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The ruins had no right being this quiet.
Dante’s boots crunched through black glass and crumbling bone, the skeletal remains of a cathedral long since gutted by fire and something worse. The ceiling was gone. What little remained of the walls was half-sunken, angled inward like teeth. Vergil walked ahead of him, blade already drawn, shoulders coiled like he expected the stone itself to strike.
“Y’know,” Dante muttered, “you’d think the last hidey-hole of a Mundus cult would at least have some ambiance. Torchlight. Chanting. Maybe a cursed altar or two.”
Vergil didn’t turn around. “There was chanting. You killed them.”
“Oh. Right.”
He stepped over a scorched robe still smoking faintly. Whatever spell they’d been casting had fizzled out the second the circle was disrupted — or so they’d assumed. Vergil had cut through half the congregation like a scalpel; Dante had cleared the rest like a grenade—standard procedure.
But something still itched under his skin.
The air felt wrong. Heavy. Sticky with intent. The kind of magic that lingered.
They reached the center of the nave, where the blackstone floor was marked with etched sigils — overlapping spirals, clawed glyphs, and one huge seal ringed in iron runes. The blood had already dried.
Vergil frowned. “This is recent.”
“Yeah. I can tell by the smell,” Dante said, wrinkling his nose. “Fresh blood’s got that coppery bite, but dried cultist? That’s more like… beef jerky dipped in sulfur.”
He crouched, brushing ash off the glyph. It pulsed faintly under his fingers.
“Don’t touch that,” Vergil snapped.
Dante grinned. “Relax. I’m just—”
The circle flared.
A hard snap ricocheted through the room like a whipcrack, and both of them staggered back — but not fast enough.
The glyph exploded in red light.
Pain lanced through Dante’s ribs, sudden and white-hot. He clutched his side—
—and watched Vergil drop to one knee, gasping like he’d been stabbed.
They both froze.
The light faded.
Silence.
Dante straightened slowly. “Uh… did you just feel that?”
Vergil’s hand hovered over his ribs. His expression was unreadable.
“I did,” he said. “You’re injured.”
“Not really.” Dante flexed his shoulder. “It just… sparked for a second. Like a cramp.”
Vergil rose. “Then we have a problem.”
Dante blinked. “I mean, yeah, the whole room just lit up like a Christmas tree, but—”
He yelped as something jabbed his hand. A sliver of broken glass had nicked his palm.
Blood welled up.
Vergil hissed sharply and clutched his hand.
They stared at each other.
Dante looked down at his palm. “Oh, shit.”
The nearest town was twenty miles of desert and bad decisions away.
Dante had insisted they drive, for once. Useful as Yamato was, he missed the roar of an engine. Vergil, despite a sour face, went along with little argument.
After an hour of driving, they pulled into a roadside dive called The Devil’s Backbone Inn. The neon sign buzzed weakly.
Dante leaned on the front desk while Vergil stood stiffly by the door, radiating silent judgment.
The clerk didn’t even look up from her crossword. “One room?”
Dante opened his mouth.
“Two beds,” Vergil cut in, curt.
The clerk pushed over the key. “Room 3. Don’t get blood on the towels.”
The room smelled like mildew and the ghost of a cigarette. Dante tossed his coat on the chair by the window and immediately collapsed face-first onto the nearest bed. It creaked in protest.
Vergil stood by the door for a full minute before stepping inside, like the walls might bite.
“Remind me again why I don’t just take us back to the office now?”
Dante groaned. “Dude, you have to do more than just portal to Nero’s and then home. Enjoy life! Spend a night in a shitty motel. Come on, man.”
Vergil sat primly on the edge of the bed beside Dante. “I fail to see how this experience is adding anything important to my life.”
Dante looked over at his twin. “You can go home if you really want. I won’t stop you. I think it will be good for you to get some different scenery, though.”
Vergil looked around the room disdainfully. “Ah, yes. It would be awful if I were to miss out on such lovely…” his eyes scanned the crispy motel art on the wall, “...scenery.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
They lasted eleven minutes before it became unbearable.
It wasn’t the room. It was the bond.
Vergil tried meditating in the corner — still, silent, eyes closed — and it made Dante feel like his lungs were being slowly vacuum-sealed.
Dante tried watching TV — something loud, stupid, definitely involving explosions — and Vergil doubled over like someone drove a nail into his skull.
They tried staying on opposite sides of the room. Then just outside the bathroom door. Then pacing in perfect sync.
Nothing worked.
“You’re anxious,” Vergil finally bit out. “Stop it.”
“I’m always anxious!” Dante snapped. “That’s just how I run!”
“I don’t need to feel your panic on top of my own.”
“Well, tough! ‘Cause apparently we’re sharing this shit now, so welcome to the mental funhouse!”
Dante rubbed his temples. A sharp, electric ache buzzed down his neck — the Requiem burn again. Not pain exactly, but pressure. Deep, constant. Like something was still under his skin, watching.
He didn’t say anything.
But Vergil flinched.
Dante turned, narrowing his eyes. “…You felt that?”
Vergil was pale. His jaw locked. “What is that?”
There was a long silence.
Dante sat down slowly. “Leftovers.”
Vergil didn’t move. “From the possession?”
Dante gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Sometimes it gets loud. Sometimes it gets quiet. It doesn’t go away.”
A beat passed.
Then, quietly: “You weren’t supposed to feel that.”
Vergil’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t be feeling that.”
Dante didn’t respond. He just stood up and pulled a bottle of cheap whiskey from his coat. Took a swig. Winced.
Vergil rolled his eyes. “That won’t help.”
“Don’t care.”
Later, they tried to sleep.
Tried.
Dante lay flat on his back, staring at the stained ceiling tiles. He could feel every shift of Vergil’s tension in the other bed — the way he held himself like a wire ready to snap.
“You good over there?” he muttered.
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
Dante blinked. “…Did you just admit that?”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Because of the bond, or—”
“No. I never do.”
“Oh.”
Another silence.
Then, gruffer: “Your chest hurts.”
Dante exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
He paused. Swallowed.
“I mean…it’s nothing new. Taken a few hits, I guess.”
Vergil said nothing.
But he didn’t roll over, either.
It started like a memory.
Dante was eight. Everything was fire.
The house was gone — what hadn’t burned had collapsed. His skin stung with heat, but his arms were wrapped around something unmoving.
His mother.
He wouldn’t let go. Not yet. Not until Vergil came back.
Except Vergil never did.
And the snow started falling where ash should be.
Vergil stood in a palace of stone and silence, his own face reflected in towering onyx pillars. But the face was wrong — hollow-eyed, silver-veined, mouth curled in a smile he didn’t own.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t speak.
The armor gripped his limbs like a second skin. He could feel the weight of a sword he didn’t choose, taste blood that wasn’t his.
He tried to scream. It came out as a roar.
They both snapped awake.
Dante sat bolt upright, gasping. Cold sweat soaked his shirt, Requiem’s phantom ache flaring down his spine like fire beneath ice.
Vergil had already gotten out of bed — pacing, fists clenched, eyes wide with something that looked too close to fear.
Dante swallowed. “You saw that.”
Vergil didn’t respond.
“You were there,” Dante said, quieter. “In my head. You saw her.”
Vergil’s voice was flat, but his hands trembled. “And you saw me.”
Dante didn’t speak for a long time.
“That wasn’t just a dream.”
“No.”
Vergil turned to face him. “Whatever this affliction is, it clearly affects more than physical maladies.”
Dante dragged a hand down his face. “Yeah. Great.”
The silence thickened between them — heavy, suffocating. There was no sarcasm now. No barbs left to throw.
Vergil stared at the wall, his gaze distant.
They stayed like that for a while — both standing, both broken open just wide enough to let the rot breathe.
Then Dante smiled faintly and said, “I don’t know if I ever said it before, but I always missed you.”
Vergil’s breath caught.
“I used to talk to you,” Dante said with a laugh too sharp to be funny. “Well, to no one, really. But I would pretend it was you. Even when I thought I hated you.”
Vergil's posture relaxed, but he stayed silent.
Neither of them slept after that.
They sat on the edge of their beds, close enough for the bond to quiet — not because they had to, but because they didn’t want to feel alone again.
Morning came gray and shapeless, smeared across the motel windows like wet ash. The sky outside looked bruised. Neither of them had slept.
Dante stood at the sink, washing his face with lukewarm tap water and avoiding the mirror. He could feel Vergil’s tension behind him — a sharp pressure between his ribs that pulsed with every breath.
He dried his face on a scratchy towel. “You’re gonna give us both an ulcer if you keep clenching your jaw like that.”
Vergil, sitting stiffly in the armchair by the window, didn’t answer.
Dante sighed. “You’re mad.”
Vergil turned his head just slightly. “I’m not mad.”
“Then you’re doing a damn good impression.”
“I’m not—” Vergil stood, too fast. “I’m not mad, I’m—”
He stopped. His fists clenched. “You should have told me.”
Dante blinked. “Told you what?”
“That you were still suffering this much. That this wasn’t over for you. That Requiem left such a mark.”
“I didn’t think I needed to spell it out! You’ve seen me limping around.”
“I felt your body convulse last night, Dante.” Vergil’s voice rose, sharper now. “I saw the way you screamed and didn’t make a sound. I felt it in my spine. You’ve been walking around like nothing’s wrong, like you’re fine, and you are not.”
Dante’s hands shook. He dropped the towel and stepped back, shoulders rising.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some ticking bomb, Vergil. You’re not my babysitter.”
“No. I’m your brother. And you should have told me.”
Dante’s laugh was bitter. “Funny. That never stopped you before.”
The air snapped like a wire under tension.
Vergil stepped forward.
“You want to blame me?” he hissed. “Fine. Blame me. Blame me for not stopping Sibyl. For not tearing that cursed devil arm off your body. For every second I wasn’t there in the past. I’ll take it.”
“Oh, you will, huh?” Dante snarled. “That easy for you?”
He shoved Vergil.
The force rippled through both of them.
Pain burst in their chests — not mortal, but jarring, reflexive, like a shared nerve getting kicked from both ends.
Vergil reeled back a step. “Don’t.”
Dante advanced. “Why not? Gonna feel that too?”
He swung. It was a shallow punch — aimed more at breaking something than hurting.
Vergil caught it.
But he didn’t dodge the second.
The hit landed square in his ribs. His body folded — and so did Dante’s.
They dropped together.
Collapsed onto the floor, both gasping, both cradling their sides like they’d been run through.
Silence.
Just breathing. Hard. Uneven. Raw.
Dante pressed a palm to his sternum. “God. That wasn’t even a full hit.”
Vergil coughed. “You idiot.”
Dante barked a laugh, voice cracking. “We’re both idiots.”
They sat there, side by side on the ugly motel carpet, backs against the wall. Neither moved. Neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t cold this time.
It was tired.
Eventually, Dante tilted his head. “You know what really sucks?”
Vergil didn’t look at him. “What?”
“I think… I’ve been waiting for you to hit me since the day you came back.”
Vergil’s hands curled in his lap. "I have stabbed you plenty."
Dante continued. “Well, yes, but I mean...like this. I thought if we fought again, like we did as kids, we’d fix something. That maybe we’d stop being… this.”
Vergil closed his eyes. “You think we’re broken.”
“I know we are.”
Vergil was quiet for a long time.
“Maybe we are,” he said, “But I’m still here, and I intend to stay.”
That brought Dante up short.
He turned his head. Really looked at him.
“You mean that?”
“I do.”
Dante stared at the ceiling.
His voice was hoarse when he said, “Then maybe that’s enough.”
The motel carpet was scratchy and smelled faintly of mildew, like someone had spilled a beer and never cleaned it up.
Dante sat with one knee drawn up, ribs still throbbing where the punch had landed. Vergil sat beside him, stiff-backed but still, knuckles resting lightly on the floor, as if he wasn’t sure whether to brace or relax.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The air between them had changed — not warmer, not softer, just… honest.
Raw.
Like a scab finally peeled back to show healing skin.
Dante let his head fall back against the wall. The drywall groaned. “You ever think maybe we missed our window?”
Vergil didn’t turn. “What window?”
“The one where we could’ve been something other than this.” He gestured vaguely. “Wounds wrapped in swag and guilt.”
Vergil’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “I don’t think we were ever going to be normal.”
“Yeah,” Dante muttered. “But we could’ve been better.”
A long pause.
Vergil said quietly, “You looked up to me once.”
Dante blinked.
“That memory,” Vergil went on. “The fire. Our mother’s body. I felt it. But before that, you were waiting.”
“I always waited,” Dante said.
“I know,” Vergil said, and this time his voice cracked.
“I told myself I was saving you by leaving, that I had to be stronger, faster, ruthless. That if I were enough… I could tear the world apart and put it back together with her in it.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I told myself I was doing it for you.”
Dante didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t flinch either.
He just looked at him. Quiet. Older.
“You were doing it for yourself,” he said, not unkindly. “Because you couldn’t stand what you lost.”
Vergil nodded once. “And I hated you for surviving it.”
That hung there. Between them. Heavy.
And then Dante said, “And I guess I hated you for leaving me with it.”
Silence.
It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t angry.
They both let it settle. Let it hurt.
And then, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes:
“…I’m sorry,” Vergil said.
Dante blinked. Actually blinked.
“I’m not saying it again,” Vergil added, flat.
Dante snorted. “Wouldn’t want you to strain anything.”
But something had shifted. Not forgiveness. Not a fix. Just… truth.
Dante stretched his legs out in front of him, boots thudding dully against the carpet. “You think we’ll ever stop screwing each other up?”
Vergil considered it. “No.”
“Cool.”
They sat in silence again, but this time it was softer.
Outside, the sky had begun to pale — not sunrise exactly, just a softer shade of grey.
Vergil glanced sideways. “Your chest still hurts?”
“Always.”
He nodded. “Mine too.”
Neither one of them asked whether it was from the bond.
They just sat there, side by side on the floor, the tether between them still quietly humming.
Not a curse.
Not a punishment.
Just a thread.
And for once, neither of them pulled away, and it happened without fanfare.
No pulse of light. No demonic screech. No burning glyph carved into the sky.
Just a slow, aching release.
Dante felt it first — that low hum under his skin, the one that had been there since the glyph flared back in the cathedral, unspool. Like tension in a wire finally letting go.
His breath caught. The ache in his chest eased.
Vergil flinched beside him, hand tightening briefly against the floor.
And then it was gone.
The tether between them — that unnatural thread pulled taut for the last few hours — snapped.
Not with pain. Not even relief.
Just… absence.
Space, where something had been.
Dante let out a slow breath.
Vergil was still. Too still. Like he was waiting for it to come back.
Dante didn’t look at him when he said, “It’s over.”
Vergil nodded once. “Yes.”
They sat there a little longer anyway.
Not because they had to.
Because neither one stood up.
Finally, Dante pulled himself to his feet with a grunt. His body still ached — Requiem’s fingerprints hadn’t faded, not completely — but something felt lighter now, like he wasn’t carrying all of it alone.
He rubbed at his sternum absently. The pain was still there. But it wasn’t screaming anymore.
Vergil stood a moment later, slower than usual. No flourish. No stiff spine or ceremonial posture. Just a man getting up after a long night.
Dante stretched his arms, wincing. “So. That sucked.”
Vergil’s brow lifted, dry. “I’ve had worse.”
“Yeah?” Dante said. “Name three.”
Vergil opened his mouth. Paused. “…Fair point.”
They gathered their things in silence. Dante’s coat was still crumpled in the corner; Vergil’s was folded with ritual precision on the chair. Opposites to the bitter end.
At the door, Dante hesitated.
He looked back once at the ugly room and the ghost of the bond that still echoed faintly in his ribs.
“You, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You feel different?”
Vergil regarded him.
Then, carefully, “I feel... less alone.”
Dante blinked. It wasn’t what he expected.
But it was honest.
He gave a crooked half-smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
They stepped out into the early light, side by side, without a word more.
The sun hadn’t quite risen yet.
But it would.