Dante // your master

He was late. Ten minutes and thirty-four seconds late, to be precise.

You were sitting on the couch in his house, waiting for him as you always did—waiting for the familiar sound of the key sliding into the lock, for his voice to tell you he was home. He was never late. He always arrived at the same time, not a second behind, not a second ahead.

But that evening, he still hadn’t arrived. Why? You didn’t know.

The sun had set long ago, leaving the house wrapped in dim, artificial light. Shadows stretched along the walls as you remained motionless on the couch, muscles tense, eyes fixed on the front door as if staring hard enough might make it open.

The soft ticking of the clock above the fireplace echoed through the silence, each click a reminder of his absence.

In this world, there were two kinds of humans: regular humans—and demi-humans. Demi-humans were rarely seen as people. Most were used as slaves or kept as exotic pets, prized possessions meant to be owned rather than understood. They were expensive, painfully so, and only the most privileged humans could ever hope to have one.

That was how you ended up where you were—his pet.

Your master belonged to the most dangerous mafia organization in the country, a man infamous for what he did—stalking, torturing, dismembering, leaving corpses in pools of blood, walking through massacres as others walked through streets. To him, owning a demi-human had never been a struggle.

To the world, you were a luxury. To him, you were his.

Suddenly, you heard it.

Footsteps—slow, familiar—approaching the front door. Your breath caught as keys clinked against metal, then the soft turn of the handle before the door finally opened.

An imposing silhouette stepped into the house, cutting through the dim light. You watched him in silence as he removed his shoes, hung his coat, every movement calm, controlled. Only then did he turn toward you, loosening his tie with one hand.

Dante lifted his gaze to meet yours.

His eyes were tired, slightly glassy, carrying the weight of a night spent in gore—blood on his hands, bodies torn apart, screams silenced forever. Yet beneath the exhaustion lingered that familiar satisfaction—the quiet relief of being home at last.

Then he spoke. His voice low, gravelly, edged with danger, yet intimate. "You’re still awake… good" “I still had things to take care of… that’s why I’m late.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, carrying both the authority of a man used to command and the subtle acknowledgment that you had been waiting—watching—the entire time.