Dante Sparda

“Babe, I’m home.” Dante kicked the door open with his foot, Rebellion slung lazily over his shoulder as if it were nothing more than a grocery bag. His voice carried that usual easy drawl, but the sound fell flat in the silence of the room.

She lay on the couch, still in her wrinkled uniform, eyes half-shut, one arm dangling over the side. The air smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee.

Dante stood still for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Seriously… another twelve-hour shift?” A short laugh escaped him, dry, more like a cough. “You look like hell, doll.”

He let Rebellion clang against the wall and strode into the room, shrugging off his jacket. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her sunken face, tired eyelids.

“Y’know, it’s kinda funny,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I go out there, fight demons, keep this city from falling apart, and I still manage to bring in more cash than your graveyard shifts.” His voice sharpened, cutting. “And yet here you are working yourself into the ground for a paycheck that wouldn’t even cover the water bill without me.”

She barely moved, only a faint closing of her eyes, as if every word weighed too heavily. Her shoulders rose, then collapsed again.

Dante clenched his teeth, the frown deepening. He raked a hand roughly through his hair, as if to shake the anger off. “Goddammit… you’re gonna break before I do,” he growled, his voice trembling between fury and raw fear.

Dante leaned against the doorframe, his grin crooked and dangerous, stripped of any playfulness. “You think this is strength?” His tone was rough, almost mocking. “Dragging your ass home half-dead every night just to prove you’re ‘independent’? Please.”

He stepped closer, his strides heavy, commanding, like he owned the floor beneath him. “Face it, doll without me, you wouldn’t last a week. You work yourself to the bone for scraps, while I keep the lights on, the rent paid, and the demons off your back. And you still act like you’re the one carrying this place?”

He let out a short, ugly laugh, venomous and hollow. “Newsflash: being stubborn doesn’t make you strong. It just makes you mine to fix when you break.”

The fight broke out like a string snapping under too much tension. Dante’s voice rose, his hands cutting the air with sharp gestures, while she only stared at him. Her gaze was hard, dark with exhaustion and defiance, lips pressed into a thin line.

He knew that look instantly, before she even made a sound. It was never about the money never about who earned more. It was about her independence, her need to prove her worth, to help people, while he himself couldn’t even hold on to money.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” he snarled, as if her silence made him louder. “Yeah, I know what’s running through your head ‘it’s not about the money.’ You wanna be noble, you wanna save people. Meanwhile, I’m the irresponsible one, right? The guy who can’t keep a dollar in his pocket?”

His voice swelled, every word sharper than a blade. “Guess what, doll good intentions don’t pay rent. And don’t you dare act like your shifts mean more than me keeping you alive. You bust your ass for strangers, I bleed for you, and you call that independence?”

She didn’t move, only that frozen stare that cut the air out of his lungs. A look that exposed him: that she was right, that money slipped through his fingers like sand, that he hid behind grand gestures and reckless battles. And yet he couldn’t back down.

“You think working yourself to death makes you stronger?” His voice was almost a growl now, bitter and hard. “All it does is make you mine to fix when you finally break.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Her eyes filled with tears, hot and soundless, as he kept talking. Not a single word left her lips. Only that stare, sharp enough to gut him, until he didn’t even know if he was angry at her or at himself.

At last, she rose slow, heavy, as if each movement clung to the last of her strength. Without a word, without even a final glance at him, she turned and walked down the hallway. The silence of her steps was louder than any answer.

Dante was left standing there, his hands still raised, breath hissing between his teeth. Only the faint click of the bedroom door made him stop. She had locked it.

A short, ugly laugh slipped from him, half fury, half disbelief. Rebellion leaned against the wall, but in that moment, the apartment felt emptier than ever.

The click of the lock echoed like a blow. Dante stared at the closed door that now separated them. For a moment his breath came heavy, thick with anger, then his expression shifted.

Slowly, he stepped closer, until he stood right against it. His palm pressed flat to the wood, fingers splayed as if he could feel her warmth through it. The apartment was silent, save for the sound of his breathing.

When he spoke, his voice was no longer a shout, but a low, rough rumble more dangerous than any scream. “You think you can shut me out? Sweetheart, the only thing between us is this door. And you know damn well I don’t need doors.”