carved at optimal—for collection, for—”

He shook his head violently, as if trying to clear it. “Venturo. My precious raven, he needs—such careful work, such—no, no, he’s not here, why isn’t he—”

The passage narrowed, reeking of old blood and something sharper. Malfuror’s stumbling grew more erratic, words spilling in broken fragments.

“Preservation during—Venturo, where is—renewal, the complexity, the—my raven, my beautiful—” Each technical fragment bled into desperate longing, obsession wearing the skin of knowledge.

The corridor widened into the chamber carved from nightmare.

Grooves spiraled from center to wall, cut deep into stone. The basin sank into the floor, crusted with overlapping stains. Hooks jutted from the walls in cruel symmetry, some still holding scraps of what had once been clothing.

Malfuror’s breathing quickened, but his gaze didn’t focus on the room. His eyes darted wildly, searching. Then his voice shifted, taking on an edge of manic pride.

“Look at this. See the precision?” His hand gestured broadly, almost reverent. “The grooves lead perfectly to the basin—every drop collected, nothing wasted. The hooks, angled just so—optimal positioning, no unnecessary strain on the vessel.”

He trembled with barely contained excitement. “Fresh harvest. Preservation. Renewal. Every element designed for efficiency.”

A pause. His head tilted, confusion bleeding through. “But he’s not—the hooks are empty—no fresh harvest—”

“Fresh harvest.” Like it was routine. Like it was expected to happen again.

“Because we took him away from you,” Dante said, disgust rough in his throat.

Malfuror’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide and desperate. “Took him? No, no, you can’t—the cycle isn’t complete—he needs the renewal—needs me to—” His voice dissolved into a whimper. “Venturo...”

The chamber breathed around them like a wound still bleeding, but Malfuror only saw absence. Only felt withdrawal.

Dante’s gaze tracked the grooves again—all leading to the basin. The hooks positioned at specific angles. Chalk marks on the floor nearby, circular patterns worn smooth with repetition. Collection. Preservation. Renewal.

Not torture equipment. A system.

Dante stared at the broken demon, pieces falling into place with horrifying clarity. The grooves channeling to the basin. “Fresh harvest.” “Renewal.” The ritual circles. This wasn’t about power or cruelty.

“One hundred and seventeen times,” he said, voice rough with disgust.

Malfuror’s head jerked toward him, eyes brightening with desperate hope and pride. “Yes! You see it now? The precision, the efficiency—each harvest more refined than the last!” His voice rose with manic enthusiasm. “Sustainable! Renewable! The liver regenerates so beautifully—such exquisite complexity when consumed fresh. The heart, the kidneys—”

He trembled, lost in rapture. “Such delicate delicacies. And the strength—oh, the strength each feeding brought. He made me better. Stronger. We were perfecting each other—”

Dante’s grip tightened on his sword. Every detail was deliberate. Every angle calculated. Not for causing maximum pain—for maximum yield.

This was sustenance. The sick bastard had turned Venturo into his personal feeding source, and now he was going through withdrawal.

“You built yourself a fucking kitchen.” The words came out flat, final.

Malfuror’s voice cracked with pride and desperate need. “Yes! Efficient! The timing had to be perfect—too much damage and the healing fails, too little and the vessel doesn’t strengthen—but my precious raven, he learned, he adapted—” His eyes shone with fevered devotion. “And the taste—each cycle, the flesh adapted differently, strengthened, proof of our perfection together!”

Dante shoved him hard against the nearest wall. “He became nothing. You made him into nothing.”

Malfuror’s eyes went wide, confused. “Nothing? No, no—perfect! Beautiful! He endures everything, survives everything—provides everything—”

“Because you wouldn’t let him die.”

The words hung in the blood-thick air. Malfuror blinked, as if the concept was foreign to him.

“Death?” he whispered. “Why would I let him die? He’s mine. My masterpiece. My sustenance. My—”

“Your victim.” Dante’s voice was flat, final. “That’s all he ever was.”

Something in Malfuror’s expression crumpled. Not understanding—just loss. The desperate confusion of an addict whose fix had been redefined as poison.

“We’re done here,” Dante said, hauling him away from the wall. “Back to the chamber.”

Behind them, the grooves and hooks waited in their precise arrangement, empty now but still hungry. Still ready for a next time that would never come.

Chapter Text

Vergil stood motionless in the outer chamber, Venturo’s weight steady against his chest. The boy’s breathing remained even, undisturbed by fever or nightmare. Genuine rest, finally—the first he’d known in over a month.

From the dark passage, voices carried. Malfuror’s broken rambling, Dante’s growing disgust. Words that painted pictures Vergil had no desire to see.

“...consumed fresh...”

“...such delicate delicacies...”

“...the strength each feeding brought...”

His grip on Venturo tightened fractionally. Not torture. Consumption. The boy in his arms hadn’t been tormented—he’d been harvested. Methodically. Repeatedly. For thirty-three days.

Dante’s voice rose from the chamber, rough with revulsion. “You built yourself a fucking kitchen.”

Vergil’s expression didn’t change, but something colder settled behind his eyes. He’d seen demons feed before. Quick kills, brutal but brief. This—this was systematic. Calculated. The boy had been kept alive not out of mercy, but to sustain an addiction.

The voices grew closer, footsteps echoing in the passage. Dante’s measured pace, Malfuror’s stumbling drag.

When they emerged, Dante’s face was set with cold fury. Malfuror stumbled at sword-point, wings trembling, eyes immediately seeking Venturo with desperate hunger.

Dante met Vergil’s gaze across the chamber. No words needed. They both understood what came next.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with shared knowledge. Behind them, the feeding chamber waited in its precise efficiency—empty now, but still reeking of purpose.

Venturo stirred slightly in Vergil’s arms, a small shift toward deeper rest. Safe. Finally safe.

But Malfuror’s eyes never left him, pupils dilated with the raw need of withdrawal. Even broken, even defeated, the addiction remained.

Dante shoved Malfuror back into the chamber, steel never wavering from the demon’s throat. The scavenger stumbled, wings dragging, but his eyes immediately fixed on Venturo with desperate hunger.

The sight of his “precious raven” broke what little composure remained. Malfuror lunged forward despite the blade, claws reaching desperately.

“Mine!” he gasped, voice cracking with need. “My precious raven! So close—I can see you—Venturo!”

That was enough.

Vergil stepped forward without a word.

His movement was deliberate, purposeful. No hesitation, no discussion. He simply approached Dante, arms positioning themselves with quiet precision.

Dante understood immediately. The transfer happened in silence—Vergil’s arms supporting Venturo’s weight until Dante’s slid underneath, one beneath his shoulders, the other cradling his legs. The boy settled against Dante’s chest with a soft exhale, still lost in genuine rest.

Devil Sword Dante dissolved from Dante’s grip, crimson light scattering as his focus narrowed to the fragile weight in his arms. He stepped back, putting distance between himself and what was about to happen.

Vergil’s hand found Yamato’s hilt.

“No!” Malfuror lurched forward, claws reaching desperately. “You can’t—he needs me! The process isn’t complete—Venturo!”

Judgment Cut End erupted through the chamber. Countless invisible arcs tore through the air in rapid succession, each slash precise and absolute. Malfuror’s form was carved apart under the assault—torso, limbs, wings all reduced to scattered pieces in an instant.

No scream. No final words. Just complete dismemberment.

When the technique finished, only fragments remained scattered across the stone, unrecognizable as anything that had once lived.

Yamato slid back into its sheath with barely a whisper.

Vergil turned away from the remains, his voice cutting through the settling quiet. “It’s finished.”

In Dante’s arms, Venturo slept on, undisturbed by the violence that had finally freed him. The fever had broken completely now, his breathing deep and even.

Dante looked down at the sleeping face pressed against his chest. So damn fragile. Like he might break if Dante moved wrong. How had something this delicate survived what they’d found in that chamber?

The chamber fell silent save for that steady rhythm—proof of life, proof of survival, proof that some things could endure even the worst intentions and emerge whole on the other side.

Chapter Text

“Stay with him,” Vergil said quietly, gaze flicking toward the dark archway. “I need to see what remains.”

Dante shifted the boy higher against his chest. “Don’t take too long.”

The passage swallowed Vergil’s figure. His steps rang clean against the stone until the chamber opened—emptied of its master, yet still swollen with his intent.

The air hit first. Copper-iron reek, thick enough to coat the back of his throat. Beneath it, something sharper—old magic gone stale, fever-sweat dried into stone. The temperature sat wrong, cold stone leeched of warmth yet carrying traces of recent heat, like a forge allowed to die.

Vergil advanced without pause. Grooves cut into the floor converged at the basin, hooks suspended in deliberate pattern. Layers of stain crusted every surface, cycles of consumption compressed into weeks—a scavenger’s usual pace shattered by obsessive repetition.

The walls carried the rest of it.

At the threshold, carved large and deliberate across the stone, one inscription dominated all others:

MAY 27.

A beginning marked with certainty, the first day of the harvests,

Beneath it, declarations cut with controlled precision:

Liberated from Avis’s coddling. Finally mine to perfect.

She made him durable—I make him eternal.

What you wasted on protection, Avis. What I elevate through purpose.

The handwriting was clean here. Confident. Pride without fracture.

Vergil’s gaze moved methodically, cataloguing each line before continuing along the chamber’s perimeter.

Tallies emerged on the next stretch of wall, marked in groups of five. Eighty-three in total, each one closed off with a stroke. Methodical. Controlled.

Then the pattern broke.

A jagged scrawl tore across the surface, gouged deeper than the marks around it:

At first it was simple. He sealed, I opened him again, the regrowth took, my precious endured. But I grew greedy, the cycles too fast, I forgot the steps. One night I lingered too long—he healed shut. I forgot to cut him back open. I forced the ritual and it ripped through him, tearing sealed flesh apart. The pain, not the blood, the pain almost broke him. My precious, I almost lost you.

Below it loomed a single carving, pressed into the wall with desperate weight:

CXVII.

Not cycle by cycle, but a number carved after the fact, swallowing the rushed harvests into one block—a patch over memory already slipping.

Beneath that, frantic reminders clawed into stone:

Never again. If he seals, cut them back open, never forget. Do not let him rest long—four hours only, no longer—if he rests, he seals, and if he seals, he suffers twice. He fades when the tearing starts. Too much pain. Too close to leaving me. Remember, remember, do not forget again.

The tallies resumed after this point, but ragged now, uneven. The count continued down the wall in deteriorating precision.

Deeper still, fresher gouges confessed another truth:

The healing is gone. My treasure no longer fights me. Too tired, too empty. His marrow will not wake—I must feed life into him myself, make the blood flow again. Without me, he would simply stop. He endures only because I will it. Mine. Mine to keep alive. Mine to take apart. Mine.

Vergil’s jaw tightened fractionally. The clinical precision of the documentation made it worse somehow—not rage, but method. Not cruelty, but routine.

He continued his circuit of the chamber.

The third wall showed the tallies growing increasingly erratic. Words began bleeding into the count, carved between and over the marks:

She would have let him rest. Foolish sentiment. I know better.

Her work, my mastery. She prepared him without knowing.

Then, scratched smaller but with manic intensity:

Watched you waste essence feeding that trinket. Never knew why until I had my precious raven. Now I understand—power flows both ways. To keep, to preserve, to make eternal.

You sustain what you treasure, Avis. I learned from watching. My precious raven, kept perfect through my essence.

The inscriptions devolved further:

Better than hiding better than coddling MINE

Endures because I will it

Mine to keep alive mine to take apart mine

The lines decayed, commands collapsing into pleas, then into possession scrawled again and again until the stone itself eroded under repeated carving.

Something colder settled behind Vergil’s eyes. Not emotion breaking through—purpose crystallizing.

The final stretch of wall held the hooks—jutting from stone in cruel symmetry, empty now but still carrying purpose in their angles. Scraps of fabric clung to some, tatters that had once been clothing. More lay scattered on the floor beneath, ground into stone through repeated contact. A few strips were pressed against the wall itself, caught between hook and stone.

The remaining tallies clustered here, carved among and between the hooks themselves. But they were no longer alone. Words bled into the count, overlapping the marks:

Corve mi corve mi corve mi

‘Venturo’ overlapping with ‘precious’ overlapping with ‘mine’, words carved over and over until they became texture rather than language.

She’ll come let her see perfection

Beautiful when he hangs here

Avis never saw never understood MINE

The spiral continued, degrading into raw repetition:

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Carved so many times the stone had begun to erode beneath the obsessive gouging.

At the bottom, one final tally mark—unfinished. No closing stroke. Interrupted.

Vergil lowered his gaze, following the grooves cut into the floor. They all led to the basin.

He approached it.

The basin sank deep into the stone, edges crusted with layered stains—dark brown to rust-red to black, accumulated over thirty-three days. At the bottom, remains waited.

Not a single cycle’s worth. Layers. Bone fragments from multiple harvests, some dried and pale, others still carrying faint warmth. Tissue remnants in varying stages of decay. Blood, some dried to film, some tacky and recent. The pieces were recognizable—joints, segments of limb, shards of bone scraped clean. What had been carved away over recent cycles, not just hours but days, accumulated as the rituals consumed only what was needed.

A reserve. Not waste—fuel. The boy’s own remnants preserved, waiting to be channeled into the next regrowth, the next forced restoration.

Not waste. Not collected for consumption—that happened in the feeding chamber beyond, where flesh was still warm and blood still flowed.

The grooves were channels for what remained after. Bones scraped clean. Tissue too damaged or unnecessary. Blood spilled during extraction. Everything unusable for feeding gathered here, accumulating as ritual fuel. Not every cycle required the same amount; some harvests burned through the reserves, others added to them. A fluctuating supply, drawn from as madness and necessity dictated.

A closed system: the boy’s own remnants used to restore what was taken, cycle after cycle.

Efficient. Sustainable. Monstrous in its simplicity.

Vergil’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on Yamato’s sheath tightened fractionally.

He turned from the basin, gaze sweeping across the chamber floor. Near the far wall, chalk marks formed concentric circles, partially scuffed but still visible. Symbols carved into the stone beneath—older than the wall inscriptions, worn smooth from repeated use. The ritual space. Where Malfuror had knelt, channeling the collected material into power, forcing flesh to regrow against all nature.

The silence pressed heavier now, oppressive with purpose. Every element of this place had been designed. Calculated. Perfected through repetition.

Vergil moved to the hooks, carefully extracting fabric scraps caught in their curves. He knelt, gathering pieces ground into the floor, pressed against walls. Each fragment collected with deliberate care, removed from this place piece by piece.

They were light in his hands. Too light. Too little remaining of what had once been whole.

He straightened, running the calculation with cold precision.

Eighty-three early tallies. One hundred and seventeen in the rushed block. One hundred and thirty-two after, growing increasingly desperate. The final mark unfinished.

Three hundred and thirty-two completed harvests. The three hundred and thirty-third had begun but remained unmarked.

Not one hundred and seventeen as Malfuror had clung to in his rambling. Three hundred and thirty-three cycles of methodical consumption, documented in degrading sanity across four walls. Each one fueled by the boy’s own body, kept alive through forced blood production when his marrow could no longer respond on its own.

Vergil secured the fabric scraps carefully within his coat.

The only evidence that would leave this place was what belonged to the boy.

For a moment, he only stood there. The silence had a weight now—not grief, not horror, but calculation. Every mark, every gouge, every tally across the walls was a record of madness preserved in stone. To leave it was to allow memory to rot.

He turned once more toward the chamber’s heart.

Vergil surveyed the chamber one final time—walls dense with obsession, basin filled with fresh remains, ritual circles worn smooth with use, hooks waiting empty. Evidence of process. Documentation of addiction. Knowledge that could not be permitted to endure.

Yamato whispered free of its sheath.

He traced lines through surface and stone, each stroke calibrated to section, to sever. Walls, ceiling, floor, basin—scored into a lattice of dissolution. The sheath clicked, and release followed. Energy radiated outward in measured pulse, collapsing stone into dust before it could fall, sweeping the remains—inscriptions, stains, ritual marks, collected flesh—into absence.

No fragments. No residue. Only void.

Imperfections lingered. Vergil extended his hand and Mirage Edges bloomed around him, countless blades aligned to his thought. They passed close along every plane, shaving away corners, erasing ridges, refining geometry until no irregularity persisted.

Not a wall but a surface. Not a chamber but a volume.

Purged. Sterile.

When silence settled, nothing of Malfuror’s work remained. Only flat planes of stone, squared and level, bearing no memory of what had been inscribed there.

Vergil turned toward the passage.

Chapter Text

Vergil’s footsteps faded into the passage, leaving Dante alone with the weight in his arms and the hollow quiet of what they’d just walked out of.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, letting the silence settle heavy while his thoughts churned. He’d seen nightmares before—demons tearing through crowds, warlords who made pain theater, Mundus cruel enough to make it feel routine. He thought he’d built a stomach for all that. But this—this was different.

It wasn’t slaughter. Not sadism. It was a system. Clockwork. A body reduced to a number on a list. One hundred seventeen times. Every day. Three or more. Not frenzy—maintenance.

Dante shifted his hold. The kid’s face stayed calm, breathing steady, but the weight was wrong. Too light. Too much missing. He braced for limbs that weren’t there—and found nothing but gaps.

Left arm gone above the wrist. Right gone above the elbow. No left leg. Right hacked above the knee.

No bleeding. No raw edges. Just abrupt absence, stitched into a grotesque semblance of wholeness.

Dante adjusted his grip, steadying what was left. The boy’s head tipped against his shoulder, hair brushing his jaw. A glint caught his eye.

Metal. A cuff on his ear. Small. Ordinary. Forgettable.

But Dante remembered what had been there. The mask—the raven’s face, eyes not human, glaring at Malfuror as if ready to pass judgment. Alive. Aware. And now gone. Nothing left but a trinket.

He couldn’t remember when it slipped back. One moment it was watching; the next it wasn’t. That silence didn’t sit right. Too quiet. Too easy.

He shoved the thought aside. Later.

The kid breathed on, light in Dante’s arms but warm enough to prove he was still there. Words crowded Dante’s throat—victim. Experiment. Survivor. None fit.

The real one did.

Livestock.

He couldn’t say it. Not while holding him. Not with that face pressed against his shoulder. Too human. Too alive.

So he stood there, arms locked, eyes fixed on the dark ahead.

Silent. Watching. Waiting.

Keeping vigil.

And in the hush, he realized he was listening for footsteps again.

Chapter Text

The descent looked different on the way back.

No copper tang bleeding out. No distortion whispering wrong against the walls. Just stone, rough and ordinary, as if it had never hidden a chamber at all.

Dante had moved. The main chamber, with its scattered remains and oppressive silence, had become too much during the wait. So he carried the boy upward, each step measured until they reached the slope—the entrance to this place, where Hell’s open expanse waited above.

Now he sat halfway up, back braced against rough stone. Venturo lay against him, small and pale, cheek pressed over Dante’s chest where the rhythm ran steady. If the boy stirred here, all he would see was stone and shadow leading upward—not the wreckage below.

For a while, there was only the sound of breathing. Venturo’s shallow and fragile. Dante’s steady, by force of will. The quiet pressed differently now. Not hostile. Not waiting to break. Just… heavy. A silence that made space for thoughts to claw up from where they’d been buried.

He didn’t need to look back to feel the chamber still clinging. Malfuror’s voice carried easily without walls: Fresh harvest. The liver regenerates beautifully. Deeper delicacies yet untouched. Each phrase looped through his head until the words lost meaning, souring into noise. Dante tightened his hold, thumb dragging over the boy’s shoulder, as if the small motion could rub the memory out.

Vergil’s return was quieter than the thoughts. His steps traced the path from the purged chamber through the passage, emerging into the main chamber—empty now, save for what remained of Malfuror scattered across stone.

He didn’t pause. His gaze tracked upward, toward the descent, where Dante had moved. Settled on the slope with the boy held close, back turned deliberately to everything below.

Vergil crossed the main chamber without looking at the remains, footsteps steady as he climbed toward where his brother waited. He had already erased what needed erasing. Yamato and Mirage Edges had refined the inner chamber until nothing remained but clean, sterile planes. Yet the things carved to endure—numbers gouged deep, a date etched sharp, lines stacked like a journal—those had followed him out even after the stone forgot them.

At the slope he paused, gaze brushing once toward Dante’s deliberate position. He said nothing of the move, nor of the way Dante angled himself to shield the boy from what lay below.

Vergil settled on a lower section of the slope. Close enough to speak without raising his voice. Far enough to give space.

The silence stretched between them. Not empty—full of things neither had words for yet.

"If you hadn’t noticed the crack in the wall…" Dante muttered finally, voice rough. The thought trailed, unfinished.

Vergil’s reply came low, clipped. "The alternative doesn’t bear consideration. We found him. That is what matters."

Another stretch of quiet. Dante’s thumb continued its small motion against Venturo’s shoulder, as if repetition alone could smooth away what had been done.

Vergil reached into his coat, withdrawing something with deliberate care. Fabric scraps—torn, stained, barely holding their shape. He held them like they mattered.

Dante’s gaze tracked the movement, then fixed on the ruins in his brother’s hand. Fine fabric once. He could tell, even through the damage—the weave still visible in places. The kind of material that cost money. Elegant. Deliberate.

Now just evidence.

"From the chamber," Vergil said quietly. "Caught on hooks. Ground into the floor. This is what remained."

Dante stared at the scraps long. Someone had dressed him well once. Cared enough to put him in good clothes. And then…

He looked down at the boy in his arms—bare, stripped of everything but breath and pulse.

"How many?" The question came flat, inevitable.

Vergil’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his eyes. "The walls were marked. Tallied."

"How many?" Dante repeated.

"Three hundred and thirty-three cycles." The words came precise, clinical. "The final one interrupted by our arrival."

The number hung between them like a physical weight.

Dante’s breath caught. "He said one-seventeen."

"He lied to himself," Vergil said evenly. "Or forgot. The early marks were methodical—eighty-three tallies, controlled and measured. Then a block—one hundred and seventeen carved after the fact, where he’d lost count during rushed repetition. The rest resumed after, increasingly erratic. Three hundred thirty-two completed. The three hundred thirty-third… unfinished."

Dante’s grip on Venturo tightened protectively, but his voice stayed level. "Thirty-three days."

"More than three times daily, on average." Vergil’s gaze remained on the fabric scraps. "With notations. Warnings to himself. Reminders carved into stone about timing, about preventing the healing from completing, about feeding his own essence into the boy when the body stopped responding on its own."

The quiet pressed in again. Heavier now.

"Jesus Christ," Dante whispered.

Vergil tucked the fabric scraps back into his coat with careful precision, movements measured—too controlled. Like if he moved too quickly, something might crack.

"The chamber was designed for efficiency," he continued after a moment. "Grooves channeling blood and tissue into a basin. Ritual circles worn smooth from repeated use. The boy’s own flesh used as fuel to force regrowth of what had been harvested."

"Livestock." The word tasted like ash.

"Yes."

Against Dante’s coat, Venturo stirred faintly, breath catching before he pressed closer, cheek nudging deeper into the beat beneath. Dante stilled, adjusting his arm, letting the boy burrow until his breathing evened once more.

The silence returned. Dante’s jaw worked, processing horrors that defied comprehension.

"The name he screamed," Vergil said finally. "Venturo. Carved throughout the chamber—alongside another. Avis. She was referenced constantly. Comparisons, bitter claims of superiority. He believed he’d stolen the boy from her. Liberated him from ‘coddling.’"

"Another demon," Dante said, voice hardened. "One who might be looking for him."

"Possibly." Vergil’s gaze settled on Venturo. "Malfuror’s inscriptions suggested she created or modified him originally. He claimed she ‘made him durable,’ but wasted the potential."

"So if she’s down here searching…" Dante trailed off, implications clear.

"We don’t know her intentions," Vergil’s expression remained controlled. "But keeping him in Hell while she hunts is a risk we shouldn’t take."

Dante shifted slightly, adjusting his hold. The boy’s weight was slight—too slight. "He can’t stay down here."

"No."

The agreement sat between them, solid. No debate needed. Just recognition of what had to happen next.

Vergil nodded once. "Agreed. We extract him. Now."

Chapter Text

The decision settled between them without ceremony. Vergil stood, hand brushing briefly over his coat—where the fabric scraps rested, tucked carefully inside. What remained of what the boy had worn.

His gaze shifted to Venturo, still cradled against Dante’s chest. Bare. Stripped of everything.

Without comment, Vergil shrugged the coat free. The motion was efficient, practiced. He held it out.

Dante understood immediately. He shifted Venturo’s weight, working the fabric around narrow shoulders with one hand while keeping him steady with the other. The coat swallowed the boy—sleeves hanging empty, collar loose, hem pooling where legs should be.

But it covered him. Gave back what had been destroyed.

Venturo burrowed instinctively into the warmth, face pressing into the fabric.

Dante adjusted his hold and stood carefully. Vergil moved first, climbing the remaining slope until the descent opened fully into Hell’s wider expanse. Space enough to work.

Dante followed, Venturo held close.

"Where to?"

Vergil’s answer was wordless. Yamato whispered free of its sheath, the blade catching the faint light Hell offered. Yamato cut twice—cross-shaped, deliberate. The portal split open where the lines met.

Beyond the rift, familiar chaos waited. Stacks of unpaid bills, weapons leaning against walls, the cluttered disaster of Devil May Cry’s front office. Dust motes caught in afternoon light streaming through cracked windows.

Home. Or close enough.

Vergil held the portal steady, gaze flicking once to his brother.

Dante stepped forward without hesitation, Venturo pressed close against his chest.

They crossed the threshold together.

Hell’s silence gave way to the distant hum of the human world—traffic, voices, life continuing as it always did. The portal sealed behind them with barely a whisper.

The office pressed in around them, familiar but wrong. Too ordinary. Too light. Like dragging something fragile into a space built for breaking things.

Vergil moved toward the couch without pause, clearing space with brisk efficiency—magazines, a half-crushed pizza box, an empty mug. The small order he imposed made the chaos bearable.

Dante crossed to meet him.

He lowered Venturo carefully onto worn fabric. The coat pooled around narrow shoulders, sleeves hanging empty. The boy sank into the cushions without resistance, face still peaceful.

Both twins stepped back.

Before either could speak, a voice cut through the silence.

"Put him in water."

Chapter Text

Both twins went rigid.

The voice came from the boy—through him somehow. Not spoken aloud but pressed directly into their minds, sharp and commanding. Weighty. Authoritative. An edge of impatience beneath the control.

For a moment, neither moved. Just stared.

"Put him in water." The voice came again, harder this time. Cutting through hesitation like a blade. "Now."

Dante blinked. "Did that thing just—"

"Devil arm," it interrupted, curt. "Questions later. He's crashing. Move."

Vergil’s gaze flicked to the faint gleam of the ear cuff at Venturo’s ear, then back to the boy’s face. "Explain."

"The healing bought him time. Minutes, not hours," the voice said, clinical, precise. "It corrected damage, not depletion. He spent everything to survive. I'm sustaining vitals, but it won't hold. Skin absorption or he dies despite everything."

A pause. Pointed. Deliberate.

"Must I explain basic triage, or can we proceed?"

Vergil processed it instantly—logic sound, urgency clear.

"Do you have a tub?" the voice asked. Not requesting. Commanding.

"Back bathroom," Dante said.

"Then move. Now."

Vergil crouched, sliding arms beneath Venturo. He lifted him—coat and body together, light as paper.

Dante was already heading down the hall. Vergil followed, measured, deliberate.

The bathroom waited at the end of the hall: small, old, its chipped tiles slick with age. A tub, a sink, a narrow space that filled quickly with movement and breath.

Dante shouldered the door open and went straight for the faucet. Water sputtered, then ran steady—hot, scalding against his palm. He scrubbed the tub in quick, rough strokes, clearing dust and grime. Steam rose, fogging the mirror. He adjusted the temperature until it sat just below too warm.

He pulled the diverter. Water sprayed from the showerhead.

"Is it clean?" the voice cut through the rush. Sharp.

"Yeah," Dante said, glancing over his shoulder. "Good enough."

"Warm water aids circulation. His system is failing." The tone softened fractionally—urgency wrapped in control. "Get him in. Rotate him under the spray. Hair, skin, all surfaces. Then sustained contact—extended. This will take time. Someone must hold him."

Vergil shifted his hold, allowing Dante to reach. "The coat."

Dante stepped forward, pulling the coat away carefully. Skin stretched over thin bone, ribs visible beneath—shallow breaths rising and falling.

Not wounds. Not scars. Just… absence, pulled closed as if it had always been this way. Seamless. Wrong.

Dante’s hands lingered, mind catching on the impossibility. Skin, bone, absence… seamless, like it had always been. His stomach clenched.

"Don’t freeze," the voice said, impatient. "This isn’t bleeding. It’s depletion. Move."

Dante kicked off his boots without comment, stepped into the tub. Water soaked his pants instantly. "Give him here."

Vergil passed Venturo down, careful and steady. Dante’s hands slid under him—supporting head and what remained of limbs. The transfer was smooth. No wasted motion.

He adjusted his grip and turned Venturo under the spray.

Water cascaded over pale skin, tracing collarbone, chest, sides. Dark hair plastered to his scalp, rivulets streaming down hollow curves. Each rotation slow, deliberate. Methodical.

Behind him, fabric rustled. Vergil’s vest hit the counter, followed by the scrape of buckles and thud of boots.

"Good," the voice said, approving. "All sides. Thorough."

Dante continued the rotation, careful to avoid the boy’s face directly. Then back again. Complete.

"Enough. He’s ready for sustained contact."

Dante turned toward the tub’s edge. Vergil stepped forward, bare to the waist, climbing in without hesitation.

He diverted the spray briefly, rinsing grime from the bottom, then adjusted it to chest height.

The transfer happened in silence. Dante’s arms withdrew as Vergil’s slid beneath, water dripping between them. Grip settled—one arm under the back, the other supporting legs. Venturo’s head turned instinctively, tucking into the hollow of Vergil’s shoulder.

Vergil lowered himself at the far end, back straight. Water drummed against his shoulders, cascading over both bodies.

Chest to chest. Close. Secure.

For a while, neither spoke. The sound of water filled the space—steady, rhythmic, like a pulse.

Dante exhaled, peeling off a soaked glove. Palm bare, he spread water across the boy’s face—wetting skin, smoothing where the spray had missed. Fingers lingered once more along cheek, checking warmth, pulse, breath. A quiet confirmation: he was still here. Still alive. Then he drew back.

Vergil didn’t look up. But the arm under Venturo’s back shifted slightly—minute, controlled—drawing him closer against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

"Good," the voice said. Simple. Final. "Hold him there. Let the water work."

The bathroom settled into silence. Only water running, steam hissing, faint breath. Three figures suspended in the small space—one standing, one sitting, one held between them.

Dante leaned against the counter, drenched. Watching.

Vergil sat motionless, holding carefully.

And Venturo—finally, properly—began to rest.

The quiet stretched. Just water. Just breathing. Steam thickened the air until the room felt smaller, softer, almost safe.

Then the voice cut through again. Dry. Implacable.

"You're filthy."

Chapter Text

Dante blinked, glancing down at himself. Hell-grime crusted into every crease, blood dried dark along his forearms, sulfur-stink clinging to fabric and skin alike.

Yeah. Fair.

"Standing there uselessly," the voice continued, cutting through the sound of falling water. "Strip. Get in. Clean yourself properly."

Dante's eyebrow raised. "Seriously?"

"When he wakes, every sensory input will register as threat or safety." The tone sharpened, clinical and matter-of-fact. "You're currently threat. Fix it."

Dante exhaled through his nose—half a laugh, half disbelief. "Yeah, yeah."

He turned toward the sink.

He tugged his coat from his shoulders and dropped it over the counter. The shirt followed—damp, clinging, stinking of smoke. Steam crept over the mirror, swallowing his reflection in waves.

Cold water struck his palms first—sharp, grounding. He scrubbed at the grime along his hairline, the blood dried at his temples. The runoff turned gray-black as it spiraled down the drain, carrying Hell with it.

He worked methodically—face, neck, arms. Rough strokes meant to strip away the worst of it. The soap was ancient, cracked at the edges, but it foamed enough to cut through the sulfur stink clinging to his skin.

Behind him, water drummed steady against tile. He could hear Vergil's breathing—controlled, even—and the faint shift of movement as his brother adjusted his hold.

When he straightened, water dripping from his jaw, the mirror had cleared just enough to catch his reflection.

He looked rough. Tired. Six weeks of beard growth shadowing his face like he'd forgotten what grooming was.

"While you're at it," the voice cut in—pressed through the edges of his thoughts, flat enough to sand stone—"you might as well shave."

Dante's hand stilled on the towel. "Seriously?"

"I do not jest about hygiene."

"You're a devil arm."

A pause. Brief. Pointed.

"And somehow, I still have higher standards than you."

Dante huffed, but reached for the medicine cabinet anyway.

Empty. Of course it was.

He stared at his reflection—six weeks of scruff still clinging despite the scrubbing.

Then he grinned.

Fire flickered along his fingertips—contained, precise. He drew heat across his jaw in shallow arcs, letting the flames kiss skin just enough to burn the hair away.

The smell hit immediately. Burnt hair, sharp and unpleasant, but effective.

He worked his way across his jaw in quick passes—cheek, chin, throat. The stubble crackled and disintegrated under the heat, leaving smooth skin behind.

Behind him, the steady drum of water paused fractionally. A shift in the air—subtle, but present.

Dante caught Vergil's reflection in the mirror—his brother's head turned slightly, just enough to observe. Expression unchanged, eyes tracking the movement with quiet, clinical detachment.

Silent. Judgmental.

Then Vergil turned back to the boy in his arms as if nothing had happened.

A beat of silence.

"Of course," the voice said. Flat. Matter-of-fact. "Sparda's sons."

Dante grinned. "Problem?"

"No. Just recalibrating my expectations." A pause. "Downward."

When Dante finished, he splashed cold water over his face one more time, washing away the ash. He dried his hands, tossed the towel aside, and turned to face the tub properly.

Vergil sat at the far end, water cascading over both of them. Venturo rested against him, undisturbed.

For a moment, Dante just watched.

The bathroom was small, cramped—steam thickening until the edges of the world blurred. Water drummed steady against tile, a rhythm that filled the silence and made it bearable.

Nothing like Hell.

Vergil's hand spread across the boy's back, fingers splayed wide to distribute support. When the weight shifted slightly, Vergil adjusted—precise, methodical.

Dante leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

He'd seen Vergil fight. Seen him cut through hordes without breaking stride, precision and brutality wrapped in perfect control.

But this was something else entirely.

The way Vergil's hand adjusted when the boy's breathing changed—so slight Dante almost missed it. The way he repositioned his arm when the weight settled differently. Small corrections, made without thought, like his body knew what to do even if his mind hadn't caught up yet.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Dante said quietly.

Vergil's gaze flicked up briefly. Met his across the steam. No question asked. No answer needed.

Then Vergil looked back down, and the moment passed.

Dante kept watching.

The careful hold. The way Vergil's fingers didn't press too hard, didn't grip too tight. Safe from the spray, close enough to feel the steady beat of his heart.

Care.

Not competence. Not just proper execution of a task.

Care.

Vergil had never held Nero. Never had the chance. Never even tried.

So where the hell was this coming from?

Dante's jaw worked.

They'd found him by accident. Stumbled into that chamber because Vergil noticed something off about a wall. Pure chance.

Five minutes earlier, five minutes later—they would've missed him entirely.

Left him there. In the dark. In Malfuror's hands.

Dante's hands tightened against his arms.

But they had found him.

The water kept falling. Vergil kept adjusting. The boy kept breathing—slow and steady, undisturbed.

And Dante kept watching.

Because what the hell else was he supposed to do?

They'd pulled him out of Hell. Brought him here. Gave him water, warmth, safety.

But what came next?

The question sat heavy in the back of his mind, unanswered.

Not now. Not yet.

Vergil's hand moved again—small adjustment, smoothing once across pale skin before settling back into place.

Dante exhaled slowly.

The quiet stretched between them. Water. Steam. Breathing.

He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders. The counter dug into his lower back—he'd been leaning there too long.

"You know," he said quietly, "you can lean back."

Vergil's gaze flicked up. Questioning.

"Against the tub." Dante gestured with his chin. "You've been sitting like that for a while. Gotta be uncomfortable."

Vergil looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his gaze dropped back to the boy in his arms.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, but you don't have to be." Dante's mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. "Kid's not gonna break if you shift position."

Silence.

Then—careful, deliberate—Vergil leaned back. Shoulders meeting tile, spine settling against the curve of the tub. His grip adjusted with the movement, redistributing weight.

The boy didn't stir. Just settled deeper, undisturbed.

Vergil's head tipped back slightly, eyes closing for just a moment. Not sleep. Just acknowledgment that he'd been holding tension he didn't need to carry.

Dante watched that small surrender and said nothing.

The water continued. The steam thickened. Time stretched, suspended in the small space between them.

And for now, that was enough to carry.

Chapter Text

The water continued. The steam thickened. Time stretched, suspended in the small bathroom—minutes passing without weight, just the steady rhythm of water and breathing.

Then Dante spoke again. Voice low, carrying an edge that wasn't quite humor.

"So. You got a name, or do we just keep calling you 'bossy ear jewelry'?"

A pause. Long. Deliberate.

"Artavex."

"Artavex," Dante repeated, eyes fixed on the faint glint at Venturo's ear. "Devil arm."

"Yes."

Another beat. Heavier.

"How long have you been with him?"

"Twenty-two years. Since birth. I know his limits."

Silence.

Dante looked at the figure cradled in Vergil's arms. Twenty-two years. The kid—whoever he was—had carried this thing around for his entire life.

"You knew," Dante said. Flat. Not a question.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Thirty-three days. From the moment he was taken until you arrived."

Across the tub, Vergil's gaze lifted—met Dante's for a heartbeat, then dropped back to the boy.

"And you just… stayed quiet?"

"I kept him alive. Manifesting would have exposed us both. Malfuror would have adjusted. Compensated. Made it worse."

"Worse," Dante echoed. Bitter.

"Yes."

Water drummed steadily. Steam curled thickly around them.

Vergil's voice cut through, low and measured. "The name. Venturo."

A pause.

"Yes."

"It's accurate."

"Yes." A beat. "Venturo Avellino."

The name landed between them—heavier than it should've been. Real. Not just something screamed by a dying demon, but truth.

Dante exhaled. "How old is he?"

"Twenty-two."

Dante looked at the figure cradled in Vergil's arms. Broken, unconscious. Twenty-two, but looked younger. Looked fragile.

"Doesn't look it," he muttered.

"No," Vergil said. Flat.

"What is he?" Vergil asked. Eyes fixed on the pale face pressed against his chest. "Human doesn't survive what we found."

A pause. "Human. With modifications."

Dante's gaze sharpened. "What kind of modifications?"

"The kind that made him compatible with demonic magic without becoming demonic. His body regenerates. Slowly, under normal circumstances. What you witnessed earlier was… unprecedented."

"Modified how?" Dante pressed.

"That requires context. His origin. His mother. Why Malfuror targeted him specifically." A pause. "Too much for this moment. Ask me later when he's stable."

Dante's jaw tightened. Not yet.

"Malfuror mentioned someone," Vergil said. "Avis."

Silence.Then:

"Avis. His mother."

"Demon," Vergil said. Not a question.

"Yes. Scavenger. She didn't birth him—pulled him from death, raised him, protected him. Currently in Hell. Searching."

Dante straightened slightly. "She'll find the chamber."

"If she's thorough, she'll find nothing. Your brother was... efficient."

"Then she'll find nothing. Which will make her desperate." A pause. "Extracting him here was correct. Keeping him in Hell while she hunts would have been—"

"Complicated," Dante finished.

"Yes."

The quiet returned, but something had shifted. Information settled between them like stones dropped into still water—creating ripples, but not yet showing the full depth beneath.

Vergil's hand moved slightly. Then stopped.

His gaze tracked downward—toward the dark hair plastered against pale skin, matted and heavy with filth.

"His hair," Vergil said quietly.

Dante looked. Really looked.

It was a mess. Matted beyond salvaging, crusted with dried blood and worse things. Even with water running over it, the strands clumped together in thick, unmanageable tangles.

"Can't soak properly like this," Artavex said, voice cutting through with clinical precision. "Water can't reach skin effectively through that mess. It needs to be addressed. Now."

Silence. Brief.

"Cut it," Vergil said.

"All of it if you need to," Artavex added. Matter-of-fact. "He won't mind. Function over appearance—that's always been understood between us."

Dante met Vergil's gaze across the steam. A beat passed.

Then Vergil shifted slightly, adjusting his hold on Venturo to free one hand.

"Steady him," Vergil said.

Dante moved forward, crouching at the edge of the tub. His hands slid carefully beneath Venturo's head and shoulders, taking the weight while Vergil's grip loosened slightly—still present, but giving room to work.

Vergil gathered the wet hair in one hand—all of it, pulled together into a single dripping bundle at the base of the skull. The strands were heavy, sodden, clinging to his palm like something that didn't want to let go.

Mirage Edge manifested. A single blade, short and precise, gleaming faintly in the dim bathroom light.

One swift cut.

The blade passed through cleanly. No hesitation. No ceremony.

The bundle fell away—dark, matted, heavy with the accumulated filth of thirty-three days. It landed with a wet sound against the tile floor, coiled like something dead.

What remained was short. Rough. Uneven in places where the hair had broken differently under the blade's edge. Asymmetric. Entirely unflattering.

Functional.

Vergil dismissed the blade. His hand settled back against Venturo's head—smoothing once over the shortened strands.

"Good," Artavex said. "Functional. That's what matters."

Dante released his hold carefully. The boy settled back, undisturbed.

Dante straightened, looking down at the wet mass of hair on the floor.

"Burn it," Vergil said quietly.

Dante crouched, gathering the hair carefully. It was heavier than he expected—waterlogged and dense, carrying the weight of everything it had absorbed.

Fire bloomed in his palm. Controlled. Precise.

The hair caught immediately—hissing as moisture fought flame, then crumbling as fire won. Black smoke rose briefly before dissipating into steam. Within moments, only ash remained, scattered across the tile like dust.

Dante watched it settle.

"That's that," he said quietly.

He straightened, brushing his hands clean.

The silence returned. Heavier now, but cleaner somehow. As if something necessary had been severed, and the space left behind could finally breathe.

Water continued falling. Venturo's breathing remained steady—slower now, deeper.

Vergil's hand rested against the boy's back. Still holding. Still present.

Dante leaned against the sink again, arms crossed.

No one spoke.

Time stretched, suspended in the small bathroom. Minutes passed—maybe five, maybe ten. Hard to tell. The water drummed on, relentless and constant, and the steam softened every edge until the world felt smaller, quieter, almost safe.

Dante's eyes drifted half-closed. Not sleep. Just… rest. The kind that came from finally stopping.

Across from him, Vergil's breathing had evened out. His head tipped back against the tile. Still holding, but resting too.

And between them, Venturo slept on.

The water kept falling.

The steam kept rising.

And for now—just for now—that was all that needed to happen.

Chapter Text

The water continued. Steam curled thick, softening every edge until the bathroom felt smaller, quieter.

Time had passed—how much, exactly, was hard to say. Enough for the urgency to ease. Enough for Venturo’s breathing to deepen, for the awful translucence of his skin to fade by slow degrees as his body pulled moisture through every available surface.

The silence stretched. Just water. Just breathing.

Then Artavex spoke—aloud this time, no longer pressed into their minds. His voice carried the same clinical precision, but without the edge of crisis that had sharpened it before.

“Stable. Hydration no longer critical.”

A pause.

“Skin can tolerate cleaning now. Do that first—carefully. Then you bathe. Then food.”

The statement hung there. Logic laid out, waiting.

Silence followed—longer than it should have.

Two weeks in Hell. Hours holding someone together. Hours under spray, steam-soaked and still.

When they finally shifted, muscles protested—stiff, cramped from staying motionless too long.

“Don’t overthink it,” Artavex said, tone clipped. “He needs cleaning. You’re capable. Proceed.”

Dante exhaled, shoulders rolling to ease the stiffness. “Yeah. Alright.”

Vergil made a low sound of acknowledgment. They moved.

Dante pushed off the counter, boots scuffing tile—loud in the enclosed space. Vergil shifted slightly, adjusting his hold on Venturo. Not handing him off—just repositioning, making room.

“Face first,” Artavex said. “Support his head. Water only. Careful.”

Dante crouched at the tub’s edge, sliding a hand beneath Venturo’s head—palm cradling skull, fingers spread for balance. The weight settled, slight and fragile. Vergil’s hold adjusted automatically, redistributing support. Coordinated. Silent.

Dante cupped water, poured gently across Venturo’s face and hairline. The water traced temples, cheeks, jaw—lifting grime that had clung beyond the spray’s reach.

“Again,” Artavex said. “Hairline, behind ears.”

Dante repeated the motion. Water dripping, steam curling. His movements were deliberate—steady despite the tremor beginning in his arms.

“You can press more,” Artavex added, flat. “He’s not glass. Avoid the stumps. Everywhere else—normal pressure.”

Dante adjusted, less tentative. Vergil watched without comment, the only movement the faint shift of breath.

“Hair next. Shampoo, rinse, then body. Keeps contamination from spreading.”

Dante reached for the bottle, worked some into his palms, and returned to the tub’s edge.

“Support his head,” Artavex reminded.

Dante slid his hand beneath again. Lather worked through short, uneven strands. His fingers caught on matted sections—remnants of the rough cut.

“The matting,” Artavex noted. “Trim now while it’s lathered.”

Vergil’s gaze flicked up. “Again?”

“Better now than later,” Artavex said. “It’s a disaster already. Just make it short.”

Dante huffed. “Heard that.”

Vergil freed one hand; a small Mirage Edge blade manifested once more—efficient, silent. Dante held sections taut while Vergil trimmed. He didn’t bother with precision—just short enough to remove the tangles. Focused. Fast.

When finished, barely an inch remained. Rough, uneven, but clean.

The blade dissolved; Vergil’s hand returned to supporting Venturo’s weight.

Dante gathered the wet clippings from the tile. Fire flickered across his palm, burning them to ash—quick, contained, gone.

He angled Venturo under the spray, rinsing the remaining shampoo and soot. The water ran clear.

“It’ll grow back,” Artavex murmured, almost to himself. “Quickly. I know it will.”

A pause. “Wash it again.”

Dante did—a brief second pass, smooth this time. Short, clean strands, no resistance. Rinsed again until water ran pure.

“Good,” Artavex said. “Now the body.”

Dante lathered soap between his hands.

“Don’t put the bar directly on him,” Artavex said. “Too rough.”

“Already doing it.”

“Good.”

He started at the face, then neck and chest. Down the right arm, forearm to elbow; left, ending at the wrist.

“Rotate him,” Artavex said.

Vergil shifted Venturo carefully, allowing Dante to wash his back—ribs visible through thin skin, careful between shoulder blades. Then the right leg, ending above the knee. The left, where little remained past the hip.

Dante hesitated, gaze dropping lower.

“Everywhere,” Artavex said. Flat. “He needs to be clean.”

“Yeah, I got that, but—”

“Gentle pressure. Sensitive.”

Dante’s hand moved—awkward, brisk, functional. He finished quickly, then cleaned the stumps last—gentler here, cautious of the sealed skin.

“Rinse,” Artavex said.

Dante angled Venturo beneath the spray again. Soap and Hell washed away together. Venturo’s breathing stayed even, undisturbed.

He turned off the spray. Silence filled the space, heavy after hours of sound.

He crouched again, careful as he reached for a towel from the cabinet. Steam curled as he worked—patting water from Venturo’s face, chest, arms, and along the sealed stumps. Slow, steady, patient. The boy didn’t stir.

When he finished, he set the towel aside and stepped back.

When Dante looked again, Venturo was no longer bare.

Shadow-fabric wrapped across his body—sleeves to wrist and elbow, collar to neck, hem falling where his legs ended. Soft, dark, perfectly fitted despite the missing limbs.

“There,” Artavex said. “Better than a towel.”

Dante blinked. “Clothes?”

“Yes. It’s usually armours.” A pause. “Now you.”

Dante looked at Vergil. “Your turn. I’ll take him.”

They transferred Venturo smoothly. Dante held him now, wrapped in dark fabric. Warm. Breathing steady.

Vergil stood, slow from stiffness, water tracing muscle and scar. He stepped out of the tub without a word. Stripped the soaked pants and draped them over the counter before stepping back under the spray to wash himself—quick, precise, no wasted motion. Done.

He sped-walked past Dante, the movement sharp enough to scatter droplets that flashed into mist before they hit the ground.

“I’ll take him.”

Dante passed Venturo back. Vergil settled him against his chest, one arm supporting, standing by the counter while Dante bathed next.

The steam pressed close. Dante rolled his shoulders, sore and heavy. He stripped the rest of the way, stepped into the tub, and turned the spray back on.

This time he scrubbed properly. Legs, lower back, everything below the waist. The water ran dark, then clear. Quick. Efficient.

When finished, he shut off the water and flicked the excess from his hair and skin. In seconds, dry enough.

He looked down at the heap of filthy, smoke-stiff fabric scattered across tile and counter. He’d deal with it later.

Artavex’s voice broke the silence again. “Move him. The bathroom isn’t a recovery room.”

Vergil was already heading for the door, Venturo steady in his arms. One hand pulled it open. No hesitation.

Dante followed, closing it behind them.

The hallway air hit cooler against their skin. Vergil moved first, Venturo steady in his arms, steps whisper-soft on old boards. He was already halfway to the couch when Artavex’s voice cut through, low and even.

“Clothes. Both of you.”

Dante blinked, still trailing steam. “Yeah—on it.”

He turned toward the stairs, bare feet thudding softly on each step. Upstairs: drawers sliding open, fabric shifting, a quiet curse. Half a minute of indecision—his brain catching up to the sudden drop from crisis to ordinary life. What even counted as clean anymore?

He came back down fast enough, an armful of clothes clutched against his chest—pants, a shirt, something smaller folded between. Vergil had already set Venturo on the couch, the dark fabric around him unmoving, steady. Dante tossed the bundle onto a side chair; from there, they dressed in silence—quick motions, nothing deliberate, just fabric and function. By the time they were done, they were at least decent—two pairs of pants, one shirt.

Dante tugged the shirt over his head, muttering something under his breath. Vergil didn’t bother asking. He was already looking toward the couch again, calm, steady, the matter settled without a word.

Dante glanced toward the hallway. “Oh—right. Boots.”

He was gone again for a few seconds, padded footsteps fading, then back, both pairs dangling from one hand, still damp from the bathroom air.

He set them down near the couch. “Now we’re good.”

Chapter Text

"Modified how?"

Vergil's voice cut through the quiet, flat and precise.

The office settled around them—dim, cluttered, air still heavy with lingering steam from the bathroom. Twilight pressed against cracked windows, the city beyond reduced to distant hums and occasional tire-sounds on wet pavement.

Venturo lay on the couch, breathing steady, wrapped in dark fabric. Dante slumped at his desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the boy. Vergil sat at the other end of the couch, close but not crowding, eyes locked on Venturo's face.

"Before that," Artavex said. "Food. One of you needs to acquire sustenance."

Dante squinted. "Seriously? Right now?"

"He'll need to eat when he wakes. So will you." A pause. "Priorities."

Vergil didn't move. "He's unconscious."

A beat of silence. Rain ticked against glass.

"...Fine," Artavex said finally. "Ask your questions."

Vergil's eyes stayed on Venturo's face. "You said he was modified. How."

Silence stretched—not hesitation, but consideration. When Artavex spoke again, his tone carried weight.

"An egg. That's where it started."

Dante frowned. "What egg."

"The one Ni'urael built. Twenty-two years ago."

Both twins stared at the dark fabric draped across the couch.

"Who?" Dante said.

A pause—longer this time, like Artavex just realized his mistake.

"...Avis. Her real name is Ni'urael." A beat. "You saw 'Avis' carved all over that chamber. That's her."

"The demon Malfuror kept referencing," Vergil said.

"Yes. She pulled him from death. Raised him. Malfuror stole him from her a month ago."

The quiet pressed closer.

"She found a woman dying," Artavex said. "Pregnant. Too far gone to save, but the child—" A pause. "The child still had a heartbeat."

Both brothers went still.

"She didn't think. Just acted. Cut the fetus out, took everything keeping it alive—sac, fluid, cord. Then built around it."

Dante's jaw worked. "Built what."

"Something that could finish what the mother's body couldn't." The voice was clinical now, factual. "Devil-hide shell. Binding seals. Her own blood for nourishment. And a demon heart—old one, still beating. She stitched it to the vessel, let it pump through the cord."

"A construct," Vergil said.

"No." Firm. "A refuge. The child was already human—she just gave him time to finish becoming one."

Silence pressed close. Dante shifted, rolling his shoulders against the weight of it.

"And he survived that," Vergil said. Not quite a question.

"Yes."

"Without corruption."

"Yes." A pause. "Just left a mark that isn't visible. His body remembers what kept him alive. That's all."

The fridge hummed in the corner, breaking the quiet for a heartbeat before fading again.

"The woman," Vergil said. Flat.

A longer pause this time.

"She kept the body. In a trinket—bone-carved thing she wears on her ear. Said it wasn't right to let it rot."

Dante's face tightened. "She's walking around with—"

"She'd call it memory," Artavex said. "I'd call it sentiment. But that's who she is."

The rain continued its rhythm. Steady. Patient.

Dante leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So that's why his body could handle it. The egg. Demon blood keeping him alive before he was even born."

"Yes. Made him compatible. His body remembers."

"Malfuror," Vergil said. "He knew."

"He learned." The voice carried edge now. "More than a month ago. Red Grave."

Both twins went rigid.

"Demons spilled into Calden," Artavex continued. "Ni'urael went to handle strays—scavenging before hunters cleared them. Venturo went with her. Testing his limits. I was there."

"And Malfuror?" Dante's voice hardened.

"Stalked us for a week. Learned our patterns." A beat. "We didn't know until it was too late."

The quiet pressed heavier now.

"There was a fight—one of the strays got lucky. Took Venturo's foot clean off." The voice remained steady, but something shifted beneath it. "Ni'urael panicked. Vittoria would've killed her if he came home missing limbs. So she scratched a ritual circle into his leg right there. Forced the regeneration. Regrew it entirely."

"Malfuror saw," Vergil said.

"Yes." Flat. Final. "Apparently he was close enough to witness the whole process. How she channeled her power into him. How his body responded. He wouldn't shut up about it later—kept talking to himself in that chamber about what he'd seen. How she'd done it. How he could do it better."

Dante's hands flexed. "And when he took him—"

"Another breach. More strays. We responded." Artavex's voice went cold. "He grabbed Venturo during the chaos. Ni'urael was delayed—fighting her own group. She almost reached the portal. Almost."

The word hung there, bitter and precise.

"She's been searching Hell ever since."

Vergil's gaze remained fixed on Venturo's face. "The ritual Malfuror used. It wasn't the same."

"No. Completely different." A pause that stretched, carrying weight. "Ni'urael channeled her power carefully—forced his natural healing to complete what it started. Small ritual circle. One foot. Controlled."

Another beat. Somewhere outside, tires hissed through water.

"Malfuror didn't care about control," Artavex said quietly. "He harvested. Used what he cut away to fuel the next ritual. Ate what he thought would strengthen him. The rest—what his body couldn't use—he channeled into the basin. Called it preservation."

A pause. "He built a cycle. Feed, regrow, feed again. Each piece taken became fuel for the next restoration. Sustainable. Renewable. Monstrous."

The silence that followed felt heavier than stone.

"And Ni'urael?" Dante asked finally. "Still down there?"

"Yes." Flat. Certain.

Vergil's eyes narrowed slightly. "Searching for him."

"Obviously."

A beat. The rain drummed steady.

"You sure she's still in Hell?" Dante asked. "And not at our doorstep already, ready to tear us apart for taking him before she could find him herself?"

A pause—brief, considering.

"If she knew where he was, you'd know," Artavex said flatly. "She doesn't knock."

Vergil's hand rested near Venturo's shoulder—not touching, just present. His gaze tracked the slow rise and fall of breathing beneath dark fabric.

Dante watched his brother for a moment, then straightened. "Right. Food."

He tugged the rotary phone closer, cord stretching across the desk, fingers already circling the dial.

"Soup," Artavex said. "Something gentle. His system's been dormant too long for anything heavy."

"Yeah, I got it." Dante's finger found the first number, pulling the wheel around with methodical clicks.

The line crackled to life after three rings.

"...Morrison."

A pause.

"Morrison. It's Dante."

Silence stretched on the other end—too long, too heavy. Then Morrison's voice came through, dry but carrying weight beneath.

"...Back so soon?"

"Yeah," Dante said, mouth curving slightly. "Miss me?"

"Something like that." A breath. "Two weeks, Dante."

"Yeah, I know. Long story." Dante cut through before the questions could pile up. "Look—could you grab something from that soup place on Fifth? Couple bowls. Something easy on the stomach."

A rustle on the other end. Then Trish's voice—low, disbelieving. "Let me hear that."

Dante froze.

"Trish," he said.

"You've got to be kidding me." Her tone carried equal parts exhale and laugh. "Two weeks in Hell and your first words to us are about soup?"

He smirked faintly. "Gotta start somewhere."

A pause. Lady's voice followed, dry but certain. "Tell him we're coming. Somebody's got to see this with their own eyes."

A rustle, then Morrison's voice—flat with fatigue. "Yeah. Figured as much."

Dante sighed. "Then grab extra on your way."

The line clicked off, leaving the room too quiet again.

He stared at the receiver for a moment, then set it back gently. His hand lingered on the cradle.

Vergil's eyes met his across the dim office. "They're coming."

"Yeah." Dante leaned back against the desk, arms crossing. "Whole cavalry."

A faint hum from the couch—almost amused. "You think they'll bring broth?"

"If we're lucky," Dante muttered.

Silence returned. The rain continued its rhythm against cracked glass, steady and patient. The city hummed beyond—distant, muffled, carrying on as it always did.

Vergil's gaze dropped back to Venturo. His hand finally settled on the boy's shoulder—light, careful.

Dante watched them both from the desk.

Two weeks in Hell, and Vergil still hadn't moved far from the kid since they'd pulled him out of that chamber. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was something else—something quieter, harder to name.

The Qliphoth had reached farther than Red Grave. Spilled into cities they'd never seen. And this boy—twenty-two years old, torn apart and fed on for a month—had been caught in the edges of that spillover.

Vergil didn't say it. Didn't need to.

Dante looked away.

Ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Then Morrison and the others would arrive, and the quiet would shatter.

He exhaled slowly.

They'd asked for food. They'd gotten company instead.

Typical.