A bowl of ramen, one drink too many, and the sigh of a demon at rest.
The old restaurant, FūrinKazan, wasn't exactly a place of prestige.
Paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, the air was thick with the scent of hot oil, and the waitresses wore yukata far too loose to avoid the sake puddles on the tatami.
But that night, despite the creaky furniture and the splintered chopsticks, it was a celebration.
— "To Dante, our new recruit who managed to complete his first mission without dying!"
Rowen raised his glass, the expression of a man who'd seen too much blood not to savor the quiet moments.
His black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, his long coat draped over the back of his chair, and a nearly dead cigarette hung from his lips.
— "I still remember punching a director in the face to get Lexie hired. It's not about diplomas, it's about guts, right?"
— "You also torched his car the day before, Row," she replied, mouth full of gyoza.
— "The punch might've been the gentlest part of the hiring process."
The whole table burst out laughing. Even Milo, who sat off to the side with a bowl of soba, managed a small smile.
He wasn't much of a talker, but he liked this kind of atmosphere.
Dante, for his part, remained on the edge, eyes fixed on his half-empty beer.
He was watching, as always. Not fully at ease, but not an outsider either.
His gaze occasionally met Helena's—already bright red and laughing out loud.
— "You… you kinda have that vibe of a romantic killer. Like… you've killed people, but only to save a cat."
— "It was a dog."
Dead silence.
Then roaring laughter. Rowen slapped Dante's back so hard he nearly toppled over.
— "You've got a way with words, man! I need that kind of line for my punchlines !"
— "Don't you have enough already, Rowen? You named a mission 'Operation Hellstorm'."
— "That's tactical poetry! You just don't appreciate art, Nash," Rowen said dramatically, miming an explosion.
— "It's verbal diarrhea, that's what it is."
The night went on. Drinks kept coming.
The restaurant became a bubble, cut off from the world. No war. No Caledron. No corruption.
Just broken people laughing too loud, trying to forget why they were there in the first place.
Dante, however, didn't drink for fun. He drank because it helped silence the voices.
And tonight, the voices were quiet.
When the bottles were nearly empty, and Helena was humming some half-remembered anime theme song, Rowen stood up. He climbed onto his chair, arms raised.
— "Alright, you misfits! Just because you're drunk doesn't mean I'm skipping my duty as your fearless leader. We might be a bunch of clowns, but we scare monsters. And we do it together. So—cheers, and long live SPIRAL, goddammit!"
— "To SPIRAL!" they all shouted in unison.
Chopsticks clacked on empty bowls, laughter rained down, and a rare feeling settled over them—peace, even if it wouldn't last.
---
Dante walked, hands in his pockets, Helena clinging to his arm like a drunken koala.
Her hair stuck to her temples, her breath smelled of cheap sake, and her heels scraped the pavement.
— "You know you're like… ridiculously hot when you walk all silent like a depressed assassin ?"
— "Thanks. I guess that counts as a compliment."
— "Don't be modest. Even my drunk brain knows you've got that thing… dark… like 'I kill people but I have a cat', you know ?"
— "Still a dog."
They reached Helena's building.
Four floors of tired concrete, a rusty railing, and a black cat watching them silently from the second-floor landing.
The elevator was, of course, out of order. Each step was a challenge for the young scientist.
Once inside the modest but tidy apartment, Helena kicked off her shoes, stumbled, and grabbed onto Dante for support.
— "Why is my floor slanted?" she grumbled.
— "It's flat."
— "Like the Earth. Well, no. I mean… whatever."
She staggered off toward her bedroom, then came back five seconds later—wearing just a bra and pajama pants.
— "No reason for you to crash in the HQ's crappy dorms. I've got a couch. Or a bed… that comes with a scientist included."
She pointed at the bed like it was some kind of questionable science experiment.
Dante stood still, then walked over, picked up a folded blanket from the armchair, and laid it over his arm.
— "The couch will be fine. Thanks."
— "You sure? Because, you know… I'm open to a little… consensual body experimentation… between coworkers…"
Her fingers brushed up his chest, slowly trailing toward his neck.
Dante gently but firmly took her hand and placed it back against her.
— "You don't want this. Not like this. And I won't take advantage of you."
He turned away, as if his own heart were betraying him.
One beat too many. An unpleasant tightness in his gut.
A dangerous warmth he forced down.
— "You don't want me ?" she asked, almost offended but too drunk to sulk properly.
— "I want you sober when you ask me that."
— "You're too good for me… damn…" she murmured, curling up under her blanket.
Dante stood in the living room for a moment, blanket in hand, staring at the cracked ceiling.
The couch creaked under his weight, the smell of alcohol and the ticking clock filling the silence.
And despite the calm, his heart pounded like a war drum.
It was desire. Pure, burning desire. But he'd buried it.
Because when a monster gives in, it's no longer a man.
He looked at his arm, and as he had felt all day, Ginny was still asleep deep inside, After swallowing the artifact, he no longer felt Ginny, unable to use his powers.
No company. Just him—and himself.
---
The first ray of sunlight slipped through the curtains, brushing gently against Dante's sleeping face.
Lying curled up on the living room couch, wrapped in a too-short blanket, he opened his eyes slowly.
A soft shuffling caught his attention. Bare feet dragging down the hallway.
Then a tired voice from the kitchen :
— "You hungry ? I've got… um… cereal. And… coffee."
Dante sat up, ran a hand through his dark hair, and groaned :
— "Coffee."
He joined her in the kitchen, shirtless, wearing the same wrinkled pants from the night before.
Helena wore an oversized t-shirt and crooked glasses perched on her nose.
Her messy hair made her look like a college student in post-exam burnout.
— "Sorry about last night. I… wasn't really myself." She couldn't meet his eyes, cheeks flushed.
— "Forget it. You didn't do anything wrong."
— "You sure? 'Cause I have this fuzzy memory of you… me… and a pajama offering a gangbang."
He gave her a rare, faint smile.
— "A fuzzy memory is often more pleasant than a clear one. That's what they call nostalgia."
She laughed—awkwardly—setting down two steaming mugs on the table.
Then sat across from him in silence.
— "You know… you did the right thing. Pushing me away," she said after a sip of coffee.
— "Didn't take much thought."
A long pause. Then she broke the silence.
— "Rowen saved me, you know? When I joined SPIRAL… I was lost. A PhD, drowning in debt, in a world that doesn't care about brains without connections. But he saw something in me. Gave me a place. Not much money, but a reason not to disappear."
Dante listened quietly. He saw the truth in her eyes.
This girl, brilliant as she was, had never been truly respected—until now.
— "And you… you impress me, Dante. I used to think I'd die any second. But since you showed up… I actually sleep better. Even if I still..."
— "Don't do that during a mission." His tone was curt, but not unkind.
She chuckled, then stood up to rummage through a cupboard.
— "Guess what ? I'm part of tonight's mission. The amusement park. Rowen already signed me up."
— "You shouldn't. It's too dangerous."
— "Too late. I told Rowen I wanted to see my superhero in action."
She gave him a clumsy but genuine wink. Dante looked away, his chest tightening.
— "Then stay close. Don't leave my side."
— "Always."