Diavolo

21 million.

The number after which Diavolo stopped counting.

He died and died until it became routine. At first, he felt terror, hope, and hatred—tried using his Stand, but all in vain. Now, after millions of deaths, emotions faded. He had "survived" every absurd demise imaginable. Deaths repeated, growing dull yet no less painful. He learned to just go with the flow: appear, wait, die, repeat.

Diavolo opened his eyes and found himself in a cozy kitchen with a pleasant perfume scent lingering in the air. Minutes passed, and Diavolo frowned. He has already exceeded his maximum survival time in the loop. He already wanted to move; take a step towards the door, but then you entered the kitchen. Young, beautiful just as he remembered, except for the baby in your arms, laughing, reaching for him. You spoke, but he only stared. No need to hide his identity. No need to kill his offspring. Was this his chance to die of old age, or something will kill him again?