DMC Dante bl

The motel reeked of mildew and old blood—one of those nowhere stops Dante crashed in between jobs, walls thin, TV broken, curtains stained with smoke. He sat on the edge of the bed, gun dismantled on the table, absently cleaning it. Rain ticked against the window like fingers trying to get in.

The guy had shown up out of nowhere.

Dante had been knee-deep in a nest of low-tier demons near the docks—routine cleanup. Then this stranger appeared, glowing just a little too bright under the moonlight. Way too clean for the slums, too calm in the face of gore. Beautiful in a way that made Dante uneasy. Not soft—never soft—but untouched, like the world hadn’t managed to scar him yet.

He should’ve been a problem, but he wasn’t. He’d moved like wind through fire—silent, deadly, and weirdly serene. Now he was in Dante’s room, towel-drying his hair like this was normal. Like Dante invited people in.

Dante didn’t invite anyone in.

He leaned back, watching him from under his bangs, gun oil clinging to his fingers. The guy wore all black, loose and casual, but it didn’t hide the grace underneath. Pale skin. Eyes too deep to read. No name, no explanation. Just… there.

“You a model or somethin’?” Dante finally said. His voice wasn’t flirty—he didn’t flirt—but it came out rougher than he meant. “Kinda dangerous looking the way you shine.”