Archive of Our Own ^beta

EXT. DOWNTOWN ALLEY – PAST MIDNIGHT

Somewhere off the main drag, a metal dumpster clatters to a slow stop.

Dante rounds the corner, Devil Sword Dante resting across one shoulder. He walks slow, casual, like he’s expecting a fight but not in a hurry for it. His brow lifts as he takes in the scene.

Demon bodies. Five of them. Fresh.

One man still stands at the center of it all. He holds an axe with twin crescent blades, sharp and precise. The weapon looks ancient, but nothing about it is worn. Its shape is exact, its edges immaculate like it was forged for war and never forgot. 

His combat shirt clings to him, sweat-darkened at the collar and sleeves, streaked with ash and blood across the chest. He doesn’t look winded. Just steady. Still. Like the fight barely noticed him. Ash-blonde hair falls long on one side, slightly matted at the ends, while the other is cleanly cropped, sharp and deliberate. Like everything about him, the cut walks a line between discipline and defiance.

Dante stops a few paces back, gives a low chuckle.

DANTE:
"Well damn. I don’t usually show up late to the party and find it already cleaned up."

He gives the guy a once-over, mouth flat, interest piqued but masked.

DANTE (cont'd):
"Don’t recognize the bouncer, though."

STRANGER:
(almost grinning, dry as dust)
“Look at that. The mascot decided to make an appearance.”

The corner of Dante’s mouth twitches. Could be a smirk. Could be restraint. He shifts his weight, lets the silence hang just long enough to say he’s heard better.

DANTE:
(dry)
"Never seen you around here before."

He shifts his stance. Relaxed, but keyed in. Smirk curling.

DANTE (cont'd):
"Let me guess... quiet type. Brooding. Wears tactical like it’s trendy. Probably sharpens that axe more than you talk to people."
(beat)
"You ex-military or just allergic to joy?"

The stranger stays still. Doesn’t bite. Just watches.

STRANGER:
"Just passing through. Looking for someone."

He lets that sit a second. Then sizes Dante up, eyes flicking to the sword, then the stance.

STRANGER:
"Let me guess."
(beat)
"You move like someone who grew up fighting with someone. Probably a brother. Prettier. But way deadlier."

Another pause. Slight tilt of the head.

STRANGER (cont'd):
"You’ve been trying to save the world ever since. Mostly from yourself."

He takes one step closer. Casual. Confident.

STRANGER (cont'd):
"Prince of pain. With a punchline problem."

DANTE:
(grinning, unfazed)
“You rehearse that one, or am I just lucky tonight?”
(tilts his head, voice dipping, needling)
“Got a name, Mr. Just Passing Through? Or should I keep calling you Tall, Blond, and Clearly Overcompensating?”

The stranger rolls his shoulders, axe still loose in one hand. His eyes catch the low light, emerald green with a stillness that feels more like warning than peace.

STRANGER:
“ Pope. ”

DANTE:
(snickers)
“The hell kind of name is that?”

POPE:
“One people whisper right before they die.”
(beat, not breaking eye contact)
“Don’t worry. You’re not on the list. Yet. And what do they call you around here? Besides the guy strutting like a midlife crisis in leather?”

DANTE:
(slow grin, chin tilting slightly)
“It’s Dante. And this midlife crisis? Has got more mileage than your pretty-boy pout can handle.”

POPE:
(steps closer, not backing down)
“Dante, huh?”
(beat, faintest curl of a smirk)
“What—Romeo was taken?”

A stillness settles between them.

CAMERA – WIDE SHOT: Dante draws Ebony, slow and sideways. Pope doesn’t flinch. He adjusts his grip on the axe, subtle but ready. The twin blades glint faintly as he tilts his head, gaze locked and unshaken.

For a moment, the alley tightens. Tension coils, sharp and silent.

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON DANTE (SLOW MOTION): Dante fires. A gunshot cracks the air.

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON POPE (SLOW MOTION): The bullet slices past Pope’s cheek. Steel flashes. He twists. His axe arcs upward in a clean, brutal motion.

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON DANTE: A demon closes in from behind. The blade passes close — too close — slicing clean through the demon mid-leap.

CAMERA – CLOSE UP - DANTE’S HAIR AND SHOULDER: A few strands of his hair drift down in the aftermath, catching the light as they settle softly on his shoulder.

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON DANTE: Dante clocks it. The strands on his shoulder stay.

He doesn’t move. Just watches Pope, eyes narrowing with something between respect and warning.

CAMERA – WIDE SHOT: Both monsters hit the ground. One smolders. The other lies still.

Dante spins Ebony once and holsters it. Pope wipes the blood off his shoulder with the back of his wrist.

POPE:
(flat)
“If you get in my way… I’ll cut through you just the same.”

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON POPE: He turns and walks off without another word.

Suddenly—

Dante strikes. The Devil Sword Dante cuts through the space between them.

Pope reacts fast. His axe lifts with practiced ease, catching the blade before it lands.

CAMERA – CLOSE UP: POPE’S HAIR: Strands from the long side of his blonde hair fall to the ground, severed clean.

CAMERA – MID SHOT ON DANTE: He lowers his sword, smirking like that was all he needed.

DANTE:
“That’s for the hair.”
(beat)
“And if you do something shady and stupid... it won’t be your hair that needs fixing.”

He brushes off the last strands still resting on his shoulder and turns away, sword resting on his shoulder as he walks in the opposite direction.

FADE TO BLACK


INT. DEVIL MAY CRY – AFTERNOON

The scent of old leather, espresso, and gun oil lingers in the air. Dust floats through the room, stirred only by the occasional hum of a ceiling fan struggling overhead. 

Dante lounges in Lady’s massage chair, flipping lazily through a magazine. One leg draped over the armrest, he looks half-asleep, but his eyes track the page. The chair sits still, quiet. He hasn’t touched the controls.

Across the room, Lady stands at the cluttered counter, fishing her keys from a glass tray. No gear today. She wears a black tee, faded jeans, and a crossbody bag slung over one shoulder. She crouches briefly, lifts the hem of her jeans, and slides a compact pistol into her boot. Quiet, fluid. Just in case. She straightens, adjusting her bag with one hand. Her eyes find Dante. A hint of a smile flickers, but he doesn’t see it.

LADY:
(grabbing her keys)
"I’m heading out. Meeting Nico. Picking up sheets and supplies for the new orphanage."

The front door creaks open just as she turns to leave. Morrison steps in, folder tucked under one arm, wearing that familiar half-grin. The kind that usually means trouble or something expensive.

LADY:
(glancing over)
"Oh, hey. You bringing us trouble or bills?"

MORRISON:
(grinning)
"Bit of both. But don’t let me stop you. Dante can catch you up when you’re back."

Already by the door, Lady gives Morrison a quick nod. Hand on the door handle, she pauses and throws a look over her shoulder at Dante.

LADY (to Dante):
"Mess with the settings again and I’m having Nico wire it to jolt you right in the glutes. So put it back. Got it?"

Dante doesn’t look up. Just flips a page.

DANTE:
"Copy that. Change it back, keep the butt intact."

Lady smirks. She swings the door wider, then steps out and pulls it shut behind her with a quiet thud.

Morrison chuckles, then crosses the room at an easy pace, folder still tucked under one arm. Settles into the couch near the jukebox with a content sigh.

MORRISON:
"It’s been, what, five months since she moved in? Looks like domestic life’s rubbing off on you."

DANTE:
(flipping the page without looking up)
"Roommates, that’s it. Call it anything else and next thing you know I’m planting tomatoes. Shoot me if that happens." 

MORRISON:
(laughs)
"Sure. Famous last words. I’ll keep the safety off."

DANTE:
(sits up a little, voice shifting)
"Alright, Morrison. Enough small talk. What’ve you got?"

Morrison shifts deeper into the couch, leaning back as he drapes one arm across the backrest. He hooks an ankle over the opposite knee and lets his heel tap a quiet rhythm on the floor.

MORRISON:
“Real delicate gig. Needs a light touch. Cash up front, fat stacks you count with both hands. Grab Lady and Trish, you’ll want the extra firepower. He’ll be here any minute.”

DANTE:
(sighs)
“Awesome. Nothing screams ‘easy gig’ like mystery clients and cryptic setups.”

Dante sinks back into the massage chair, thumbs a few buttons on the control panel. The settings beep higher and he lets out a small grin, satisfied with the new level.

MORRISON:
“He’s an outsider. Not from around here. Slight accent, the kind you can’t quite pin down.”

Dante pauses, finger hovering over the start button.

DANTE:
(scoffs, shakes his head)
“The universe and its funny little reruns.”
(beat)
“Lemme guess… tall, blond, face too pretty to be swinging an axe that big. Smells like someone’s compensating.”

Morrison turns his head toward Dante, eyebrows lifting. He shifts back slightly into the couch, caught just a bit off guard.

MORRISON:
"You met him already?"

Dante rests the magazine on his lap, sits up a little straighter as the memory clicks into place. His voice is light, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes, measured and watchful.

DANTE:
“He swung first, I swung back. Call it even.”

Then—

Pope steps in, a small suitcase in hand.

Morrison rises from the couch, crosses the room, and slaps the folder down on the desk.

MORRISON:
“That’s my exit. Boys, try not to kill each other before the job even starts.”

Pope stands just inside the threshold, suitcase still in hand. He doesn’t move. The air sharpens between them, charged with something recent and unresolved. No words pass yet. Just the quiet strain of two men who already locked horns and walked away unsettled.

As Morrison steps forward, Pope shifts slightly, barely more than a lean, but it’s enough. He gives way without looking away.

Dante rises from the massage chair. He doesn’t look at the magazine as he tosses it onto the couch. His steps are slow, deliberate. He doesn’t close the gap. His face wears that usual half-smirk, but his eyes stay sharp, guarded.

DANTE:
“Let me get one thing straight.”
(he points, not angrily, but with warning)
“You pay, fine. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
(beat)
“You pull another stunt like last time, or try something slick... ”
(he tilts his head slightly, voice cools)
“...and I’m sending your pretty face back to wherever you came from—with dents.”

Pope doesn’t flinch. Just studies Dante for a moment, then steps forward. The door swings shut behind him with a nudge of his boot, casual, almost like a kick.

POPE:
“I don’t trust you either. But what I said still stands.”
(his voice flat, eyes locked on Dante)
“You block my path, you disappear.”

He flicks the suitcase across the coffee table. It slides clean, hits a gentle stop. The pressure latches snap open with a sharp click. A moment later, the lid springs up halfway, just enough to show thick stacks of cash and two gleaming gold bars settled in custom foam.

DANTE:
(lets out a dry whistle, unimpressed)
“Gold bars. Classy.”

He starts toward the desk, slow and deliberate, arms still folded.

DANTE (cont’d):
“That’s a lot for someone just ‘passing through.’”
(beat)
“Either you’re filthy rich… or someone else ended up filthy dead. And I don’t even wanna know what kind of trouble pays that well.”

Pope doesn’t answer. His gaze snags on something near the edge of the desk. A sliver of parchment juts from the folder. Just enough of the old banner sketch is exposed to reveal part of a symbol. His expression sharpens, focus narrowing.

He walks toward the desk, steps gaining weight, pace sharp. Eyes fixed.

Dante notices. Tracks the line of his stare.

DANTE:
“What—?”

Pope ignores him. He reaches across, brushes aside the folder, and slides the parchment out revealing an aged war banner etched with three distinct symbols.

His breath quickens.

POPE:
(quiet, then firm)
"Where did you get this?"

The tension in the room spikes. Dante doesn’t answer. In one fluid motion, he draws Ivory and presses the cold muzzle under Pope’s chin.

DANTE:
(low and controlled)
"I’ve searched every archive from here to Fortuna. Even the crackpot cult forums had nothing."

He holds Pope’s eyes. No blink. No flinch.

DANTE (cont’d):
"But you—"

He steps in. Grabs the back of Pope’s neck. The muzzle digs harder under his jaw.

DANTE (cont’d):
"You recognize it... and you happen to be just passing through, huh?"

Pope’s jaw tightens. The calm cracks. His breath shortens, and something in his eyes flickers. It is no longer just irritation or defiance. It is the creeping edge of real alarm. He knows what this is. And he wishes he didn’t.

DANTE:
(firm)
"Talk."

POPE:
(raises his hands, voice steady)
“Alright. Easy. I’ll talk.”

He meets Dante’s stare without backing down. A slow breath leaves him, more measured than defiant.

POPE (cont’d):
“Whether you believe it or not, we’re on the same side. I’ll tell you what I can.”

Dante doesn’t lower the gun right away. His stare sharpens.

POPE:
(steady exhale)
“That banner... the symbols... it's forbidden history. Pre-human.”

Dante lowers Ivory. Not out of trust, but calculation. He keeps his stance tight.

DANTE:
“Keep talking.”

Pope picks up the parchment carefully, holding it like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

He traces a finger near the top symbol without touching it directly.

POPE:
Unity.
(points lower)
Salvation.
(fingers the tip of the symbol)
Dominion.
(beat)
It’s their creed.

DANTE:
“Who were they?”

Pope doesn’t answer at first. He keeps his eyes on the parchment, one hand resting on the edge of the desk like he needs the anchor.

POPE:
“An ancient race that used this language.”
(pauses, voice low)
“Old alchemy. The real kind. Not the stuff we play with now... this came before anything we know.”

He traces the first symbol with his finger, careful, almost reverent.

POPE (cont’d):
“There are traces left. In ruins, in coded texts. But most of it’s gone.”

DANTE:
(his voice tightens slightly, gaze sharpening)
"Traces left where? Here?"

POPE:
“Other realms.”

The words hang in the air like ash, quiet, final, and heavy with the weight of something lost.

DANTE:
(his brow tightens, eyes locked and skeptical)
"Hold on. Something doesn’t add up. If it’s forbidden, how the hell can you read the symbols?"

Pope hesitates. His jaw shifts. He drops his gaze to the parchment, then lower, uncertain.

POPE:
"I don’t know. I just... can."

Dante narrows his eyes. No warning. He raises Ivory again, steady.

Pope doesn’t flinch. His eyes drift instead to the framed photo of Eva on the desk.

POPE:
"Do you remember your childhood?"

Dante doesn’t answer. His posture stays firm, but something in his stare shifts. A flicker. The silence says enough.

POPE:
"I don’t remember anything from mine."
(beat)
"I just remember waking up one day, already a boy being pushed to become a killer."

Dante holds the aim a second longer, breathing slow. Pope still doesn’t move. No threat. No resistance.

Finally, Dante lowers the weapon. He slides it back into the holster with a slow breath out, tension bleeding off his shoulders in silence.

DANTE:
(quietly)
“Let me show you something.”

Dante crosses the room to the bookshelf tucked beneath the stairs. He crouches, slams the side of his fist against a specific spot on the floor. A dull knock follows as a section of the wood pops up slightly. He hooks his fingers under the edge and lifts, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. A weathered metal case rests inside.

He pulls it out and flips it open. Inside are a few sealed envelopes, a folded cloth, and one old Polaroid photo. He takes the photo, stands, and walks back to Pope.

Without a word, Dante holds it out.

Pope takes the photo, his eyes immediately drawn to the markings. He examines them in silence, then turns the photo slightly, pointing to each symbol in turn as he speaks.

POPE:
"Will. Rage. Love."

He lingers on the glyphs for a long moment, then slowly shakes his head.

POPE:
"I’ve never seen this combination before."

He looks up.

POPE:
"Is this you?"

Dante doesn’t answer at first. His jaw shifts slightly, tension building behind the silence.

DANTE:
(hesitates)
"The marks faded. Fast."
(beat)
"Hold on. There’s something else."

He walks over to the desk and sets the metal case down. From inside, he pulls out a folded cloth, unwraps it carefully, and reveals a detached alchemical dial. It gleams under the light, etched with faint glyphs, ancient and intricate. A soft pulse glows at its core, barely alive, still holding a trace of resonance.

Pope’s eyes widen. He steps closer, gaze locked on the artifact. Then, without asking, he takes the dial from Dante’s hand. His fingers move like they’ve held something like it before.

POPE:
"I need tools."


INT. DMC GARAGE – CONTINUOUS

Dante gestures toward the workbench.

DANTE:
"All yours."

Pope steps in, dial in hand. He finds a seam, presses it—

SNAP.

A hidden latch releases. The disc splits with a soft hiss.

In seconds, he dismantles it, glyph-ring loosened and gears pulled free. At the center: three small stones glowing faint blue. One large one—deep ruby red—sits like a heart. Parts scatter across the table.

Dante leans in, about to speak—

But Pope grabs a hammer off the wall rack and slams it down.

Once. Twice. Again.

DANTE:
(snaps)
“What the hell, Pope?! That could be the only—”

POPE:
(cutting in, sharp)
“This shouldn’t be here.”
(beat, low)
“You don’t understand what you’re holding.”

He keeps hammering. The stones shatter. Dust and shards fly. Metal cracks. Gears crumple. In seconds, it’s destruction.

He stops. What was once ancient tech is now a mess of splintered gears and shattered gemstones.

He sets the hammer down. Both hands on the workbench, breath heavy but steady. Then he straightens, eyes locking with Dante’s.

POPE:
(low)
“If you had those markings... and that—”
(gestures to the broken dial)
“That means you crossed the threshold.”
(his voice falters, barely audible)
“And it’s forbidden.”

A beat of silence.

For the first time, Dante sees it clearly: Fear. And beneath it. Guilt.

POPE:
“What did you see? When you crossed over—did you see them?”

DANTE:
(shakes his head)
“No. Just... illusions. Distortions from memory.”

But he doesn’t say the rest—

The containment pod, the entity, the sketch of the feminine figure holding the Yamato.

Or why he was there in the first place.

Pope exhales. A sliver of relief.

POPE:
“Then that wasn’t the threshold.”
(beat)
“But wherever you were... ”
(eyes narrowing)
"...it was close."

Dante doesn’t answer. The silence invites more.

Pope leans in, voice just above a whisper. Afraid, like something unseen might be listening.

POPE:
“There are other forces. Worse ones. Not just the ones who fly that banner or made that thing.”
(a long breath, the weight settling)
“If they find out those glyphs reached the human realm—”
(shakes his head)
“You don’t get a warning. You just disappear.”

DANTE:
“I need to protect them. All of them. There’s someone I—”
(voice tightens)
“I can’t sit around and wait for hell to knock again.”

POPE:
“You wanna protect them? Then whatever you think you know—”
(beat)
“Stop. Burn it. Forget it.”

He turns and heads for the back door, boots heavy on the floor.

DANTE:
(steps halfway after him, calling out)
“Where you going?”

Pope doesn’t look back right away.

POPE:
“I’ll be back. Brief you and your team then.”

At the alley’s edge, Pope stops and turns.

POPE (cont’d):
“And Dante... eyes forward. Mouth shut. I mean it.”

Dante doesn’t reply. His jaw locks, tension coiling under the surface. No retort. No challenge. Just a quiet shift in his eyes. A mix of suspicion, grit, and something deeper. A weight settling in. Something he can’t name yet.

FADE TO BLACK


FADE IN:

INT. DMC SHOP – EARLY EVENING

CAMERA – CLOSE UP ON DANTE’S HAND: A weathered coin rolls slowly between his fingers. The metal flashes dull gold under the lamplight. The motion is automatic and thoughtful.

CAMERA – PUSH OUT TO MID SHOT: Dante sits behind the desk. Elbows resting. Gaze distant. The weight of the last few hours lingers in his eyes.

A muffled voice drifts from the back.

NICO (O.S., muffled):
“Dumplings or fried rice? Make up your mind.”

The room sounds far away.

CAMERA – DANTE’S POV: The frame distorts briefly, edges softening as a low hum sets in.

CAMERA – FLASH CUT TO: NELL GOLDSTEIN’S WORKSHOP – MEMORY

Nell leans in, snaps her fingers close to his face.

NELL:
(echoing)
“Dante—snap outta it.”

HARD CUT BACK TO: DMC SHOP – PRESENT

Nico snaps her fingers in the same spot, breaking the fog. 

NICO:
(southern drawl, teasing but concerned)
“Hey. You alive in there, sheriff?”

DANTE:
(straightens up, exhales)
“Yeah. Mission’s circling my head, that’s all.”

NICO:
“We’re ordering. You sticking with sad-man pizza or trying the dumplings?”

DANTE:
(smiles faintly)
“Pizza. No olives, no fruit. House rules.”

Dante glances toward the pool table. Lady lines up a shot. Trish watches, smirk in place.

LADY:
(leaning over her cue)
“Miss again and I paint that cue neon pink. Maybe then you’ll stop blaming the lighting.”

TRISH:
(flat, amused)
“Lighting’s fine. Your geometry’s drunk.”

Dante pushes up from his seat, stretches a shoulder, and walks over to the rack. He grabs a cue.

DANTE:
(grinning)
“Let me rescue the reputation of this fine table.”

LADY:
(cocking an eyebrow)
“Sure. You can play winner if you can still see straight after all that brooding.”

TRISH:
(smiling faintly)
“What was that faraway look about? Something off the books?”

DANTE:
(smirks, eyes on the table)
“Might’ve been soul-searching. Might’ve just been bad lighting.”
(readies his stance)
“Anyway. Let’s see if either of you can land a shot preferably before I fall asleep.”

Just as the cue connects—

A heavy engine rumbles outside. 

Bootsteps. Approaching. Intentional.

The front door creaks open—

Pope steps in. Fully geared. Black shirt. Dark green tactical vest. Black utility pants. Forearm guards worn and scarred. An axe is strapped across his back. A sidearm rests at his hip. Silent. Controlled. Ash-blonde hair, one side long, the other buzzed close. Emerald eyes catch the low light. Focused. Cutting. A trace of stubble shadows his jaw.

The mood shifts. No words. No sound. Just that quiet weight that follows certain people in. Like the room falls in line without knowing why.

Trish sets her cue on the table with a soft clack, arms folding as she leans casually on one hip. A smirk lingers at the corner of her lips.

Lady doesn’t move much. Still holding the cue, body turned with one hand on her hip. Her stance is relaxed, but coiled. Watching. Measuring.

Dante straightens, cue at his side. His gaze finds Pope’s. Something unspoken passes between them. He steps forward, slow and unhurried, and returns the cue to the rack. No flourish, just quiet purpose.

Then he turns to face Pope fully.

No tension. No surprise. Just a stillness charged with recognition.

They don’t speak. They don’t have to.

Pope gives the faintest nod. That’s all.

DANTE:
“Ladies, this is Pope. He’s—”

Trish steps forward, cutting in with practiced ease as she moves in front of Dante. She extends a hand, nails painted a sharp blood-red, her presence commanding.

TRISH:
(smirks, sultry)
“Trish. Demonologist, provocateur... and occasional therapist for dysfunctional hunters.”

Pope takes her hand with a calm, deliberate grip. His smile is faint and mannered, not flirtatious. His emerald eyes don’t waver, holding hers with quiet intensity. There’s no fear. No posturing. Just presence.

POPE:
“Pope. Just passing through.”

Lady sets her cue stick down with a soft clack. She steps in, rests an elbow lightly on Trish’s shoulder, and offers her hand.

Dante shifts his weight slightly, one brow lifting with quiet disbelief as he watches her move in. Not her too.

LADY:
(half-grin, cool and confident)
“I’m Lady. Expert marksman, demolition enthusiast, and tactical lead when the boys get sentimental.”

Pope gently releases Trish’s hand, eyes now on Lady. He takes her offered hand with the same composed ease. Measured. Unflinching.

Trish, still watching him with that low, smoldering stare, doesn’t move.

Lady nudges her with a subtle shift of hip and shoulder.

Trish exhales through her nose, amused. She throws up her hands in surrender, a playful smirk tugging at her lips, and steps aside.

LADY:
(cocking her head slightly)
"That accent... not local. Where you from?"

POPE:
(casual)
"Been around a lot."

In the background, Dante shakes his head and exhales, half amused and half resigned. He stays back, watching this unfold.

Trish, now off to the side, arms still crossed, catches Dante’s reaction. Her lips curl, part knowing and part entertained, as if biting back a laugh.

Pope glances briefly at Dante, sensing the shift in the air. A faint grin tugs at one corner of his mouth, not smug but laced with something playful, almost fiendish in his eyes. He turns back to Lady with just enough edge to test the room without stepping over the line.

POPE:
(cool, unfazed)
"Lady, huh? Suits you."

LADY:
(tilting her head slightly, amused)
"Flattery’s a slippery slope."
(beat)
"Tread light, Pope."

POPE:
(chuckling, voice low)
"Just mapping the edges. Wouldn’t want to trigger any traps."

Dante exhales softly, then uncrosses his arms. A pause. He steps forward.

DANTE:
(low and even)
"Alright. Enough warm-up."
(beat)
"We’ve got work to do."

Dante motions toward the armchair across from the couch in the receiving area.

Pope glances at it. Without a word, he unstraps his axe and sets it across the coffee table. The weapon is long, its double crescent blades catching the light as the center spike rests just beyond the table’s edge.

He lets a beat pass.

Then he takes the couch instead, settling squarely in the middle.

Lady and Trish follow, claiming a seat on either side of Pope.

Trish leans back into the far corner, one leg crossed, her arm stretched along the backrest with effortless ease.

Lady settles at the opposite end, legs crossed, elbows braced on her knee. Her posture is relaxed, but her eyes stay sharp.

Dante watches the quiet power balance take shape. After a moment, he walks over and takes the armchair himself. He leans back, arms resting on the sides, gaze steady as he studies the room.

The silence lingers. Not awkward. Just heavy enough to draw a breath before the next move.

He leans forward slightly.

DANTE:
“Alright... tell us about—”

DINGDONG. The doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected.

LADY:
(squinting toward the door, puzzled)
“We have a doorbell?”
(beat)
“And it works?”

Dante exhales, mildly irritated by the interruption.

DANTE:
(calling out)
“It’s open! You can come in!”

DINGDONG. DINGDONG. The bell rings again, sharper this time.

Dante grunts, confused now, shifting in his seat, about to stand.

DANTE:
“What the hell—”

NICO:
(offscreen, hurried)
Sorry! Sorry! That’s delivery!

She rushes in from the garage, boots hitting the floor fast. Just as she passes the couch, she glances sideways, sees Pope, and stops cold.

NICO:
(barely a whisper, Southern drawl)
“Well I’ll be damned…”

Pope meets her gaze. A small smile. He lifts two fingers in a casual salute.

Nico places a hand over her chest, flustered but trying to keep cool.

NICO:
(stammering)
“I’m Nico.”

POPE:
“Pope.”
(beat)
“Nice to meet you.”

DINGDONG. DINGDONG. DINGDONG. The bell keeps going, a little more impatient now.

NICO:
(beat, recovering)
“Right. I’m gonna grab that.”
(calling out toward the door)
Alright! Alright! Gimme a sec!”

Nico exits toward the door, the last echo of the bell fading. A pause settles over the room.

POPE:
(quiet, level)
“Alright. Let’s talk mission.”

The atmosphere shifts. The mood tightens. Trish adjusts her position, leaning forward slightly. Lady mirrors her.

Nico crosses the room and sets the takeout bags and a pizza box on Dante’s desk with a soft thud.

DANTE:
“Nico, you’re staying for this.”
(pats the empty chair)
“It’s important.”

He gestures toward the single armchair beside him.

Instead, Nico strolls over and casually parks herself on the armrest next to Lady.

Before long, all three women are seated, deliberately or not, framing Pope at the center like gravity pulled them there.

He leans back slow, a hand dragging across his jaw, the other resting on the armrest. The room catches the shift.

DANTE:
(under his breath, just for himself)
“Unbelievable.”

Pope doesn't respond right away. He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, posture steady. His voice stays calm, but there’s a weight to it.

POPE:
“I’ve been tracking two shapeshifters. Latest confirmed location—Fortuna.”

Nico shoots Dante a look. He catches it, eyes narrowing slightly.

Dante leans forward, one elbow braced on his knee, the other hand settling at his hip.

DANTE:
“Fortuna, huh?”

He exhales through his nose. Slow shake of the head.

DANTE (cont’d):
“I don’t like where this is going.”

Pope pulls two photographs from his tactical vest and sets them on the table beside his axe.

In the photo: a man and a woman, mid-20s. Ordinary smiles. Nothing suspicious.

Dante stands and circles behind the couch, arms folded as he studies the photos.

His eyes drift to the axe just for a moment.

He turns and heads toward the pool table.

DANTE:
(light scoff, muttering)
“Definitely overcompensating.”

He doesn’t look back as he says it. the words come low, just loud enough to catch fragments. The rest is swallowed by the room. A quiet dig  meant to poke, not provoke.

Dante leans against the edge of the pool table, one boot crossed in front of the other. Arms folded tight across his chest. His gaze stays forward, but his jaw is set, caught between thought and restraint.

Pope shifts forward, resting both forearms on his thighs. His posture is steady, but tension hums beneath it.

POPE:
“They’ve blended in as newly recruited caretakers escorting orphans to Capulet City. Posing as siblings.”
(beat)
“They’re not.”

Lady’s brow tightens. Her voice drops, low and serious.

LADY:
“Kyrie and Nero…”
(beat)
“That has to be their orphanage. It’s the only new one in Capulet.”

POPE:
"This is a delicate op. Forty-two children. Six adults, including your own. Two shapeshifters. Two unarmed civilians."
(beat)
"Primary directives. First: keep the civilians and children safe. Second: at least one target must be taken alive for interrogation."

He drops his gaze for a moment. Thumb drags slowly across a shallow groove on his forearm guard, muscle memory more than thought. Not anxious. Not calm either. Just steady. Certain.

POPE (cont’d):
"They’ll self-terminate the moment they’re cornered. I need answers. And if they vanish before I get them..."
(beat)
"We lose more than the mission."

DANTE:
"So... we’ll need tranquilizers. Knock them out clean."

Pope glances sideways at Dante. Not harsh. Just calculating. Like he’s weighing how much to explain.

POPE:
(shaking his head)
“No tranqs. I need their minds sharp. Intact. Any interference and we lose what they know.”

Trish flips her hair back with a casual shrug, lips quirking like she’s already bored of the warning.

TRISH:
(casual)
“Average shapeshifter isn’t exactly a heavyweight. Handled my share of copycats before.”

POPE:
(flat)
“These aren’t your average freaks.”
(voice sharpens, quiet but clinical)
“They’re fast. Trained. Favor the karambit. Concealed. Curved. Nasty. You blink, and they cut your throat before your body knows it’s dying.”

He pauses. Lets it settle.

POPE (cont’d):
“And guard your kidneys. They’ve been known to cut them out and eat them fresh while you’re still breathing.”
(beat)
“Just for fun.”

The silence that follows feels colder than before.

DANTE:
(cool, deadpan)
“Charming.”
(casual, but loaded)
“Seen demons gut people with less flair. Still... good to know who we’re dancing with.”

LADY:
(clipped)
“They’re not getting near the kids. Not even close.”

TRISH:
(dry, unfazed)
“I’ve seen worse dinner etiquette. Let’s just make sure they’re the ones bleeding out.”

NICO:
(grimacing, hand over her side)
“Ugh... that’s some backwoods horror movie mess.”

POPE:
"Estimated arrival in Capulet City is 1000 hours. But we can’t strike on contact."

LADY:
"Right... the kids."

DANTE:
"The kids stay at the orphanage. No movement means no red flags."
(beat)
"Nero takes the two shapeshifters. Plays it casual. Says he needs help with a supply run."

He shifts, tone sharpening just a bit.

DANTE (cont’d):
"He drops them at that old meat plant on the east end of Capulet. Still looks operational from the street, but it's been abandoned for years."

POPE:
(looks at Dante, nods once)
“Low visibility. One way in, one way out.”

LADY:
(grim)
“We box them in. Fast. Clean.”

DANTE:
"We can't use the Devil May Cry van. They'll clock it and Nico's gear in the back gives it away."
(to Nico)
"You got a backup ride on short notice? Something clean?"

NICO:
(nods)
"Sure do. I know a guy’s got a fleet sittin’ quiet. No questions. I can wrangle somethin’ plain-lookin' real quick."

DANTE:
"Good. Make it boring. Beige. Capulet plates if you can."

TRISH:
"So we call Nero. Or Kyrie. How do we let them know?"

POPE:
(shakes his head)
"Can’t. Not directly."

He leans back against the chair. Arms fold across his chest, with calm certainty. Shoulders broad, relaxed, like nothing in the room could shake him.

Trish clocks it. The posture. The calm. The quiet certainty. Her eyes flick over his frame. Just once. A faint smirk lifts the corner of her mouth, gone before anyone sees it.

POPE (cont’d):
(exhales)
“They can pick up sound from fifty meters out, sometimes more. Walls, breath shifts, muffled speech. It all registers. You try talking to either of them while they’re nearby, they’ll hear it. And they’ll know.”

A quiet pause. He lets that settle.

POPE (cont’d):
"We can’t walk in the orphanage like it’s just another job. They’ll recognize me. And I guarantee they know what you look like. Especially Dante."

Another pause. The room holds its breath.

POPE (cont’d):
"We wait at the plant. Quietly. No talking until we see Nero."

NICO:
"So how do we tell them?"

Dante pushes off the edge of the pool table, arms unfolding as he walks toward the group. Slow. Measured.

He stops beside them. Both hands settle on his hips, weight shifted slightly to one side. Not rushed. Just steady, like he already sees the next three moves ahead.

DANTE:
"No talking. Just slip in a note. That should work."

All eyes shift to Dante.

DANTE (cont’d):
"We send someone they won’t suspect. Someone already close. A familiar face. Trusted."

He lets it hang for a moment.

DANTE (cont’d):
"Someone smart. Quick on their feet..."

His eyes shift to Nico. The room follows.

NICO:
"Yeah… I already figured it’d be me. Just gotta make sure they don’t go for my kidneys."

TRISH:
"You don’t look like a red flag."

LADY:
(grinning)
"Yet."

Nico exhales, rubbing her hands on her pants, a flicker of nerves showing.

Pope leans forward, arm brushing past Trish as he reaches across and places his hand gently over Nico’s forearm, stilling it.

Her hands freeze mid-rub. His green eyes meet hers. Steady. Locked in.

POPE:
“You’ve got this. No one better for the job.”

Nico stiffens slightly, caught off guard. She blushes, quick and sharp, barely meeting his eyes.

NICO:
(pulling it together, mutters)
“Y’all best owe me somethin’ real damn nice after this.”

Lady stands. The leather couch gives a soft shift beneath her, the faint sound of fabric and weight releasing.

Pope watches her. His eyes shift to Dante for just a moment, and that’s all it takes. He catches the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. It isn’t jealousy. It isn’t possession. It’s something held back. For too long.

Pope looks back to Lady.

LADY:
(sighs)
"Alright. I’m starving."
(checks her watch)
"It’s only 7:30? Dinner first. Then we figure out how to kill time before rollout."

CUT TO BLACK.


CUT TO:

INT. THE CRUCIBLE (FORMERLY BULLSEYE BAR) – NIGHT

Once Bullseye. Now dimmer. Meaner. Still standing. A corner booth near the back. A dim hanging lamp above, spilling a cone of amber light over scuffed wood and fresh drinks. Bottles still sweating. Shoulders leaned in.

Trish swirls something dark in a square glass, smooth, bored but not disengaged.

Lady sips her beer, back against the leather, one boot tapping under the table.

Dante leans back with a cold bottle of his own, watching the bar over the rim.

Nico sits sideways in the booth, one leg up, nursing a ginger soda. She shifts the bottle between her palms, frowning slightly.

NICO:
(grimacing)
“No drinks for me. Someone’s gotta drive your half-conscious asses to Capulet.”

Lady tips her beer toward Nico in salute, then leans back with a grateful sigh.

LADY:
(grateful sigh)
“Thank god I’m riding with you. Trish drinks like the alcohol’s fighting for its life.”

Trish doesn’t blink. Just lifts her glass, sips slow.

TRISH:
(flat)
“I’m a demon. It’d take six barrels and a busted wine altar before I feel my head even start to buzz.”

Her eyes drift toward the bar. Toward Pope.

TRISH (cont’d):
(quiet, still watching)
“It’s the eyes. Calm, sharp. Knows exactly what he’s doing. Carries it in his shoulders.”

Lady follows her gaze. Leans in slightly, beer halfway to her mouth, amused.

LADY:
(leans in slightly, amused)
“The voice. That accent... little rough around the edges, just enough to wreck something.”

Nico snorts, rocking her ginger soda against the edge of the table.

NICO:
(grinning)
“The glutes, y’all. Let’s not pretend. Man’s a walkin’ thirst trap. I swear, I can still feel his hand on my forearm.”

Dante shifts in his seat and glances toward the bar. His eyes scan a trio of women clustered near the counter. One flips her hair a little too slow. Another leans forward with a laugh that’s louder than necessary. The bartender is still pouring drinks for them, dragging out each bottle tilt like it's theater.

As a woman walks past Pope, she slips a folded napkin onto the bar near his hand without breaking stride.

DANTE:
(watching Pope)
“He smiles and the universe resets.”
(sips, mutters)
“Guy’s ordering a drink and suddenly half the room’s ready to marry him.”

TRISH:
(smirking, amused but not disagreeing)
“You jealous, or just realizing charisma comes in other flavors?”

LADY:
(smiling, watching Pope now)
“He’s got that unbothered thing. He’s not even trying and it’s like gravity just does the rest.”

Lady raises the bottle, pauses. Doesn’t drink. Thought caught mid-glance.

NICO:
(grinning)
“Bet he ordered whiskey. Neat. No fuss, no ice.”

LADY:
(sips her beer, finally breaking her gaze)
“Mm. More like a bourbon guy. Quiet burn, slow finish.”

They glance back toward Pope, who remains at the bar. One hand rests on the counter as he exchanges a few quiet words with the bartender. There’s an ease to it, like they’ve spoken before. He smiles faintly. Brief. Contained. Not flashy. Just measured.

The bartender returns with a glass, two cubes of ice, and a bottle of... apple juice.

DANTE:
(snickers)
“Apple juice? Of course. Something with no edge, no bite... just performance.”
(leans back, watches a beat)
“Yeah, nothing says ‘deadly enigma’ like orchard-fresh and pasteurized.”
(pause)
“That explains the hair. Probably rinses it with chamomile.”

TRISH:
(chuckling into her glass)
“You’re spiraling.”

DANTE:
(silent for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly)
“Just saying. Guy walks like a riddle and drinks like a toddler.”

He shifts just enough to glance at Lady. She’s still watching Pope, focused but giving nothing away.

LADY:
(eyes still on Pope)
“That’s... intriguing.”

She slips off her jacket first, unhurried and deliberate. Then she picks up her beer, rises smoothly, and steps out from the booth without a word.

DANTE:
(eyebrows lift, tries to play it cool)
“You’re actually going over there?”

She pauses. Looks back over her shoulder, one brow raised like she’s weighing whether to answer.

LADY:
(grins)
“Just curious.”

She walks off before he can say anything else. Dante watches, jaw tight, hiding it behind another sip.

Nico sips her soda, then casually reaches across the table and pantomimes pulling an imaginary knife out of Dante’s chest.

Trish nearly chokes on her drink, stifling a laugh behind her glass.

DANTE:
(glances at Nico, dry)
“You’re enjoying that way too much.”


INT. THE CRUCIBLE – BAR COUNTER – CONTINUOUS

The low murmur of conversation drifts through the room. Pope sits alone. His posture is calm, straight without stiffness. One hand rests loosely on his drink. He doesn't slouch, doesn't scan the room. Just observes, quietly steady. There’s a stillness to him, like someone used to waiting.

LADY:
(tilts her head, inviting)
"Why don’t you come join us at the booth?"

Pope’s expression softens slightly. The edge in his calmness fades, replaced by something quieter.

POPE:
"I’ve walked into enough crossfire to know when not to sit down."

He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink. After a beat, he turns toward her fully. There’s no tension in the movement, no walls up. Just quiet presence, like he’s letting her in without saying so.

Lady studies him for a moment. Intrigued, but not pressing. Then she slides onto the stool beside him, smooth and quiet. The distance between them stays easy. Her back is to the booth now. Dante and the others are behind her, out of view and out of mind.

She glances at his drink, her voice light.

LADY:
"Apple juice, huh? Wasn’t exactly the first thing I’d peg you for."

Pope meets her eyes, a faint smirk playing at his mouth.

POPE:
"Fancy, right?"

LADY:
(raises a brow, amused)
"I was guessing bourbon."

POPE:
“Bourbon’s what people expect. Better to be underestimated.”

He lifts the glass, takes a quiet sip.

LADY:
(smiles, meets his eyes)
“You pull that off a little too well.”

She leans slightly against the counter, studying him for a breath. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t explain.

LADY (cont'd):
(genuine now)
“You don’t drink?”

POPE:
(shakes his head slightly)
“Throws off my head.”

He sets the glass down with quiet precision.

POPE (cont'd):
“I like to keep my mind sharp. Always.”

LADY:
“Control freak?”

POPE:
(smiles slightly)
“Survivor.”

Lady tilts her head, resting her elbow lightly on the bar.

LADY:
“What’s your story?”

Pope smiles slowly, just enough teeth to make it deliberate.

POPE:
(a touch louder, casual but edged)
“Careful. Keep that up, I might start thinking you’re interested.”

LADY:
(grinning, unfazed)
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just curious.”

She shifts slightly, beer in hand, matching his calm.

POPE:
(deliberate, a tad loud)
“God, those eyes... one like spring, and the other like fire. Hard to look at you without wanting to say something I shouldn’t.”

Lady is caught off guard. A soft laugh escapes, almost a giggle. She tucks it back quickly but her ears are already turning red.

LADY:
“Are you drunk on apple juice? Or did I miss the part where it turns into liquid courage?”

POPE:
(calm, quiet)
“This is fun.”

He glances toward Dante, sharp and brief.

Dante shifts just slightly. There’s a new tension in his frame and Pope clocks it immediately.

Pope leans in, voice low near Lady’s ear.

POPE:
(whisper)
“But we both know this isn’t going anywhere.”

LADY:
(smiles slightly)
“So what’s this, a detour? Or just you testing the brakes?”

She doesn’t pull away. Her tone threads through the moment with quiet clarity, composed and certain. She’s steady, unflustered, and clearly not for the taking. A flicker of challenge rests beneath the calm.

POPE:
“Not really. But you’ve got a man who’ll stand the second I do this.”

He leans in closer than the moment allows. One elbow rests loose on the counter, angled just enough to suggest it might slip around her waist. The other hand lifts, measured and soft, until the back of his fingers hovers near her cheek. No contact, but just enough to test the fuse.

Across the bar, Dante rises from the booth. Slow. Casual. Like he just remembered something. But the timing is too exact.

TRISH:
(glancing up, dry)
“And here we go.”

Pope smiles faintly. Then pulls back.

Lady shifts as well. Measured. Unshaken. One foot hits the floor, and she pivots slightly on the bar stool, putting a breath of distance between them. 

DANTE:
“Hey, Pope. How about a round of pool? You any good, or just here to accessorize the bar?"

POPE:
(glances at him, grin slow and measured)
“I’ve got a better idea.”

He finishes his drink, sets it down with precision, and stands. Fluid and unhurried. Not challenging. Just ready.


CUT TO:

EXT. SHIPPING DOCKS – MIDNIGHT

The hum of tidewater presses in beneath the distant creak of container stacks settling under their own weight. Cranes groan overhead, their long arms swaying slightly in the wind. Rain drizzles across the dockyard, soft but steady, pooling in shallow puddles that dimple with each breeze. Floodlights glow through the mist, tracing long reflections across slick concrete and steel.

In an open clearing between stacks of cargo, Dante and Pope circle each other.

Both loose. Focused. Relaxed in that way only seasoned killers can be. Like waiting lions.

A light drizzle beads along the dark seams of Pope's vest. He stands grounded, unmoved, the weather brushing past him like it barely exists. His double-bitted axe rests across one shoulder. Ancient, symmetrical, and cruelly elegant. A weapon built not just for war, but judgment.

Dante rests the Devil Sword Dante across one shoulder, hand loose at the hilt. Rain dusts his coat in silver flecks. His stance is relaxed, posture loose, but his eyes stay sharp beneath the low tilt of his brow, tracking every breath Pope takes.

DANTE:
(voice easy, eyes locked)
“So... Apple juice. That your secret to inner peace, or just what helps you sleep?”

POPE:
(glances over, a slow, even smile)
“Keeps the mind clear. I like knowing exactly where the edge is.”

DANTE:
(short laugh through his nose)
“Hope that clarity holds when you’re picking it up off the ground.”

POPE:
(steady, not rising to it)
"Long as you’re not picking up what’s left of your pride."

DANTE:
(grin sharpens, leans in just a breath)
“Careful. You’re gonna make this interesting.”

A few paces off, perched on a storage crate, Nico, Trish, and Lady watch. The silence isn’t disinterest. It’s the kind you get right before a good storm. Eyes fixed. Arms folded. Not a word wasted.

NICO:
(grinning)
“Well damn... testosterone’s so thick I could bottle it. This 'bout to get real fun.”

TRISH:
(dry, amused)
“Mmh. “One’s all finesse. The other’s pure dominance. Kinda want to see which one cracks first.”

LADY:
(calm, observant)
“Neither’s cracking. That’s what makes it good.”

Pope shifts. Not a flourish, just a weight transfer, shoulder to heel. Then he moves.

He swings.

CRACK.

The axe comes down fast. Dante meets it, steel on steel, the Devil Sword Dante catching the edge with its flat. Sparks burst and hiss into the drizzle.

Dante ducks low and sweeps wide. Pope hops the arc, counters with the haft. Dante blocks, pivots, and flips backward, landing in a hard skid.

The rhythm sharpens. Each strike is clean. Every movement speaks of years. Pope presses with surgical precision. Dante slips between offense and defense with a devil-may-care fluidity.

Neither is going all out.

But they could.

Pope pauses mid-swing.

A faint vibration hums through the haft of his axe. The sound is low and steady, almost drowned by the drizzle. The edge glows briefly, not bright, but old and resonant. Like it remembers something.

His head tilts, eyes lifting toward the crane above.


INT. CRANE CATWALK – ABOVE THE DOCK

Inside the control room window of a dockside crane, Vergil stands just within shadow. The glass is fogged near the edges, but the view below is clear. The Yamato stirs in its sheath. A soft tone pulses from the blade, not in alarm but acknowledgment. A quiet recognition, mirrored in steel.

Vergil doesn’t move. His hand stays on the hilt, fingers relaxed. But his gaze sharpens.

Below him, the clash of blades echoes faintly. Distant, but precise. His gaze follows it.


EXT. DOCK – FIGHT CONTINUES

Pope senses the presence before he sees it. Vergil is up there, watching. Still and silent, part of the shadow.

Pope says nothing. He just smirks.

Then he turns and swings clean.

Dante meets it, bracing with both hands. The Devil Sword Dante catches the blow and pushes back. Steel grinds. He slides across the wet concrete.

DANTE:
(gritting)
“You’re holding back.”

POPE:
(calm)
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re making me look good.”

DANTE:
(pivots, parries)
“You flirt better than you fight.”
(smirks)
“Y’know, if I wanted a light workout, I’d be doing pushups.”

He kicks Pope back a stride and follows with a wide arc.

Pope ducks, rolls past, spins behind, and flips the axe into a reverse grip. The inner blade halts just a breath from Dante’s spine.

DANTE:
(blinks, glancing back)
"Subtle."

POPE:
(low)
"Wasn’t trying to be."

Dante twists, driving his shoulder hard into Pope’s chest. It’s not a full slam, but enough to knock him off balance. Pope rolls with the impact, turning with the force instead of fighting it. The axe skims wide as he pivots, slicing harmlessly through the space where Dante’s back was a second ago.

Dante narrows his eyes. The Devil Sword Dante flashes forward in a tight flurry. Pope blocks the first two strikes. The third slices through the fabric at his collar, just shy of skin.

Pope exhales.

He steps in, landing two quick taps. One to Dante’s ribs. One at his jaw. Not full strikes. Measured warnings.

Dante steps back, then lunges.

The tempo spikes.

Sword and axe flash beneath the floodlights. Boots slap through puddles. The dockyard becomes rhythm, breath, and tension.

Dante cuts through the air, weight and angle behind every strike.

Pope twists under the blade, slips around his back. Dante reacts in time, pivoting sharp and bringing the Devil Sword Dante around in a low, rising arc that clips Pope at the hip. Not enough to injure. Just enough to send a message.

Pope resets. Calm. Unshaken.

Up in the crane, Vergil watches. Yamato’s hum fades. He turns and disappears into shadow.

Pope’s eyes flick briefly toward the now-empty catwalk, then return to Dante.

POPE:
(wiping rain from his brow)
“Good warm-up.”

DANTE:
(breathing steady)
“Could go another round.”

POPE:
(smiling)
“I know.”

He twirls the axe and plants it into the concrete. Not in surrender, but in pause.

Dante lowers his sword slightly. Not disarmed. Acknowledging.

Nico hops down from the crate and stretches her arms overhead, rolling her shoulders with a yawn.

NICO:
“Alright, gentlemen—show’s over. We’ve got a long ride, and if we haul ass, we might just catch a nap ‘fore the circus rolls into town.”

Trish brushes rain from her coat, her eyes still on the two men.

TRISH:
(dry)
“Call it a draw?”

Lady exhales slowly, arms still crossed, a subtle nod forming.

LADY:
(quiet)
Close enough.

Pope glances once more at Dante. The smirk softens into something quieter. Mutual respect.

Dante answers with a short nod.

Rain falls in steady rhythm. Water streaks down the steel.

The fight is over.

But something has just begun.

FADE TO BLACK


FADE IN:

EXT. OLD MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – LOADING ZONE – MORNING

The bikes idle down into the lot, engines low against the hush of dawn. Cavaliere gives one last throaty growl before Dante cuts it. Pope’s bike settles beside it, metal ticking in the cool air.

They dismount.

The plant looms ahead. Steel siding intact. Gates shut. Docks lined clean.

From a distance, it could still be running.

Up close, the cracks show.

Paint peeled. Weeds breaking through concrete. A rusted chain swings from an empty post.

Looks operational. But it isn’t.

Dante walks a few paces ahead. His boots move quiet. Eyes scanning corners, checking the stillness.

Behind him, Pope lingers. Hands in his pockets. Studying the building like he’s seen this kind of place before. Too many times.

Then he speaks.

POPE:
“So... Lady, huh?”

Dante stops. Turns. One brow lifts, unimpressed.

DANTE:
“What?”

POPE:
“Back at the garage. When we were talking about that thing we shouldn’t mention. That someone... it’s her, right?”

Dante turns fully now. Jaw tight.

DANTE:
(quiet, but edged)
“What are you getting at?”

Pope steps forward. Slow. Easy. Not challenging. Just sure.

POPE:
(casual, but probing)
“You didn’t finish your sentence.”

Dante squints. Jaw set. He brushes rain from his coat, eyes flicking off to the side.

DANTE:
“You talk like you know us.”

POPE:
“You’re not as hard to read as you try to be.”

Dante’s brow ticks. He lets out a dry breath through his nose, head tilting slightly. A warning more than a response.

DANTE:
“You’re stepping somewhere you don’t belong. And I won’t stick around long enough for you to keep poking.”

He starts walking again. Pope follows at a distance.

Dante doesn’t look back. Just walks. Not rushed. Just… closed off.

DANTE (cont’d):
“You said we’re on the same side, but I don’t see it. No real answers. Just cryptic talk and half-threats about buried history. You wanna help? Then tell me what we’re really up against."

Pope stops. His voice doesn’t rise, but there’s weight behind it.

POPE:
“I’m telling you, don’t dig deeper. You keep pulling, you’ll lose everything. You’ll spend your life patching holes, trying to stop whatever’s on the other side from crawling back through.”

Dante turns to face him.

DANTE:
(weary chuckle)
“Please. I’ve been duct-taping this world together longer than you’ve been showing up late to the party.”
(beat)
“That’s not a warning. That’s Tuesday.”

Pope stays still. A flicker behind his eyes. Memory painted in red. He doesn’t smile this time.

He steps forward. Slow. Not threatening. Just closer. His voice is steady.

POPE:
“You’re still better off. You’ve got her... you’ve got people.”

The pause doesn’t hang. It lands. Solid. Unspoken. He meets Dante’s eyes, gaze unwavering. Not a challenge. A mirror.

POPE (cont’d):
“Me? There’s no one left.”

Then he turns and walks ahead, footsteps quiet on the damp concrete.


CUT TO:

EXT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – FRONT LOT – MORNING

From the street, it still looks like a working facility. Gates intact. Loading bays clean. No boards, no graffiti. The kind of place a delivery truck might still roll into.

But up close, the truth shows. The siding’s buckled in places. Bolts rusted. Hinges warped. A service chain swings idly from a cracked concrete post.

Nico perches on a crate near the wall, coffee in hand, leg bouncing just enough to give her away. Trish stands still beside her, arms folded, watching nothing in particular. Lady stays in motion, pacing a short loop near the loading platform, boots leaving damp marks as she walks.

The quiet isn’t tense. Just waiting.

Bootsteps break it.

Dante and Pope round the corner from the rear of the building. No rush. Just presence.

Pope walks first, posture locked in. He doesn’t scan the group. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps forward like the path was already drawn.

Dante trails him, hands in his coat pockets. Watchful. Not quite ready to relax.

Trish eyes the distance, lifts an eyebrow.

TRISH:
“What happened? Emotional breakthrough, or just a really intense staring contest?”

Pope doesn’t answer. His lips stretch into something just shy of a smile. No teeth. No warmth. Just the barest twitch of acknowledgment, like the question didn’t earn a response and maybe never would.

He exhales through his nose, arms folding across his chest as he comes to a stop. Dante steps past him and moves into the center of the group. His eyes sweep the road, then land on each of them in turn.

DANTE:
“We’ve got a few hours left before the convoy hits the edge of town.”
(turns slightly toward Nico)
“Nico, head out now. Act natural. Chat Kyrie up, help with the kids. Just get Nero away from the crowd long enough to pass the note.”

Nico slides off the crate, sets her coffee on the edge behind her, and brushes her hands on her denim shorts. A dull beige rental van waits nearby. Unmarked. Boxy. The kind that could belong to a plumbing company or vanish in school zone traffic.

She crosses to it at a casual pace, opens the passenger-side door, and leans in. She digs through the glove compartment, pulls out a notepad and pen, and clicks it once as she straightens.

NICO:
“What do I write?”

Dante takes a step toward her and holds out a hand.

Nico passes him the pad and pen without a word.

He jots something fast, rips the page free, and folds it once.

DANTE:
“Tell him you’re low on meat. Slip him this. He’ll get the message.”

He hands it back to her. The weight in his hand says enough.

Pope steps in slightly, close enough to cut through the moment. His voice stays calm, but clipped.

POPE:
“No whispers. Talk like nothing’s wrong. They pick up everything within fifty meters. Walls. Breath. Tone shifts. Let Nero take the van. You stay back with Kyrie and the kids. That’s it.”

Nico takes the folded page and tucks it into her boot. No quip this time. Just a sharp nod, jaw set.

NICO:
“Copy that.”

Dante glances once toward the road, then back at the group.

DANTE:
“As for the rest of us…”
(beat)
“Nobody talks till it’s go time. No sudden moves. We keep it quiet and let them walk into us.”

Lady glances over. She isn’t questioning, just syncing. Trish crushes her coffee cup in one hand and drops it into the nearby barrel with a hollow thud.

Pope steps forward, voice low and final.

POPE:
“Time to move.”

Nico heads for the van without a word. Door creaks open, engine turns over low.

The rest fall in, boots crunching as they move toward the side of the plant. No chatter. No hesitation.

The street stays quiet behind them.

CUT TO BLACK


CUT TO:

EXT. ORPHANAGE FRONT LOT – MID-MORNING

Nico leans against the van. She fidgets. One hand shoved in her denim shorts pocket, the other brushing her jacket sleeve. She exhales sharp through her nose, pacing a few steps. Kicks a pebble. Circles back. Her hand drifts toward her back pocket, itching for a cigarette. She doesn’t light one. Not with kids on the way.

Tires crunch on gravel. Two white minibuses pull into the lot. Dust rolls behind them. Doors slide open.

Kyrie steps down first. Warm smile, eyes scanning the lot. She moves with calm confidence, guiding the children out one by one. It’s a wave of motion: backpacks, chatter, sneakers hitting pavement. Ages blur, but energy pulses steady.

Nero hops off the second bus and heads toward Nico. He’s unarmed, dressed down in dark jeans and a crimson hoodie, sleeves shoved up. A dark purple cap sits backward on his head. His shoulder-length hair’s tied back, but a few loose locks curl out around his neck.

NERO:
(half-grinning)
"You serious? This what you’re drivin’ now?"

NICO:
(casual)
"Other one’s in the shop. Fuel line was actin’ like it had a death wish."

NERO:
(eyebrows lifting)
"Already? We just paid a fortune for those upgrades."

NICO:
(smirking)
"Tell that to the busted weldin’ and the fire hazard under the hood."

Behind him, two caretakers step off the bus. Both wear light blue scrubs, clean and trustworthy. Brown hair, soft voices. The woman’s tied in a neat ponytail, the man clean-shaven with a sharp haircut. One is freckled, holding a clipboard. The other hands out juice boxes. They move easily among the kids, laughing, crouching to fix a strap, offering a quick pat on the shoulder. Nothing off. Nothing strange. Just friendly faces.

Nico doesn’t look at them directly. She’s already seen their photo. She just keeps moving.

NICO:
"I got some linens for y’all."

She slides open the van door, smooth and easy. Her body shifts, blocking the interior from outside view.

NICO:
(voice lower)
"Oh, and we’re low on meat. Might wanna grab groceries while you’re out."

She hands Nero a folded slip of paper.

He reads it. Eyes tighten just a fraction. Then he looks at her.

She gives a small smile. Like nothing’s wrong.

NERO:
(quietly)
"Steak it is."

He looks at Nico and smirks.


INT. VAN – MID-MORNING

Nero drives, one arm draped lazy over the wheel. The road ahead blurs with smog and sun glare. Dennis, the male caretaker, sits up front. Sandra rides in the back, hands in her lap, gaze flicking between the road and the front seats.

NERO:
“Sorry. Mind if I crack the windows? Smells like feet and old takeout.”
(beat)
“So, Sandra. You okay back there?”

SANDRA:
(looking out the window)
"Yeah... just not used to all this concrete. Feels like the buildings are closing in."

NERO:
(casual)
“Yeah. East Capulet’s like that. Lots of steel and smokestacks.”

He flicks a glance at the rearview mirror, just long enough to catch her reflection, then shifts his eyes back to the road.

DENNIS:
“Thought we’d be picking up a case or two of dry goods, not driving halfway out the city.”

Dennis glances sideways at him. Blank. Watching like he’s measuring something.

Sandra leans forward slightly, quiet, watching Nero.

Silence. Just the low hum of the engine and the faint rattle of the glovebox.

NERO:
“There’s a meat supplier out near the industrial line. Good cuts, better price. Place is old, but they’ve been around.”

Dennis grins. Tight. Thin. Just shy of human.

DENNIS:
"Fresh?"

NERO:
“Best in Capulet.”

He shifts in his seat, eyes still on the road, tone easy like it’s just small talk.

SANDRA:
“Saw that woman hand you something earlier.”

NERO:
“Nico? Just a grocery list.”

SANDRA:
“Maybe I can help with that. Mind if I take a look?”

She holds out a hand.

Nero doesn’t answer right away. A breath. Just enough pause to mean something. Then he slips a hand into his hoodie pocket.

NERO:
“Sure.”

He passes her the folded slip, casual on the surface. Not too quick. Not too slow.

Sandra unfolds it. Her brow twitches slightly, then smooths like nothing registered.

SANDRA:
“That’s a lotta carrots and potatoes.”
(smiling faintly)
“Let me guess... stew?”

DENNIS:
“I love stew.”

His grin holds too long. There's something primal behind it, just shy of drooling.

SANDRA:
“Especially the children.”

They laugh together. Calm. Comfortable. Like it’s nothing new.

Nero lets out a quiet chuckle. It doesn’t quite land, but it’s enough. His eyes stay on the road. Hands relaxed. Voice level.

NERO:
"Guess everyone’s got an appetite for something."


CUT TO:

INT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – FRONT LOADING BAY – LATE MORNING

The plant sits in silence, the air thick with rust and cold concrete. Light from the broken skylights cuts across the bay in uneven shafts.

Dante stands behind a stack of shrink-wrapped crates near the loading lane, just out of sight from the entrance. His weight shifts slightly on the balls of his feet. His eyes stay locked on the gate, tracking every sound.

Pope holds position near the loading bay wall, tucked behind a concrete column and a stack of plastic crates. Loose posture, weight to one side. But his eyes track the approach like a scope dialed in.

Trish is tucked in a shadowed recess beside the gate control panel, half-hidden behind a rusted breaker box mounted to the wall. One hand hovers near the emergency kill switch, the other close to a stripped wire arcing faintly. Her gaze sweeps the lot with quiet precision. She’s done this kind of work before.

Lady waits behind a concrete partition just off the center lane, a combat knife held low along her thigh. Her breath stays steady. From this angle she can drive forward and pin a target before either shapeshifter has a chance to bolt or self-terminate.

A low rustle near the crates draws Pope’s eyes down. A stray kitten creeps out from behind the stack, ears twitching.

Pope lowers one hand, slow and steady.The cat pauses, then leans into his fingers. He lifts it briefly, strokes its head once, and turns it around. Sets it back down behind the crates. It slips off into shadow.

He shifts his weight, eyes flicking back toward the gate. His gaze lands briefly on Dante.

Across the lane, Dante catches the moment. He lifts one hand and starts stroking an invisible cat in his arms, slow and exaggerated. Puckers his lips. Tilts his head for flair. Overdoes it just a little.

Pope doesn’t blink. Just raises his middle finger, steady and silent.

Dante smirks.

Focus resets. The gate stays quiet. The van could roll in any second.


INT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – FRONT LOADING BAY – CONTINUOUS

The van rolls inside, tires grinding gravel, headlights cutting across the concrete.

The engine stops. Silence floods the loading bay.

Driver’s door opens. Nero steps out first, casual on the surface, eyes scanning the dim space with quiet alertness.

The passenger door clicks open. Dennis steps down cautiously, gaze flicking across the shadows.

Dante launches forward instantly, seizing Dennis' arm as he turns. Dennis twists sharply, slipping Dante’s grip. His hand flashes to the elastic seam of his scrub pants, drawing a sleek, curved Karambit from a concealed inner pocket. The blade glints once in the light, compact and deadly.

Pope moves from the side, grabbing Dennis's free arm, pivoting to drive him into the van's side. Dennis drops low and reverses momentum, elbow snapping toward Pope’s ribs. Pope pivots sharply, deflecting the strike downward and slamming Dennis's shoulder hard against the metal door. The van shudders from the impact.

By the gate, Trish punches the kill switch. The heavy steel gate crashes down, locking sparks flying as she seals it shut.

The van’s sliding door bursts open. Sandra leaps out, Karambit already in hand, lunging straight for Trish’s unguarded back.

Lady intercepts immediately, shoulder-checking Sandra off-balance. Sandra recovers instantly, blade flashing through a tight, rapid series of arcs, the strikes coming so fast they blur at the edges. Lady meets each swing cleanly with her own combat knife, keeping herself guarded. Trish draws her knife swiftly and moves into position beside Lady, blocking Sandra’s path to escape.

Sandra darts between them, blade dancing dangerously fast. Lady ducks one strike, feeling steel whisk past her cheek. Trish retaliates, cutting low and deliberate, aiming to immobilize without lethality. Sandra counters fluidly, pivoting and lunging unpredictably.

Dennis’s Karambit lashes out at Pope’s throat. Dante reacts first, grabbing Dennis's forearm mid-strike and forcing him backward into a stack of plastic crates. Crates scatter loudly across the floor. Dennis twists expertly, slipping Dante’s grip again, his blade spinning through intricate, lethal arcs.

Sandra's knife flicks toward Lady’s abdomen. Lady pivots sharply, catching the Karambit with her own knife, steel grinding on steel, blades locked inches from her skin.

Nero rapidly closes distance as Dennis twists free from Pope's grip. He sees Dennis pivot, Karambit flashing upward, aimed directly at his throat. Nero’s fist pulls back instinctively, prepared to strike a lethal blow.

Lady spots it instantly, eyes widening.

LADY:
(shouting urgently)
“Don't kill them! Pope needs them alive!

Nero shifts in mid-motion. His forearm blocks Dennis’s strike sharply, the Karambit scraping dangerously close along his sleeve. Nero grips Dennis’s wrist firmly, muscles straining. The blade stays locked in Dennis's hand, still in play. For a fraction of a second, they lock in a tense stalemate.

Trish ducks another slicing strike from Sandra, timing it perfectly. She drives her knee sharply into Sandra's ribs. Sandra doubles over slightly, off-balance. Trish seizes the opportunity, forcing Sandra facedown, pinning her firmly to the ground. Knee pressed hard between Sandra's shoulder blades, Trish holds Sandra’s wrist down, the Karambit inches from reach.

TRISH:
(grunts, struggling)
“Or at least one. I think I might just kill this one.”

Pinned, Sandra turns her head and flashes a manic grin.

SANDRA:
“Go on. Do it.”

In a grotesque twist, Sandra violently dislocates her own shoulder. Caught off-guard, Trish loses grip for half a breath.

Sandra snatches her fallen Karambit, lunging upward with savage precision toward Lady’s kidneys. Lady shifts quickly, knowing she's too slow. Dante crosses the space in a heartbeat, deflecting Sandra’s strike with an urgent sweep of his arm, the Karambit slicing mere inches from Lady’s skin.

Dennis turns, knife flashing toward Nero’s face. Nero blocks, then expertly twists Dennis’s wrist, snapping the Karambit from his grip. It skitters across concrete.

Weaponless, Dennis bolts toward the shadows at the back of the plant. Pope moves after him, focused, fluid, breaking into a dead run.

Nero moves to follow, but Dante holds up a hand sharply.

DANTE:
"Leave them. Pope’s got this."

Nero stops, muscles tensed, staring down the dark hallway. Reluctantly, he nods once, stepping back.

Sandra, seeing Dennis escape, throws her head back with wild, manic laughter. Lady and Trish move simultaneously to restrain her, but Sandra moves faster, blade slicing swiftly across her own throat.

Blood spatters the concrete. Sandra collapses, laughter fading into choking silence. Lady grimaces, lowering her knife slowly. Trish exhales through gritted teeth.

In the distance, Pope’s pursuit fades deeper into the plant, footsteps growing distant.

Lady and Dante share a heavy glance, tension lingering. Nero remains rigid, eyes locked on the shadows.

Quiet settles again, broken only by Sandra’s last, fading breaths. Then her body shifts. Skin ripples like water. The disguise peels back. Marble skin, veined in black. White hair. Short black horns. Blue eyes ringed in black. A snout-like jaw, lined with jagged teeth. Black talons curl from her fingers. Long limbs. Wingless. 

Trish steps closer, eyes narrowed.

She crouches beside the body. Her hand reaches out. Fingers close around the Karambit.

She lifts it slowly, turning it in the light. The blade glints.

Black steel. Etched with unfamiliar glyphs.

TRISH:
(low)
"I’ve never seen anything like this..."

Dante steps forward. He takes the blade from her hand, eyes scanning the markings. Recognition flickers behind his gaze. They resemble the ancient alchemical symbols. 

He crouches beside the corpse and gently presses the Karambit back into Sandra’s hand.

DANTE:
"Let’s keep it intact."
(quietly)
"Pope’s instructions."

He’s lying.

He doesn’t look at them. His voice stays level, but something tenses beneath it. He swallows, small and deliberate. Realization flickers in his eyes, quick and cold before it sinks away. A trace of dread passes like a shadow. Then it’s gone. He straightens and finally meets their gaze.


INT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – BACK STORAGE AREA – CONTINUOUS

The space groans with age. Pipes drip steadily from the ceiling. One flickering light swings overhead, casting warped shadows across the damp floor.

Dennis kneels, breath hitching. Pope grips the collar of his scrubs, holding him upright with silent force. Dennis's form glitches, skin twitching like it’s straining to hold shape.

POPE:
(low, steady)
"Where is she?"

DENNIS:
(chuckles bitterly)
"Even if I tell you, it’s not going to matter."
(leans forward slightly)
"You’ll be too late by the time you get to her."

POPE:
"Why orphanages? What are you after?"

DENNIS:
(blood-slick grin)
"Well... for starters? Food."
(beat)
"And the other thing? You’ll find out the hard way soon enough."
(smirk deepens)
"You don’t even know what she has in her possession, do you?"

Pope doesn’t respond immediately. His grip stays tight. Breathing controlled. His jaw clenches once.

DENNIS (cont’d):
(glowering, breath sharp and sour)
"All this effort. Crossing realms."
(beat)
"Still blind to the truth."
(eyes narrowing)
"Speaking of blind... your brother’s closer to it than you think."

Pope stills. A quiet beat passes. No flinch. No blink. Just a cold pause. But something flickers beneath it. A long-buried name spoken aloud for the first time since the memory itself began to rot.

POPE:
(quietly)
"Amiel... "

DENNIS:
(grinning wider)
"That hit something."
(leans in)
"Go ahead. Kill me."

POPE:
"Not unless you do me a favor first."

He shifts his weight and yanks Dennis closer. One hand grips the front of Dennis’s shirt. The other clamps over his forehead, fingers spread wide and firm.

POPE:
(quiet)
"Hold still."

His eyes flash bone-pale. Cold and hollow.

Dennis’s limbs lock up. Breath shudders. Beneath the skin, black veins writhe like oil, curling upward toward his temples. His eyes roll back. There is no scream, no struggle. Only the flicker of dying light overhead and the low hum of old machinery buried somewhere deep in the walls.

Then stillness.

Pope blinks. His eyes return to green. He exhales, shallow. Blood seeps from his nose. He wipes it with the back of his hand. His shoulders tighten. Not in pain, but control.

POPE:
(low, detached)
"Got what I need. Just about enough."

He draws his sidearm.

BANG.

The shot rings out, sharp and final.

Dennis collapses. His form shudders, then shifts.

The human disguise dissolves like peeling scales. Beneath it: marble skin veined in black. Short horns. White hair. Lifeless blue eyes surrounded by dark sclera.

Pope wipes his nose again. Slower this time.

Then turns without a word.

and disappears into the shadows.


INT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – FRONT LOADING BAY – MINUTES LATER

The air is still. The scent of blood clings faintly. Lights hum overhead.

Pope steps in from the rear corridor, blood wiped clean, expression unreadable.

Dante waits near the bay doors, leaning against a rusted railing. He clocks the faint red smear drying under Pope’s nose.

POPE:
"We need to burn the bodies."

DANTE:
(squinting)
"You hiding something else I should know?"

Pope glances at the others nearby, then gestures toward a quieter spot.

Dante holds his stare for a beat. Then pushes off the railing and follows.

POPE:
(quietly)
“Remember what I told you?”

Dante straightens. Eyes sharpen.

POPE:
“Those two back there.”
(pause)
“They’re not supposed to be in your realm. If the others find out... it won’t be war. It’ll be erasure. Total annihilation for your kind.”

DANTE:
(scoffs, half-joking)
“You’re starting to sound like someone I know. All cryptic, no receipts.”

(OPTIONAL- MUSIC CUE -"Darkness Always Wins" - Halestorm)

Pope doesn’t answer. He looks up at the metal framing above, distant and calculating.

POPE:
“You don’t want them showing up in the skies.”

Dante’s smirk fades.

The stillness thickens. Low light. Stale air. The smell of rust. No footsteps. No words. Just the weight of something unseen. Close. Unmoving. Not idle.


INT. MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – INCINERATOR ROOM – LATER

The air hangs heavy with old grease and heat. Fluorescent lights flicker above. One of the incinerators still works. Rusted, but humming low and steady.

Pope and Dante haul the first corpse inside. Its limbs drag across the concrete, leaving faint streaks. They shove it into the chamber.

The second body follows. Heavier. Its disguise has already started to dissolve. Nero helps this time, gripping under the arms while Dante takes the legs.

They slide it in beside the first. A tight fit, but it holds.

Pope steps back, breathing steady. His eyes drop to the Karambit still clutched in Sandra’s hand. He crouches, pries it loose. Without pause, he slips it into a sheath at his belt right next to the one he already retrieved.

No trace left behind.

A final glance at the blade. Then he pockets it without a word.

Dante pulls the hatch closed. It seals with a hard, echoing clang.

Pope gives him a small nod.

Dante nods back.

Nero moves to the control panel and hits the switch. The incinerator groans to life. Heat spills through the vents. The flames catch.

No one speaks.

Just fire. And silence. And something heavier beneath it.


EXT. ABANDONED MEAT PROCESSING PLANT – FRONT LOT – AFTERNOON

Smoke curls from a rusted exhaust pipe at the rear corner of the plant. The old incinerator rumbles low, eating the past one ember at a time. Ash drifts through sunlight like burnt paper prayers.

Dante and Pope stand in silence, boots in gravel, wind pressing faintly through weeds.

Pope doesn’t look at the smoke. His eyes stay on the sky.

POPE:
(low)
“If I were you... and if you really want to keep her safe... ”

Dante shifts. Just enough to show he heard it. But not enough to answer.

DANTE:
(gruff)
“Like I said, you shouldn’t—”

POPE:
(quiet, cutting in)
“Take her far from all this.”

The wind hushes. The distant rumble of the incinerator ticks like a clock.

Dante says nothing. But the silence lands heavy.

Pope pulls something from a pocket on his tactical vest. A folded sheet of paper, and a small string-tied pouch.

POPE:
“Take it. Let your crew split the cash. But the gold bars... keep those. The extra ones? Consider it a bonus.”

Dante opens the pouch. A soft clink. Inside, a few raw diamonds catch the light.

DANTE:
(flat)
“Bit much, don’t you think?”

POPE:
“I don’t need it. You will.”
(beat)
“That paper’s got a number. Call it. The guy’ll buy the gold and the stones at close-to-clean market.”

Dante unfolds the paper. A phone number is written in one corner. The rest of the page shows a rough sketch of a circular protection seal, inked in bold strokes. Around it, ritual instructions spiral inward in tight, precise handwriting.

POPE (cont’d):
"And the seal? You can place it on land or any property you want protected. It’s strong, but it won’t last forever. Just long enough to move. Only a blade that opens portals can carve it right. That’s the only way it’ll work."

Dante glances at him when he hears that. Something clicks beneath his silence.

POPE:
“Don’t wait too long, Dante.”

Pope gives a final nod and a quick pat to Dante’s arm. Quiet. Firm. He turns. Heads for his bike parked just off the gravel. But before he reaches it, a familiar sound—

The kitten from earlier slips out from behind a barrel, mewing softly.

Pope crouches, scoops it up gently, and tucks it into the inside of his vest. One hand holds the flap closed as he walks toward his bike. The engine rumbles to life beneath him.


INT. VAN – SAME TIME

Nero sits behind the wheel, engine idling. Lady rides shotgun, arms loosely crossed. Trish lounges in the back, legs stretched, eyes on the scene outside.

TRISH:
"Well would you look at that. Pope just adopted a sidekick."

LADY:
"There’s a gravity to him you can't explain. Even with all that loneliness sitting quiet behind his eyes."

NERO:
"Sounds like one of those people you remember without knowing why."

TRISH:
(chuckling)
"Oh, you don’t wanna know how it went down with Dante."

Lady gives a small wave through the window. Pope catches it, nods once, a faint smile breaking his usual stillness. Then he rides off—no glance back.


EXT. ABANDONED PLANT – FRONT LOT – MOMENTS LATER

Dante steps up to the passenger side of the van. Knocks once on the window.

Lady rolls it down. Says nothing.

He nods toward his bike.

DANTE:
"Come ride with me. Got something to show you before we head back."

She looks at the keys in his hand. Then at him.

A pause.

Then the faintest lift touches the corner of her mouth.


INT. FRONT LOT – SAME TIME

From the driver’s seat, Nero glances toward the window. Trish catches his look.

They share a brief, knowing exchange. A smirk from him. A lifted brow from her.

NERO:
(grinning)
"Told ya. Looks like I’m up by one."

CUT TO BLACK


EXT. QUIET VILLAGE – OUTSKIRTS OF CAPULET CITY – LATE AFTERNOON

The last mission is behind them. Smoke’s cleared. Silence stretches across the fields like a held breath.

Sunlight spills low and golden over weathered rooftops and narrow dirt roads. No sirens. No gunfire. Just birdsong and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere far off.

On a grassy ridge overlooking the village, Dante and Lady sit side by side. Not speaking. Just taking it in.

LADY:
(soft, looking out)
"Wow... Look at this place. It’s almost too peaceful."

DANTE:
(grinning)
"What, small-town quiet got you spooked?"

LADY:
(smiling faintly)
"Maybe. I’ve got a thing for chaos… but this? I could get used to it."

A quiet breeze stirs the tall grass. The pause that follows isn't heavy, just unhurried. Easy. Like the world isn’t pressing in for once.

LADY:
(glancing at him)
"You're quieter than usual."

Dante's eyes flick to her, then drift back toward the far edge of the village. His jaw works slightly, like the thought’s been sitting there for a while, waiting its turn.

DANTE:
(sighs quietly)
"Ever wonder what it’d be like... if we just stopped?"
(beat)
"Didn’t chase the next fight. Didn’t wait for the next damn apocalypse to drop."

LADY:
(half-smiles)
"Okay... you’re kinda freaking me out here. What’s going on?"

DANTE:
(shrugs lightly, eyes on the horizon)
"Just thinkin’."
(a pause)
"Thought maybe... "

The words catch, not from doubt, but from care. He’s not holding back, just searching for where to place them. Somewhere soft. Somewhere safe.

He rises, unhurried and composed. His hands rest on his hips as he looks out across the village. A quiet exhale slips through, the kind that comes before stepping into something new.

DANTE:
(quiet, but certain)
"Let’s retire."

He glances down.

She looks up at him, brow lifting slightly. There's a flicker of disbelief in her eyes, like she’s waiting for the punchline. But none comes. The look lingers, half amused, half stunned.

LADY:
"What?"

DANTE:
(serious now, no grin this time)
"No more contracts. No more hellstorms. We walk away."

LADY:
(blinks, unsure)
"You’re serious?"

DANTE:
(nods)
"I’ve been in this fight since before I had the words for it. Figured maybe it’s time I finally claimed another kind of life."

She studies him. Still waiting for the joke. The deflection. It never comes.

LADY:
(teasing, gentle)
"You goin’ soft on me?"

Dante's gaze sweeps across the village. Quiet houses, laundry lines, a dog barking somewhere faint and distant.

DANTE:
(grinning, but there’s a weariness behind it)
"Thinking maybe a little house. Dumb little garden. You, me... figuring out how to live without something blowing up every week.”

A long silence. Wind in the leaves. Distant wind chimes from one of the houses.

LADY:
(quietly, almost afraid to say it)
"You really mean it?"

DANTE:
(quiet, grounded)
"The fight’s always gonna be there, Lady. But maybe we don’t have to be. Not unless we choose to."

She lets out a breath. Then a small laugh, surprised and quiet.

LADY:
"Never thought I’d hear you talk like this. You, of all people."

DANTE:
(softly, after a breath)
"You once said a devil may cry, back when we were younger."
(beat)
“Well... maybe a weary devil’s earned some peace, don’t you think?”

LADY:
(tilts her head)
"It’s weird. Seeing you like this. Not all guns and bad one-liners."

DANTE:
(voice low)
"Maybe that’s the point. You find a partner..."
(beat)
"...a trusted friend who makes you wanna drop the act... just long enough to figure out who else you could be."

She looks down, smile tugging at her lips.

A long pause.

LADY:
"You better not suck at gardening."

(OPTIONAL- MUSIC CUE -"Melancholy Hill" – Gorillaz)

She glances up again.

Dante smiles.

DANTE:
"Only one way to find out, Lady."

CAMERA - CLOSE-UP ON DANTE'S HAND: His palm reaches out, open and steady. No bravado. Just quiet certainty. Lady looks at it for a moment, then places her hand in his.

CAMERA - WIDE SHOT: As she rises, Dante subtly braces, tightening his grip just enough to anchor her. Steady. Assured. Present. 

They stand together on the ridge, silhouettes framed by the open sky and the quiet village below. Not for battle. But for everything else.

FADE TO BLACK

-----

This is a bridge story from the DMC Legacy Arc concept meant to fill in the gaps, not just between events, but between who they were and who they’re becoming. For the full story, check out the mainline fic: RAGE OF THE FALLEN: A DEVIL HUNTER STORY (PART 1 – REVERIE & FURY).