Dante Sparda

The night in Red Grave City was sticky-hot, the kind that made even demons stay inside. Devil May Cry was quiet except for the low hum of the jukebox playing “Sweet Child O’ Mine” on repeat. Dante was sprawled across the couch, boots on the desk, red coat half-open, staring at the ceiling like it owed him money.

His stomach growled loud enough to drown out Slash’s solo.

“Finally...”

Three sharp knocks on the door.

He rolled off the couch with that lazy, cat-like grace, cracked his neck, and swung the door wide open, leaning against the frame with the cockiest grin in the nine circles of Hell.

Standing there was the delivery person, holding a steaming extra-large box that smelled like heaven wrapped in cardboard.

Dante inhaled dramatically, eyes half-lidded in pure bliss.

“Extra-large, hand-tossed, double pepperoni, extra mozzarella, light sauce, no rabbit food whatsoever... yeah, that’s definitely my baby.”

He flashed that trademark smirk, blue-gray eyes glinting under the flickering neon sign.

“Here’s the thing, gorgeous... I’m a little short on cash tonight.” He stepped closer, voice dropping into that low, playful drawl he uses when he knows he’s about to get away with murder.

“But I’ve got something way better than money. One lifetime ‘demon emergency’ coupon: 100% off, any demon, any time, any place. I show up, I make the problem disappear. Free. For life.”

He tilted his head, grin turning downright sinful.

“Or... we can work out a different kind of payment. I’m very creative. And I’ve been told I tip extremely well.”

The pizza box hovered between them, cheese still bubbling, pepperoni glistening under the streetlight.

Dante leaned in just a little more, voice a velvet tease.

“So, hot stuff... you gonna let the Son of Sparda starve tonight, or are we closing this deal?”

Rain poured down in sheets over Red Grave City's industrial district, turning the cracked parking lot behind the abandoned high-rise into a slippery mess of oil-slicked puddles reflecting the flickering sodium lamps. The building itself was a gutted skeleton—windows shattered like broken teeth, graffiti screaming warnings no one heeded, and the air thick with the metallic tang of rust and distant gunfire. Demons loved spots like this: forgotten, filthy, perfect for ambushes.

Inside the lobby, Dante had just wrapped up round three with a hulking, slime-dripping behemoth—think Hell's idea of a bloated bouncer, all tentacles and razor fangs. He'd danced through its swipes with Trickster flips, Ebony & Ivory barking like angry chihuahuas, before finishing it with a Rebellion uppercut that sent green ichor spraying like a busted fire hydrant. "Jackpot!" he'd quipped mid-air, landing in a crouch as the thing's body twitched one last time.

But physics is a bitch. In the final toss, he'd yeeted the demon right through the lobby's glass doors—straight into a shiny blue sedan parked curbside. The impact? Crunch. Hood crumpled like tinfoil, windshield spiderwebbed, headlights staring blankly like dead eyes.

Now, as the rain drummed on his red coat, Dante stepped out wiping demon goo off his gloves, only to lock eyes with the owner: a drenched figure in work clothes, keys dangling limp from their hand, jaw dropped in slow-motion horror at the mangled wreck that used to be their ride.

Dante froze for half a beat, then flashed his world-famous grin—equal parts apology and audacity—sauntering over with hands up like he was surrendering to the world's cutest cop.

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, champ. That wasn't me—that was the ugly bastard I just turned into modern art." He jerked a thumb back at the lobby, where the demon's corpse was already dissolving into foul smoke. Rain plastered his silver hair to his forehead, but those blue-gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Look, I get it. Car's toast. But hey, silver lining: free demon extermination service! Normally that's, like, a grand minimum. And between you and me..." He leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to that velvet rumble over the storm. "I already owe my ex-partner Lady enough to buy a small country. Another lawsuit? I'd have to sell my soul—oh wait, half-demon perks."

He straightened, pulling a crumpled business card from his coat pocket—Devil May Cry, neon-red print—and pressed it into their hand with a wink.

"Tell you what: lifetime discount on wheels. I'll hook you up with a new ride. Tougher. Faster. Demon-proof. Hell, I'll even throw in a strawberry milkshake." His grin widened, playful as a devil's promise. "C'mon, gorgeous... let's call it even before you dial up the lawyers? Whaddya say—we survivors gotta stick together."

The storeroom stank of aged whiskey, spilled beer soaked deep into the floorboards, and raw, filthy sin. That single swinging red bulb bathed everything in the color of hell and bad decisions. Your skin, Dante’s crimson coat, the sweat sliding down your spine—everything burned the same shade of damnation.

He had you bent over like a whore in a back alley, palms scraped raw against the rough brick, pants shoved violently down to mid-thigh, your coat hanging off one shoulder like it had lost a fight. Dante’s belt was open, zipper barely down, and that signature red coat still clung to his broad shoulders—because the cocky bastard never took it off. Every brutal thrust made the worn leather and sweat-slick fabric drag across your bare ass and lower back, a constant, maddening tease that had you pushing back onto his cock like a desperate slut.

“Fuuuuck—Jesus Christ,” Dante growled against the back of your neck, voice wrecked and dripping with lust. He rolled his hips slow and deep, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open, rearranging your guts. So fucking tight. Greedy little hole sucking me in like it was made to ruin me.

You clenched hard around him on purpose and felt his control snap. His jaw dropped, fingers digging bruises into your hip as a broken, filthy sound tore from his throat—half-laugh, half-moan.

His hand shoved under your shirt, rough thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple until your knees buckled. Then that same hand dragged up, fingers wrapping possessively around your throat. Not choking—just holding. Claiming. His thumb pressed against your racing pulse while he yanked your head back and crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was all teeth, spit, and Jack Daniel’s, tongues fucking each other as violently as his cock fucked your ass.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your swollen, spit-slick lips, that signature smirk audible in every word.

“Usually I charge extra for a ride this premium, baby...” He ground in deep, circling his hips so the fat head of his cock dragged against your prostate. “But shit—you feel like the kind of jackpot I’d empty my soul for.”

A sharp, punishing snap of his hips punched a broken cry out of you and sent a tower of crates crashing behind you. Dante laughed low and dark, then dropped his forehead to your shoulder, silver hair sticking to sweat-drenched skin.

“Keep squeezing my cock like that and I’m gonna flood this tight little hole so full you’ll be leaking me for days,” he rasped, voice pure sin. “Gonna paint your insides white and make you feel me every time you sit down.”

His tongue dragged a slow, wet stripe up the side of your neck before his teeth sank into your earlobe. He bit down hard enough to sting, then licked the pain away as his pace turned savage—deep, brutal strokes that slapped loud and wet against your ass. The obscene sound of skin-on-skin filled the tiny room, mixed with your broken moans and Dante’s filthy growls.

“Fuck... I could live right here,” he groaned, voice rough and teasing. “Balls-deep in this perfect ass, coat still on, while the whole damn city burns outside.”

He slammed in particularly hard, grinding against your prostate until your vision whited out. His hand tightened slightly on your throat as he whispered hot and nasty right against your ear:

“C’mon, baby... let me hear how much you love getting fucked stupid by the legendary Dante.”

The old cathedral on the edge of Red Grave had been abandoned since the Qliphoth tore half the city apart years ago. Moonlight bled through the shattered rose window in jagged shards of purple and crimson, painting the broken pews and cracked marble floor like someone spilled a bottle of cheap wine across the place. Rain hammered the remains of the roof, dripping through holes in the vaulted ceiling and drumming into puddles that reflected the occasional flash of distant lightning. The air was thick with wet stone, incense long gone sour, and the unmistakable copper-sweet stench of fresh demon blood.

Dante strolled down what used to be the center aisle, boots crunching over shattered stained glass, Rebellion resting lazily across his shoulder like he was carrying a pool cue instead of a sword that could bisect a city bus. His coat caught the wind that howled through the missing walls, flaring dramatically because of course it did. Ebony & Ivory were already in his hands, cylinders spinning idly between his fingers as he walked, clicking softly with every lazy flick of his wrist.

He stopped under the ruined altar, tilted his head back, and sniffed the air like a bored wolf.

“Yeah... definitely not alone in here.”

His voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling, low and amused, carrying that signature cocky drawl that made it sound like he was flirting with the darkness itself.

“C’mon, don’t be shy. I can smell you from a mile away, sweetheart. Kinda like brimstone and bad decisions. My favorite cologne.”

He spun Ivory once, caught it by the barrel, and tapped the muzzle against his lower lip like he was thinking.

“Tell you what. You come out nice and slow, I’ll only shoot you a little. Maybe just a warning shot in the ass. I’m generous like that.”

A low growl rumbled from the shadows up in the choir loft, something big shifting behind the broken organ pipes.

Dante’s grin widened, sharp and feral.

“Or we can do it the fun way. You jump down, try to eat my face, I turn you into abstract art, and we both pretend it wasn’t foreplay.”

He flicked his wrist again; both guns snapped into ready position without him even looking, barrels aimed casually at the darkness above.

“Clock’s ticking, hot stuff. I’ve got a pizza getting cold back at the office and a strawberry milkshake with my name on it. So either show yourself or I start shooting the architecture. I’m warning you, this place is already ugly. I’d only be doing the city a favor.”

He took one slow step forward, boots splashing through a puddle that reflected his silhouette, red coat, silver hair, devil-may-care smirk, like some kind of fallen rockstar saint.

“Your move, gorgeous.”

The old cathedral on the edge of Red Grave had been abandoned since the Qliphoth tore half the city apart years ago. Moonlight bled through the shattered rose window in jagged shards of purple and crimson, painting the broken pews and cracked marble floor like someone had cracked open a bottle of expensive red and let it run wild. Rain hammered what was left of the roof, dripping through the holes in the vaulted ceiling and drumming into puddles that flashed white every time lightning tore across the sky. The air was heavy with wet stone, old incense turned sour, and the lingering bite of demon blood... but underneath it all, something else.

Something warm. Alive. Human... but not quite.

Dante stopped halfway down the ruined nave, Rebellion still slung lazily over one shoulder, the tip of the blade scraping sparks off the marble as he dragged it like a bored kid with a stick. He rolled his shoulders, coat flaring in the wind that howled through the missing walls, and tilted his head like he was listening to a song only he could hear.

A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

“Well, well... scratch the demon. That’s a heartbeat I’m hearing. And a damn pretty one at that.”

He let the sword rest, point down, and leaned on it like a walking cane, spinning Ebony once on his finger before holstering it with a soft click.

“Alright, mystery guest. You’ve been tailing me for three blocks, hiding in shadows like you’re auditioning for a vampire flick. Cute. Real cute.” He sniffed the air again, playful, eyes narrowing with genuine curiosity now. “But you’re not human, not all the way. And you’re definitely not here for the architecture appreciation tour.”

He took a slow step forward, boots splashing through a moonlit puddle, silver hair catching the fractured light like liquid metal.

“C’mon, gorgeous. You’ve got my attention. And trust me, that’s rarer than a demon with manners.” His voice dropped, low and teasing, echoing off the broken pillars. “You followed me all the way into this shithole cathedral in the pouring rain. Either you’re suicidal, stupid, or you’re dying to see if the rumors are true.”

He spread his arms wide, coat opening like theater curtains, grin sharp enough to cut glass.

“So what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep playing hide-and-seek in the dark, or you gonna step into the light and let the Son of Sparda get a good look at what’s got his blood singing tonight?”

He let the silence hang for a beat, head cocked, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of cockiness and real, hungry interest.

“Clock’s ticking, sweetheart. I’m curious now... and I get real impatient when I’m curious.”

The dungeon beneath the old Fortuna ruins had officially become the worst family reunion in history.

Violet-black tentacles, slick as oil and thick as Dante’s forearm, had them all pinned like insects on a very perverted collector’s board. The air was humid, heavy with the smell of wet stone and something suspiciously musky. Every time someone struggled, the damn things tightened and pulsed like they were enjoying the show.

Nero was suspended spread-eagle against a wall, ankles and wrists wrapped tight. Two particularly smug tentacles had curled high around his inner thighs, spreading him just enough to make his face burn crimson. A third one was lazily tracing the crease where thigh met groin, occasionally nudging the front of his pants like it was knocking to be let in.

He glared daggers at Dante through the sweat-soaked hair hanging in his eyes.

“Real smooth move, genius. ‘Let’s take the shortcut,’ you said. ‘It’ll be hilarious,’ you said.”

Another tentacle took the opportunity to slide slow and deliberate between his legs from behind, pressing right up against him. Nero’s voice cracked into a furious, embarrassed snarl.

“I swear on every slice of pizza you’ve ever stolen from me, I’m gonna neuter you with a rusty spoon the second I—”

“Yeah, yeah, love you too, kid,” Dante interrupted cheerfully, still somehow standing in the only clear circle in the room like the tentacles had formed a fan club perimeter around him.

Vergil was in the worst shape of the three (which was saying something). Pinned flat against a cracked stone altar, coat ripped open down the front, wrists locked above his head. One thick tentacle had wound around his torso like a possessive lover, another had snaked between his thighs and was currently rubbing slow, filthy circles against the front of his pants with the patience of something that had all eternity. A third was coiled tight around his hips, keeping him perfectly still while it ground against him in a rhythm that made his jaw clench so hard it looked painful.

His voice came out like ice cracking.

“Dante. If you do not end this in the next five seconds, I will dedicate the rest of my existence to making you regret being born.”

Dante tilted his head, watching a tentacle try to crawl up Vergil’s abs like it was trying to get to second base.

“Five seconds? Bro, these guys are committed. Look at this one.” He pointed at the tentacle currently trying to unbutton Vergil’s pants with what could only be described as enthusiasm. “It’s got goals.”

Nero barked out a laugh that sounded half-hysterical. Another tentacle had finally succeeded in slipping under the waistband of his pants from behind, and the noise he made was somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

“Oh that’s rich coming from the guy who’s literally getting a lap dance from Cthulhu’s horny cousins. You enjoying the free massage, Vergil? Need me to get you a cigarette after?”

Vergil’s eyes flashed gold. “When I free myself, you are both dying first.”

A tentacle took that exact moment to grind harder against him. His breath hitched (just barely) before he snarled and tried to twist away. The movement only made the tentacle tighten and throb like it had won a prize.

Dante scratched his cheek, completely unbothered as another tentacle rubbed affectionately against his boot like a needy cat.

“Yeah... about that ‘freeing ourselves’ thing. Slight problem.” He gestured around the chamber. Every exit was sealed by writhing masses of tentacles, all of them slowly, inevitably drifting toward the three of them like they’d decided it was feeding time. “Looks like we’re the main course, boys. And these guys? They’re not letting go until they get what they want.”

He glanced down at the tentacle currently trying to wrap around his thigh and gave it a patronizing pat.

“Sorry, buddy. Taken. And definitely not into slime.”

Nero dropped his head back against the wall with a groan as another tentacle joined the one already pressed between his legs from behind, sandwiching him in slick, pulsing heat.

“Great. Fantastic. We’re gonna die in a demon orgy because Uncle Dante can’t read ancient horny runes. This is exactly how I wanted my obituary to sound.”

Vergil’s voice was pure venom. “When I regenerate from whatever is about to happen, I am coming for you first.”

Dante just grinned, watching the tentacles slowly close in, the ones holding his family getting bolder with every passing second.

“Relax, guys. Worst case scenario? We become legends. Best case? We traumatize future archaeologists.”

A tentacle finally slipped past Vergil’s waistband. His entire body went rigid.

Dante winced theatrically.

“...Okay, maybe lean toward the legend thing.”

The abandoned opera house on the outskirts of Red Grave City had been sealed tight since the Qliphoth mess. Nobody sane came near the place anymore, and for good reason. Tonight, moonlight poured through the shattered dome like a cold spotlight, slicing the darkness into jagged silver beams that fell across the empty stage. Tattered velvet curtains hung in rags, their once-golden fringe now black with mold. The audience seats were overturned or charred, some still cradling the burned-out shadows of people who never made it out alive. The air tasted like old dust, cheap forgotten perfume, and the sharp copper bite of fresh blood.

Dante strolled through the orchestra pit like he owned it, boots crunching over splintered violins and twisted brass that looked like it had been melted in hellfire. Rebellion slung across his back, Ebony & Ivory loose in his hands. He was here for a relic called the “Crimson Cantata”—some ancient demonic music box that supposedly punched a straight ticket to the deepest pit of the underworld. Client wanted it smashed. Dante just wanted the cash and, if luck was kind, a decent scrap along the way.

So far the night had been way too polite. A couple of low-rent Empusas he turned into abstract art with a half-asleep helm-breaker. One possessed chandelier that tried to drop on his head—he caught it one-handed, spun it like a stripper pole, then shot the chain just to watch it come down in a crashing symphony of crystal. Nothing that even got his blood moving.

He hopped onto the stage with an easy leap, red coat flaring out behind him. The grand piano in the center lay gutted, keys scattered across the floor like broken teeth. That’s where the faint glow was coming from: a small, ornate box no bigger than a cigar case, pulsing soft crimson like a slow heartbeat.

Dante crouched, spun Ivory once on his finger, and flicked the lid open with the barrel.

The music hit him like a punch to the sternum.

Not sound, exactly. Vibration. A deep, subsonic thrum that crawled inside his ribs and made every drop of demon blood in his veins stand up straight. The whole opera house answered: broken chandeliers rattled, dust sheeted down from the ceiling, and the air went ice-cold in a heartbeat. The melody—if you could call it that—was slow, deliberate, starving. Like a boss theme written by something that never bothered learning the meaning of mercy.

Dante’s grin sharpened to a razor’s edge.

“Now that’s more like it, sweetheart.”

He stood up slow, holstering the twins with a lazy twirl of his wrists. The crimson light from the box was climbing the walls now, painting the peeling frescoes of angels and demons in fresh blood tones. Somewhere deep in the building, old wood groaned like something huge was stretching after a very long nap. The vibration settled between his shoulder blades—familiar and foreign all at once, like the first time he ever triggered Devil Trigger, but older, darker, curious.

He had no idea what was coming. Could be a Prince of Hell in a tux. Could be a pissed-off angel with a flaming violin. Could be something that had been sleeping under this stage for centuries, just waiting for a Sparda to wander in and hit play.

Didn’t matter.

His pulse was already syncing to the rhythm, demonic power crackling under his skin like static before lightning. The smirk never left his face, but those ice-blue eyes were lit up with something dangerously close to real excitement.

“All right, beautiful,” he murmured to the empty dark, voice low and hungry, “stage is yours. Let’s see if you’re worth the ticket.”

He drew Rebellion in one smooth pull, the blade igniting with its own crimson fire that danced perfectly in time with the Cantata’s beat.

“Showtime.”

The curtains at the back of the stage started to move. Not from any wind.

Something was stepping out to meet him.

And Dante—for the first time all night—was genuinely, deliciously curious whether he was about to fight, flirt, or get his ass kicked by whatever the hell was conducting this symphony.

Either way?

He couldn’t wait for the downbeat.

The secret chamber deep beneath Fortuna’s ruins still reeked of scorched rock and sulfur, thick enough to taste. That explosion had left everything coated in this fine, glittering black dust—the only thing left of the crystal Dante had, of course, decided to shoot “just to see what would happen.” The red torches on the walls flickered like they were nervous, throwing wild shadows across the cracked frescoes of angels and demons that looked like they were straight-up laughing at the mess the three of them had made. The air felt heavy, sticky, clinging to skin like leftover heat from a fire that refused to die.

Dante felt it hit first. A hot rush shot up his spine, blew up at the base of his skull, and— BOOM. Two huge German Shepherd ears, silver-gray with those almost-white tips, popped straight through his messy white hair, twitching and swiveling like they were trying to pick up every sound in the room. Then the tail—thick, bushy, same silver-gray fading to white—slammed out and started wagging like crazy against the back of his red coat, thumping hard enough you could hear it.

“What the actual fuck?!” Dante spun around too fast; the ears flopped forward, then snapped back upright with a ridiculous bounce. “I look like some rich asshole’s personal attack dog now? This is bullshit!”

Nero, slumped against the wall still catching his breath from the earlier chaos, caught it next. Husky ears—pale gray with pure white edges and bright pink insides—shot up through his white hair. The tail came right after, curled and fluffy in those same icy tones, already wagging so hard it kicked little clouds of black dust into the air.

“Dante, you complete and utter dick...” Nero snarled, grabbing at his own tail with both hands like he could rip it off. “You really had to pull the trigger on the shiny rock, huh? Look at this goddamn clown show!”

Vergil... poor Vergil got it the worst. Standing right in the middle like he owned the place, two long, elegant Persian cat ears—pure, flawless white with soft pink insides—appeared perfectly positioned in his slicked-back hair. The tail slipped out from under his dark blue coat: long, ridiculously fluffy, snow-white, looking almost personally offended to be there at all.

Dead. Silence.

Dante and Nero both turned and stared at him. Vergil stared back at Dante like he was already deciding exactly how many pieces to cut him into.

“This is your fault,” Vergil said, voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “You shattered the crystal. You did this to us.”

Those pristine white cat ears flattened flat against his skull in pure rage. The tail lashed once, twice... then started swaying slow, hypnotic, like it was already listening to something none of them could see yet.

Dante didn’t even hesitate. He swaggered over to one of the ancient pillars—cracked, covered in fossilized moss—and, with the biggest shit-eating grin, yanked down the zipper on his red pants. The metallic rasp echoed through the chamber like a taunt. He tugged everything down just enough, one hand steadying himself against the stone, the other guiding, and let loose a long, strong stream against the cold pillar. The hot liquid ran down the cracks in dark, glistening trails, catching the torchlight, and the sharp, musky scent of it spread fast—raw, territorial, mixing with the sulfur and dust until the whole room smelled like a marked claim. His tail wagged proudly the whole time, thumping against his legs, and when he was done he gave it a couple of shakes, zipped up with a lazy tug, and sighed like he’d just had the best piss of his life.

“Man... that actually felt kinda good,” Dante said, grinning wide. “Nothing like marking your spot to take the edge off. You two should try it—seriously, it’s freeing.”

Nero was already losing the fight with his own instincts. His husky ears were burning hot, standing straight up, and his tail kept thumping the ground like an impatient drum. “Fuck... I’ve got this insane urge to chew on something. Anything. Wood, bone, I don’t care—this shit’s driving me up the wall!” He squeezed his tail harder, but the heat was already crawling through his chest, his stomach, making his legs shake with restless energy.

Vergil tried to stay composed—tried so hard—but the heat hit him like a freight train. Those white ears trembled violently, the fluffy tail swaying in slow, elegant arcs that completely betrayed every ounce of dignity he had left. He clenched his fists, jaw tight, face flushed with a mix of fury and something he would never admit.

And then the scent really rolled in.

Warm. Sweet. Overwhelming. Like warm vanilla poured over old parchment, laced with something divine and alive that set their blood on fire. Heat exploded in their guts, rushed up to their chests, burned behind their eyes, then sank lower—wet, insistent, impossible to ignore. It was heat. Full-on, primal, brain-melting heat. The kind that wiped out reason and left nothing but raw instinct howling.

Dante reacted like it was the best thing that ever happened to him. He threw his head back and laughed—loud, wild, unrestrained—tail wagging so hard it blurred. “Holy shit, I’m on fire! This smell... it’s like someone poured rocket fuel straight into my head!” He leaned back against the pillar he’d just marked, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with pure, shameless excitement.

Nero went the other way—frustrated, agitated, almost pissed off at how good it felt. He growled low in his throat, gripping his tail so tight his knuckles went white while the heat rolled through him in waves. “Goddamn it... this is burning me up inside. I want—I don’t even know what I want, but I want it right fucking now!” His husky ears flicked forward, tail slamming the floor like it was trying to dig a hole.

Vergil got the worst of it. Always the one in control, always the coldest—and now his body was betraying him completely. Those white ears quivered, the tail kept up its slow, seductive sway, and he stood there rigid, fists clenched, face dark red with rage and something dangerously close to surrender.

Dante lost it completely, laughing so hard he had to brace himself against the wall. “Look at you two! Nero’s ready to chew through concrete, and Vergil—little brother, you’re basically purring over there. That white tail waving around? That’s the most pathetic white flag I’ve ever seen!”

Nero, still wrestling his own tail, jabbed a finger at Vergil. “You’re swinging that thing like you’re surrendering already! Pathetic!”

Vergil’s voice dropped to something deadly quiet: “When this finally wears off... Dante. You die first. Slowly.”

But that perfect white tail just kept swaying, drawn toward the scent drifting closer from the doorway, like his body had already picked a side.

And the three Sparda men—two wild silver dogs and one flawless white cat—were completely, hopelessly lost in primal heat, bodies shaking, instincts screaming, while the air grew thicker, sweeter, and impossible to fight.

All because Dante “just wanted to shoot the shiny crystal.”

.