Chapter Text
The moon looked like it had been bitten in half, hanging crooked and pale over the ruined highway that stretched into the dark like the spine of some ancient beast. Burned-out cars, twisted steel, the occasional corpse slumped against a rusted guardrail—standard fare for this side of Red Grave, six months after the end of the world that almost was.
A hellbike tore through the silence, wheels spitting sparks as it jumped the wreck of a city bus and landed hard enough to rattle the teeth out of a demon.
Dante grinned behind his shades, coat flapping like wings of blood.
“Miss me, boys?”
The “boys” in question were three lesser demons, vaguely humanoid, entirely pissed off and entirely outmatched. One screeched, leapt, and got a shotgun shell between the eyes for its troubles. Another charged and met Rebellion’s edge with a satisfying schluck.
The third tried to run.
“Cowardice. Now that’s a sin.”
He revved the bike, popped a wheelie, and launched the whole damn thing after it—engine howling, tire aflame, blades unsheathed from the sides like it was some unholy chariot of vengeance. The demon didn’t get far. There was a crunch, a shriek, and then silence, save for the sizzle of burning ichor.
Behind him, the Devil May Cry van trundled along at a grumble, slower but louder, its grill decorated with fresh demon skulls and a “Honk if you’re still alive” sticker. Inside, Nico was driving one-handed, the other holding a thermos.
“Your favorite uncle’s trying to die dramatically again,” she said, eyes on the road but a smirk on her lips.
Nero, arms crossed, boots up on the dash, didn’t look up. “He calls it strategy. I call it a midlife crisis.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. He’s still got it.”
“He’s got something, all right. Probably an infernal STD.”
Just then, the van lurched—something hit the side.
Nico slammed the brakes.
The younger son of Sparda skidded in a perfect arc, landing beside them in a crouch, twirling Ebony like he was in a ballet for bastards.
“Miss me?”
“Yeah,” said Nero, jumping down. “Like I miss getting kicked in the nuts.”
Dante flashed his teeth. “Aww, come on. I was being efficient.”
Behind them, the asphalt cracked. Something massive rose from the darkness: wings of tar, eyes of furnace-fire, mouth opening wider than any mouth should.
Nico whistled. “Well, shit. Looks like the welcoming committee’s got a new boss.”
“Told you,” muttered Dante, already unsheathing his sword again. “Hell’s been busy writing sequels.”
Twenty feet of muscle and shadow, wings like oil-slick tarps unfolding from its back. Its mouth opened and unspooled a roar that shook the van’s windows and scattered ash across the ruins.
A thin, high note sliced the air.
The beast trembled once... and fell in half, from crown to crotch, like it had been sliced by a blade that existed in a different dimension. Only the soft click of a katana being sheathed broke it.
“...Show-off,” Dante muttered.
Standing amidst the twitching corpse like it had been nothing but overgrown weeds. His coat caught in the breeze, silver hair unmoved, eyes cast downward like he hadn’t even deemed the thing worth looking at.
Nero just blinked. “You’ve got timing, I’ll give you that.”
Vergil made a little pause. “It was in my way.”
Dante gave a low whistle, swinging Rebellion up onto his shoulder. “You know, some people call before dropping in like a vengeful samurai ghost.”
His two minutes older brother didn’t so much as blink. “I don’t care for phones.”
“No shit,” he muttered. “Still got that 2003 flip phone with blood on it?”
Vergil stepped over the bisected demon, Yamato now resting at his side, clean as if it had never been drawn. The corpse steamed at his feet, twitching faintly.
A bell rang.
Not a church bell, a small one. Carnival-like, off-key.
Ting—ting—ting…
It echoed across the highway, bouncing between wreckage and shadow like a child’s laughter trapped in a jar.
Dante’s brow furrowed. “You hear that?”
From the overpass ahead, a figure dropped into view.
He landed on one hand, spun once, and bounced to his feet like a marionette come to life. His clothes were a patchwork of red, violet, and scorched orange—torn, stained, stitched like madness made fabric.
The mask split his face in two. Above, a violet grin stretched wide in manic delight; below, an orange frown sunk deep like tragedy frozen mid-weep. And beneath it, his real mouth smiled: Wide, toothless, endless.
“Buona sera, miei cari! Look at you heroes of legend, dripping attitude and daddy issues. You look wonderful in ruin.”
He bowed with a snap of his heels, arms wide, as if greeting royalty. A piece of his sleeve fell off mid-motion and fluttered into the breeze like confetti.
Dante raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What the hell is this?”
“This?” the stranger gasped, spinning on one heel. “Why, this is art. A reunion, a crescendo! A perfect little family standing in the ashes of their last act, unaware the curtain’s already rising on the next!”
He danced a few steps forward, nimble as a cat, every motion exaggerated, yet perfectly balanced.
“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Nero snapped, Red Queen buzzing.
The figure placed a hand to his chest. “Arlecchino, at your service—or rather, at the service of... well, let’s call them The Mascherati.” He winked. “You’ll meet them soon enough.”
Vergil didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “Demon.”
“Oho! Flattering. But I’m more than that, Vergil Sparda. Much more. I’m what happens when the script gets... rewritten.” He turned in place, arms out, head tilted toward the moon like it was laughing with him. “Do you ever wonder, dear puppets, why the demons keep getting smarter? Braver? Organized?”
Suddenly, he vanished—blinked out of existence—and reappeared crouched on top of the van, legs swinging casually.
“Tell me, how does it feel knowing your little world’s been running on borrowed lines and recycled plots?”
Nico aimed her gun at him. “Get the hell off my roof.”
“Soon, bella. But first, an encore.”
Arlecchino reached into his coat and pulled out a single object: a paper mask, folded and stained. He tossed it at their feet.
“For the leading roles. You'll need it where you're going.”
Then he leapt high, impossible and vanished into the dark with a last manic giggle trailing behind him.
Ting—ting—ting…
Nero crouched picking up the mask, the paper crackled in his hand, but the ink was fresh. A single symbol had been drawn inside: a half-smile, half-frown.
Dante sighed, rubbing his temples. “Something tells me this ain’t over.”
Vergil stood a few paces away, silent, katana sheathed but still humming faintly with power. “No,” he said, eyes locked on the place where the harlequin stood. “This was only an overture.”
Far off, the moon grinned crookedly over Red Grave, like it knew something they didn’t. The song of Arlecchino’s bell faded into the night, replaced by something wet and hungry. Nero looked at the street, the sky, and the paper mask still clutched in his hand.
Scena a due Arlecchino // Lisetta:
Two figures watched, Arlecchino, crouched on the edge like a gargoyle in patchwork, grinning from ear to ear, teeth glinting behind his mask. And beside him, standing barefoot on the tiles, dressed in white lace and silence.
Lisetta, the eternal child.
She looked no older than ten. A vision of innocence: white ribbon in her hair, soft pale curls, eyes like a mourning dove. But beneath the gauze mask, her amber gaze gleamed too sharp.
In her delicate fingers she held thin red strings, they shimmered faintly in the air, taut between her fingertips like threads of blood.
“He’s here,” she said, almost wistfully. Her voice was sweet, soft as a lullaby. “The little storm, the one who thinks he’s free.”
Arlecchino chuckled. “That’s the Sparda charm, piccolina. Always walking onstage like they own the play… right before it swallows them whole.”
She blinked slowly, watching Dante swing his weapon back onto his shoulder, watching Vergil’s cold silence, Nero’s clenched fists.
“I like the one with the fire in his sword,” Lisetta murmured. “He’s angry. He’ll make a beautiful doll.”
She extended one tiny hand, and the red threads between her fingers twitched just a fraction, as if responding to her thoughts. Butterflies circled her ankles. Not real ones—paper-thin and bone-white, fluttering without wind, cut from the same fabric as her soul.
“I’ve prepared a little marionette,” she hummed. “Tied with love, teeth and thread. Let’s see how they dance.”
Arlecchino placed a hand to his chest, mockingly moved. “Ah, che dolcezza. They have no idea the show’s just begun.”
They turned away as sirens echoed in the distance, and the city swallowed them again. Somewhere beneath that crooked sky, something had already bitten the moon—and it wasn’t done chewing.
The Devil May Cry van coughed to a stop in front of the building, three stories of cracked brick and iron balconies that looked more like broken teeth than architecture. Half the windows were boarded shut; the other half stared back like empty eyes. Morrison had circled this place in red on the map, with a single note: “Last known drop point. Smelled like Hell.”
Dante stepped out first, one hand on Rebellion, the other shading his eyes as he looked up. “Well, this is charming. Bet it’s got great Yelp reviews.”
Nico hopped down behind him, cradling a small case of sensors. “Don’t get comfy. This place is lit up like a Christmas tree on thermal scans. Something's moving in there.”
“Not coming with?” Nero asked, stretching his Red Queen.
“I don’t do haunted mansions, sweetie,” she said, planting a device in the concrete. “But I’ll watch the front. If something tries to sneak up on you, I’ll ring the dinner bell. Loud.”
Dante cracked his neck. “Alright then. Let’s knock.”
The front door wasn’t locked. It just... opened. Slowly, too slowly. Inside, the air shifted—like stepping into a throat that hadn’t breathed in years. Peeling wallpaper, dust in the shape of handprints and a chandelier twisted by heat or time. They stood in the foyer, boots echoing on scorched tile.
Vergil’s gaze swept the stairwell. “We split up. Find whatever Morrison smelled before it finds us.”
“Standard horror movie setup,” Dante muttered. “I’ll take the floor with the murder-vibes.”
Nero smirked. “I'll take the basement. Smells like trauma and moldy socks."
Nico leaned against the van’s hood, lighting a cigarette. She watched them vanish into the dark hallways, her fingers dancing over the monitor. “Showtime,” she murmured.
Scena di Dante:
The hallway didn’t smell like Hell, it smelled worse. Something between mildew, hot iron, and old laundry no one wanted to claim. Dante stepped through the busted doorway with his blade resting on his shoulder, boots echoing against the floor. The lights overhead flickered, casting long shadows that bent the wrong way.
“This place better not have dolls,” he muttered. “If I see one creepy toy, I’m charging overtime.”
The air was thick, not hot, more like humid. Like something had been breathing too long in too small a room. Graffiti scratched across the walls in elegant spirals, half Latin, half gibberish. He passed a rusted baby carriage, a cracked mirror that didn’t show his reflection, and something in a jar that blinked.
“I don’t even wanna know.”
He kept going, further the hallway narrowed, the floorboards creaked louder, and the walls pressed in like they were trying to listen. At the end, a door: red wood, polished brass knob, just begging to be kicked in.
He opened it like a gentleman for once.
The room beyond was something out of a haunted jewelry store, velvet walls in faded purple, glass display cases, a chandelier hung by a single chain swinging slightly like someone had just left. Everything smelled like smoke and melted sugar.
At the center, under a spotlight too bright to be accidental, sat a small object on a pedestal. A red-and-green rubber ball. Old, dented. Grimy.
Dante blinked. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Behind the case hung a painting; a house with a white porch, two worn steps, and a rusted tricycle lying on its side. His childhood house. He took one cautious step forward, then another.
“Alright, mystery demon. You win on presentation.”
He reached out and touched the ball. It felt warm, way too warm. The moment his fingers closed around it—
BOOM.
Smoke, light, and something sticky exploded in his face. He stumbled back, coughing and swearing as confetti and ash rained down.
“Son of a—! Seriously?! I’m gonna need hazard pay!”
Laughter echoed from somewhere behind the walls. Not loud, not even demonic. Just a giggle. Dante spun around, sword raised, confetti still clinging to his coat like glitter after a regrettable party. The giggle came again—closer this time.
A hiss of gas spilled from the chandelier above, swirling like mist laced with perfume and poison. It drifted toward the floor, and from it stepped a girl. Or at least, something that pretended to be one.
She looked fifteen, maybe sixteen. Slim build, ash-pale skin, two oversized ponytails curling like horns; one dyed bright green, the other blood red. A patchwork skirt swayed as she walked, and a battered gas mask covered her mouth and nose, stitched with lace like it had been styled to kill. But her eyes were exposed, gold, glinting like lit matchheads.
“Dante Sparda,” she sang, voice muffled and syrupy sweet. “You’re not the one I wanted, but you’ll burn just fine.”
He stared for a beat, then groaned. “Great. Another clown arsonist with a thing for dramatics.”
She tilted her head. “I had a mistress once,” the girl said, drawing a long, curved blade from the back of her boot. “She told me to behave. So I burned her into the wallpaper. Now I get to play with you.”
The room flickered, then burst into flame, gas whooshed from the chandelier, igniting midair. The velvet walls lit like they’d been soaked in kerosene, tongues of fire licking across the floor in spirals. Dante vaulted backward just as a curtain exploded, ducking a blast of fire that scorched the ceiling black.
“Oh yeah,” he coughed. “Definitely gonna bill someone for this.”
The girl twirled her blade once, the air around it rippling with heat. “Dance with me, traitor,” she whispered. “Let’s see how loud you scream.”
Dante spun Rebellion into a ready stance, flames dancing around him. “Sweetheart,” he grinned. “You’d need to crank the heat way higher to make me sweat.”
The flames surged like waves, licking at the floor and chasing him in spirals of heat and color. The girl laughed again, spinning through the fire like a dancer, blade in one hand, a canister hissing in the other.
“Let’s warm things up,” she purred, clicking the valve.
A jet of gas shot out in a fan, igniting midair with a snap. The demon hunter dove behind an overturned display case just in time as the fire whooshed overhead, scorching the velvet to ash.
“Okay, flamethrower ballet girl,” he muttered, sliding Rebellion into a reverse grip. “Time to cut the music.” He vaulted forward, boots skidding across burning tile.
She moved fast, too fast for human eyes, her silhouette flickering between smoke and spotlight like a broken reel of film. Steel clashed, blade against blade. She ducked under his swing, pirouetted, then slammed a boot into his side, sending him crashing into a wall of melted glass.
The girl skipped backward, giggling. “I was saving this act for your brother, you know. The quiet one. But you’ll do.”
Dante wiped a smear of soot from his cheek, grinning with one eye twitching. “You’ve got terrible taste, kid.”
Without warning, she ripped open the straps on her gas tank and hurled it like a grenade.
His eyes widened. “Oh, hell no—”
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the floor, sending him flying through a haze of fire and pressure. He landed hard, coughing, his blade skidding across the floor. The girl stepped through the blaze like a shadow pulled from the flames—no more gas, no tricks. Just the knife gleaming in her hand.
“Let’s make it hurt,” she murmured.
Dante pushed himself up, spine popping, a grin crawling across his soot-streaked face. “You read my mind.”
Behind her, the fire climbed higher, painting her shadow in monstrous strokes across the blistered velvet walls.
Then, barely above a breath, like the embers whispering to themselves. “Fiammetta. That’s the name she gave me… just before the screaming started.”
Scena di Nero:
The basement stairs groaned under Nero’s boots like they hadn’t been walked in decades—which they probably hadn’t, unless rats counted. The air got colder with each step, thick with mold, copper, and something sharp underneath. Like blood that had dried, then screamed.
He reached the bottom and clicked on his shoulder light.
“Yup,” he muttered. “Definitely trauma down here.”
The beam swept across the basement: crates half-shattered, iron shelves bent out of shape, cables torn loose like veins from the walls. Some kind of lab or a slaughterhouse pretending to be one.
BZZZT.
“Basement boy, you still breathing?”
Nero nearly jumped out of his skin. The walkie on his belt crackled again, Nico’s voice cutting through the silence like a gunshot.
“Damn—Nico!” he hissed, clutching his chest. “You tryna give me a heart attack?”
Her voice crackled through the radio, casual as ever. “Just checking in, sugar. Sensors picked up a spike right under your feet. You see anything spooky yet?”
Nero swept his light across the far end of the room, a row of broken glass tubes lined the wall like empty coffins, one still held a smear of something dark and viscous, almost pulsing.
“Define spooky,” he muttered. “Place looks like Frankenstein’s failed side hustle.”
“Yeah, well, whatever it is, it's waking up. Movement’s picking up all over the grid. Stay sharp.”
The young hunter exhaled through his nose, flexing his fingers with slow control. “Copy that. If anything jumps out, I’ll be sure to scream real loud.”
He clicked the radio off and stepped deeper into the basement. A scorched clipboard lay discarded on the ground, its pages half-eaten by mildew but still legible in places.
Subject 12: Stabilization failed. Responded violently to light exposure. Incinerated handlers. Transfer aborted. Recommend containment until further instructions from D.
He nudged the clipboard aside with his boot and moved forward, light sweeping the edges of the room. More glass tubes, some shattered inward, others melted around the rims like they’d been scorched from the inside out.
A dark smear trailed along the floor, thick and glossy, disappearing under a metal door half-hanging off its hinges. Nero frowned. The handle was bent, almost like something had gripped it from the inside and forced its way out.
“Great,” he muttered. “Doors are optional now.”
He squeezed through the gap, shoulder brushing rusted metal, and entered what looked like an observation chamber. The glass on the far wall was fractured, a one-way mirror turned spiderweb, on the inside a chair bolted to the ground, the scorched restraints dangling like snapped wrists.
His light caught on something beneath it, a small ID badge warped from heat but still legible: Dr. Agramont // Vecchi Division. He picked it up, the plastic crumbled slightly at the edges.
“Never heard of you,” he whispered. “But I’m guessing you didn’t walk out of here.”
A soft creak made him freeze, not behind him—above. The ceiling was lined with old vents, one of them rattling like something had just passed through.
Nero grimaced. “Yeah. That’s not rats.” He stepped back slowly, eyes locked on the vent. The metal slats quivered twice, and then went still. “Cool, crawling spooky vents. Classic.”
Scanning the room again, a half-cracked cabinet stood against the far wall, its door swinging open like an invitation. Rows of dusty files, most charred beyond saving except for one folder sealed in plastic that had survived the fire.
He opened it and the top page read:
CONFIDENTIAL: Operation Il Copione - Vecchi Field Notes
Target: Isolate “Subject B” genetic remnants.
Status: Dormant.
Temperament: Unstable.
Recommended action: Erase witnesses. Proceed with transfer to Fortuna lab.
Note: Maternal origin confirmed. Genetic markers traceable to Project Mundus, Phase I.
Stamped in red ink: THE MASCHERATI
Nero stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he blinked hard enough. “What the hell does that mean.” he muttered. “Subject B… Genetic remnants… Transfer to Fortuna?”
The pieces didn’t fit—not yet—but they came with edges sharp enough to cut. Nero’s stomach turned, he wasn’t stupid. Someone had run an experiment, years ago. On what? On who? Whatever this was, it wasn’t a simple mission.
A soft drip echoed behind him. There was a prickle at the back of his neck, instinct screaming just a second too late.
Thwip.
Something bit into his shoulder. Sharp, cold. Nero flinched, stumbling forward. “What the—?”
He spun around, but the room was still—just a cracked chair, a broken mirror, and the low hum of failing lights. Then came a faint, metallic hiss… and a voice. Not spoken aloud, but sliding straight into his ear, like a whisper crawling through his skull.
“Everything in its place, piccolo disastro.”
Nero staggered, his vision blurred at the edges, pulsing with red. “What… was that…” he rasped.
His knees buckled, muscles twitched like they were fighting underwater. The folder slipped from his hand. A smear of blood bloomed where the needle had struck—tiny, but pulsing with something wrong. He tried to reach for his radio, but didn’t make it.
From behind him, something stirred, a low hungry groan. The far wall cracked, just slightly, as if something heavy had shifted inside it. Then came the tentacle, thick and black and gleaming like oil, it slithered silently from the ceiling vent.
It coiled once in the air, and then struck wrapping around Nero’s midsection like a rope made of muscle and slime. He gasped and everything turned dark.
Scena di Vergil:
The upper floors of the mansion had fallen into silence, Vergil moved like a shadow down the corridor, boots silent against marble veined in black and gold. The walls here were unburnt, untouched by chaos, but the decay ran deeper. This was the part of the house that had never been abandoned, because it had never been meant for people.
No dust. No drafts. No windows.
Only mirrors, dozens of them, framed in tarnished silver lining the walls like spectators at a play. Vergil paused in front of one, it did not reflect him. Instead, the glass shimmered faintly, like water disturbed by a ripple. He tilted his head, examining it, not alarmed, just... interested. The Yamato at his side thrummed once, as if acknowledging the presence, and kept walking.
Each room he passed seemed staged, a banquet hall with rotten fruit arranged in golden bowls, a bedroom with untouched sheets and a doll perched on the windowsill. A music room where the keys of a grand piano pressed themselves down, one by one, without a hand in sight.
He ignored them all.
Until he reached a door unlike the others. Heavy, with brass fittings carved into the shape of comedy and tragedy masks. It opened before he touched it. The room beyond was dark and circular, at the center, a pedestal with a single book bound in cracked red leather.
Around it, the walls curved into a dome, each segment inscribed with intricate diagrams; stars, symbols, names. One of them read: Il Copione. Another: Vecchi, Zanni, Servetta.
Vergil stepped closer to the book and then, from somewhere unseen, a voice like silk over steel. “Welcome, Vergil Sparda. We’ve been expecting you.”
He didn’t flinch, only studied the room, expression unreadable. The voice chuckled, low and theatrical, like an actor savoring his monologue. “We’ve written so many endings, son of Sparda. Tragedy, comedy, farce. But yours? Yours is... operatic.”
Vergil’s eyes flicked to the book. Without ceremony, he reached out and opened it. Dust curled into the air like smoke. The pages were lined in blood-colored ink, each one covered in diagrams that pulsed faintly beneath the surface; spells, contracts and names.
His name, Nero’s, and—
Vergil’s fingers hovered over the page, the ink beneath the blurred name had bled outward, forming the shape of a red crescent moon.
The voice whispered behind him now. “You were never meant to find her. But fate. Oh, fate loves a repeat performance.”
Vergil closed the book. “Fate,” he said coldly. “Is a stage I’ve already burned.”
The Yamato hummed at his side. A dozen mirrors in the dome began to shift, reflecting not his image, but others. Scenes unfolding elsewhere: Dante locked in fire, Nero slumping in the dark, something massive waking beneath the house.
And in the final mirror, a woman, bathed in moonlight, hair like silver fire, her eyes locked on his through the glass. She whispered something he could not hear, Vergil stepped toward it.
“Careful, Sparda. Some reflections stare back.”
All the mirrors shattered at once.
A chorus of breaking glass screamed through the dome as shards exploded outward like crystal rain. The book on the pedestal burst into flame, its pages curling inward in silence, consumed from within.
The first thing Nico did after an hour was light a cigarette.
The second was duck.
A crash shook the Devil May Cry van as Nero came flying through the air like a pissed-off cannonball, wrapped in something wet, black, and definitely not from this world. He hit the street with a grunt, rolled once, twice, and slammed against a pile of debris with a crunch.
Nico exhaled smoke without blinking. “Well. Someone had a rough date.”
From the hole in the roof above, the tentacle slithered down—fat as a fire hydrant, slick as a nightmare, tipped with barbs that glistened like needles dipped in moonlight. It whipped once and disappeared back into the mansion, dragging a curtain of gas and debris behind it.
BOOM.
The entire west wing exploded in flame.
From inside the inferno came a voice, hoarse and pissed. “WHO THE HELL THROWS A GAS TANK MID-FIGHT?!”
And then, through the fire Dante appeared. Coat in tatters, hair singed, eyes gleaming like the devil himself had been mildly inconvenienced. He skidded out of the front door in a backwards roll, landed next to Nico, and grinned.
“What’s up, kiddos?”
Nero groaned, brushing soot from his cheek. A burst of laughter echoed from inside—high-pitched, theatrical, unmistakably deranged.
Nico flicked her cigarette. “Y’all brought out the party clowns again?”
Before anyone could answer, a BOOM sent shattered wood flying out the doorway, followed by a swirl of gas shaped like a flame. From it stepped Fiammetta coated in soot and giggles, her twin ponytails still bouncing like detonator wires.
“Oh good,” she purred. “You’re all here. Now I can kill the whole band.” She snapped her fingers.
The gas ignited midair in a flash of greenish flame. From the crater behind them, something roared. The pavement buckled and then cracked, as thick, monstrous tentacles erupted from the earth, flailing in all directions. One snatched a lamppost, another threw a parked car across the street like a toy.
Dante glanced from Fiammetta to the tentacles, then to Nero, deadpan. “So. You break the house, I get set on fire, and now there’s hentai in the driveway.”
Nero wiped a streak of blood from his jaw. “You really had to blow up half the mansion?”
“Collateral damage builds character.”
“Pretty sure it just builds lawsuits.”
Just then, a blue flash split the air. The steel of a katana sang, Vergil appeared between them, calm as a boat amid a storm. He glanced at the chaos, the monster, the demon girl giggling in fire, the tentacles tearing up the street.
Then at his brother. “…Did you cause this?”
Dante shrugged. “Technically? Shared custody.”
Vergil exhaled through his nose. “You have the tactical foresight of a brick.”
The other Sparda spun Rebellion once, the edge catching firelight. “Yeah? And you’ve got the emotional range of a vending machine.”
“Vending machines don’t make mistakes.”
Nico, still behind the van, muttered around her cigarette. “And yet somehow I’m stuck with three flavors of dumbass and a kaiju made of noodles.”
The pavement lurched again as a tentacle slammed down inches from the van, cracking the concrete and sending up a shower of sparks.
Fiammetta twirled, arms wide as flames flared around her. “This is so much better than rehearsal!”
The beast behind her finished rising, a grotesque fusion of puppet strings and demonic flesh, its torso half-buried in writhing limbs, its face a cracked porcelain mask stitched with runes that bled light.
Nero reached for Red Queen, blade roaring to life. “Alright, who wants the big guy?
The beast didn’t wait for their debate. It lunged all limbs, rage and screeching. Tentacles whipped through the air, slicing into the cars like razors. One caught a traffic light and hurled it like a spear.
Dante ducked under it, fired mid-roll, Ebony barked twice. The bullets hit dead center, the mask cracked… and immediately mended. “Okay,” he muttered. “That’s new.”
A second tentacle came for him, this one barbed. He blocked with Rebellion, but the impact threw him across the street, skidding through debris with a grunt. Vergil blurred forward and Yamato flashed—clean, perfect, deadly. He sliced through three cords in a blink. The pieces twitched… then regrew, faster than expected.
Fiammetta laughed. “Oh no, darlings. This isn’t the part where you win.”
She spun once, gas swirling around her like a skirt of fire, and vanished into the smoke. And reappeared behind Nero, he turned too slow. Her heel slammed into his ribs, launching him into the hood of a car. The metal crumpled with a scream and he slid off coughing, one hand clutching his side.
Dante reacted with a bullet, but the girl moved through it like vapor. She kicked off the streetlight, flipped over a dumpster, and came down hard with both blades angled for his neck. He caught them with his own weapon, barely. Steel screeched, sparks flew, and the fire coiled between them like it was watching.
“You really need a new hobby,” he muttered, shoving her back. She blew him a kiss, it exploded on contact.
Behind them the beast shrieked, two of its tentacles shot into the side of a building and tore it down halfway, ground raining over the battlefield in slabs. One chunk landed inches from the van, another smashed into the body of a parked truck, flipping it onto its side.
Vergil moved through the blast, silent and precise. The katana sliced clean toward her exposed flank, a perfect arc. But she dropped low, slid under him, twisted, and dragged one blade across his thigh. He hissed, blood hit the pavement.
“Oops,” she sang. “Got the pretty one.”
Gas burst from her back tank, a shockwave of heated mist. Dante was already charging, coat smoking, gun forgotten. He swung hard, and she blocked with a metal gauntlet, skidding back, boots carving lines into the asphalt.
“Come on, boys. You’ve faced bigger things, I’m just a girl with a lighter.”
The monster behind her suddenly split its mask down the center. A new mouth opened wide beneath it, rows of jagged teeth and wires snapping with tension. The sound it made was wrong—too deep, too hollow, like a scream being dragged backward.
It plunged both arms into the ground and sent a shockwave of strings through the street, slicing upward like roots. Nero roared in from the left, the Red Queen lit up the street in orange arcs. He feinted right, jumped, came down heavy.
Fiammetta wasn’t fast enough, the blade carved a deep line into her side, her blood sprayed. “Yes,” she whispered, grinning.
Vergil appeared behind her, and this time he stabbed clean through. The katana pierced her stomach and came out red. In a flash, she grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled herself closer, her face inches from his.
“You’re all so beautiful when you think you’re winning.”
Fiammetta activated every valve on her belt, fire erupted from her body like wings.
All the three hunters were blown back, Dante hit the ground hard, Nero rolled through a storefront window and Vergil landed on one knee, smoke curling off his coat. Flames danced in the wreckage.
The beast lumbered closer behind her, hunched like a marionette on broken strings, dragging its lower half in a serpentine crawl. Its arms were no longer cords, but limbs shaped like human arms melted into bone and wrapped in steel. Fiammetta stood alone in the center of it, blood dripping down her leg, fire licking her arms, the broken mask now fused to her jaw like bone.
“This is my finale.”
They met her at once. Nero from the right, sword roaring, Vergil from the left and Dante straight ahead, a flash of silver and rage.
They didn’t speak, they just moved and coordinated.
Steel clashed and fire screamed.
Nero locked her blade, Vergil cut her knee, Dante spun behind and drove Rebellion through her back. She screamed now, but not in pain—in a maniatic laughter.
“You’re perfect.” Fiammetta exploded.
The tank ruptured in a blinding flash, the street turned white for a heartbeat. Then the silence. When the smoke cleared, she was on her knees. The gas mask cracked, arms trembling, chest rising and falling in short bursts. Still smiling.
Dante walked up slowly, sword dragging sparks. “No encore,” he said. And brought Rebellion down, this time, she didn’t move.
Vergil wiped his blade and looked toward the crater behind them. The beast was still moving, one eye hanging half from its socket, half its mask torn. But its mouth was open in a grin made of stitched teeth and glowing wires.
Nero didn’t wait.
He pushed forward, Red Queen roaring like a chainsaw as he sprinted straight at the thing, dodging a stray tentacle that jerked up too late, then jumped and planted his sword down into its chest in one clean, furious strike.
The creature jolted, but Dante was already behind it, slashing low with Rebellion, cutting through one arm, pivoting around as the monster reeled. Vergil moved without pause, blinking from shadow to shadow until he was above the creature’s head, and then Yamato came down.
Steel cut through the final joint holding the mask together, severed the flow of energy at the base of its neck, and before the monster could even flinch, its body spasmed once and collapsed on itself like wet scaffolding.
Nero stumbled back, panting, smoke rising from his shoulders. Dante wiped a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, sheathed his sword like nothing had happened, and Vergil didn’t even look back.
Dante cracked his neck and stretched, wincing. “So... we’re not getting paid extra for both monsters, right?”
Nero leaned on his sword, face smeared with soot. “If I have to fill out another incident report, I’m listing you as the cause.”
“Bold of you to assume I read those.”
Vergil stepped over the twitching mass, flicked the katana clean with a practiced motion. “That… was no ordinary demon.”
“No shit,” Nero muttered. “Did you see its insides? Looked half organic, half tech.”
Dante gave the corpse a nudge with his boot. It crackled, twitched, then collapsed like wet cardboard. “Yeah. Real arts-and-crafts from Hell vibes.”
Vergil stood slowly, eyes hard. “They weren’t summoning these things. They were making them.”
Nero rubbed his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “I found a file in the basement. Said this thing about “Project Mundus”. Something about transferring it to Fortuna.”
Dante’s grin faded. “...You’re kidding.”
“I don’t joke about lab-grown horror shows, thanks.”
“Mundus,” the older Sparda said, like the word burned his tongue.
His brother exhaled slowly. “Been a while since that name ruined a party.”
“He was never content ruling the underworld,” Vergil said. “Always needed a vessel. A way in.”
Dante glanced at Nero. “You said the file mentioned Fortuna?”
“Yeah,” he replied, pulling a half-crumpled folder from his jacket. “Transfer orders. Something called Subject B. Genetic remnants. Looks like whatever they were building is now there.”
From behind them, boots crunched over broken glass. Nico stepped into view, eyes narrowed behind her goggles, cigarette hanging from her lip.
“You boys really know how to wreck a neighborhood. Van’s totaled, I’m not even mad, just impressed.” She took the folder from Nero’s hand and flipped it open. “Project Mundus, huh? Real subtle name for a hellspawn research program. Next thing you’ll tell me is they called their database Satan.exe.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Dante muttered.
She skimmed further. Her brow furrowed. “Vecchi Division… Subject B… oh hell.” She held up a torn page, stained with soot. “This symbol—right here. It’s the old Fortuna crest, from before the Order of the Sword cleaned up their act.”
Nero stiffened. “You’re sure?”
“Sweetheart, I dated a librarian from Fortuna. I know every weird-ass seal that town ever stamped on a cursed basement door.”
Dante whistled low. “So the cult didn’t die. It just changed brands.”
His nephew blew out a slow breath. “That explains the freakshow in the mansion. Hybrids. Tech mixed with… demon blood, sounds familiar Nico?”
“Sure does,” she gave him a sidelong glance, exhaling smoke through her nose. “Like someone took old man’s twisted science project and gave it a budget.”
“They’ve learned from failure.”
“And kept the worst parts,” Nero muttered.
“Would one of you care to explain,” Vergil’s voice cut through the smog and static. “What exactly was this… twisted science project?”
Nico arched an eyebrow. “You missed the Agnus show back in Fortuna, huh?”
He gave her a level look. “I was otherwise occupied. Enlighten me.”
Nero huffed. “Mad scientist. Worked for the Order. Obsessed with demons and ascension. Tried to fuse tech and hellblood into weapons, monsters—anything he could control. Built half the freaks we fought back then.”
“Emphasis on tried,” Nico added, flipping another page. “He wasn’t subtle. Think Frankenstein, if he was more religious and less competent.”
Vergil nodded slowly, gaze flicking toward the corpse. “And now someone is continuing his work. More effectively.”
Dante gave a crooked smile. “A road trip to good old Fortuna. Just like the old days.”
Nero didn’t smile. “Let’s hope it ends differently.”
Dante raised an eyebrow, gave Vergil a sideways glance and smirked wider. “Who knows, maybe you’ll run into another old acquaintance. One of those charming locals.”
Vergil’s eyes twitched. “Spare me your fantasies.”
“Oh, c’mon, you can’t tell me all those mysterious years weren’t productive.”
Nico coughed pointedly. “Y’all want a shovel, or you just gonna keep digging?”
Nero just groaned. “Please. I already need therapy.”
The bickering didn’t last.
By the time dawn crawled over the broken horizon, conversation had dwindled to half-hearted grunts and the occasional sarcastic sigh. Sleep came in short, stubborn bursts, interrupted by potholes, engine rumbles, and the dull ache of old injuries. Morning turned to afternoon, and the world blurred into long stretches of highway, forested hills, and the kind of small towns no one remembered leaving.
Now, as the sun dipped low behind the jagged steeples of Fortuna, the battered van rolled to a halt near the crumbling gates of what had once been a solemn monastery. Time had worn down its statues, ivy curling around the stone archway, but fresh wooden reinforcements and warm light in the windows spoke of a new purpose. A metal sign swung gently above the entrance, engraved with a delicate script: St. Lucia’s Refuge.
The front doors opened.
“Kyrie,” Nero breathed before he’d even stepped out.
She ran to meet them, the hem of a yellow dress fluttering with each hurried step, her arms out before her. She looked almost unchanged; soft long auburn hair tucked neatly in a half braid, a pale blue shawl across her shoulders, eyes as bright as ever.
The young woman wrapped her arms around him tight, grounding him faster than any blade could. “I heard what happened. I’m just glad you’re safe.” Her voice was soft but sure, a lighthouse in a storm.
He hugged her back, hard. “I always come back. You know that.”
“I worried,” she murmured. She pulled back, scanning him, then the others. “Dante, you haven’t changed at all.”
“Still handsome, still deadly,” Dante said, slinging his sword over his shoulder. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a hot shower and a bed with less bloodstains.”
Kyrie smiled warmly, then turned to the final figure stepping off the van. Vergil stood still, eyes scanning the courtyard, the building, the skyline beyond. Something in his expression tightened.
“You must be Vergil,” she said gently.
He bowed his head slightly.
“I’ve prepared the west wing for you all,” she continued, voice light but sure. “There’s running water, clean rooms, and a kitchen that’s learned to serve warm meals instead of cold prayers. It’s not much, but it’s safe. After everything... that’s what matters.”
Nico whistled, pulling a toolbox from the back. “Not bad for a place that used to host exorcisms.”
Kyrie laughed bright, like bells. “Now we host orphans and lost souls.”
Dante shot a look at Vergil. “Well, we brought one of those, at least.” His brother ignored him.
Nero placed a hand at Kyrie’s back as they all stepped inside. “Thanks, Kyrie. Really. For doing this.”
“Of course. This was always your home.”
As they passed beneath the archway and stepped into the front courtyard, the scent of old stone and blooming rosemary hit like a memory. The garden was modest, but well-kept with potted flowers lined the cracked path, and the central fountain trickled with rainwater, its edges worn smooth by time and little hands.
A sharp pop broke the quiet.
Near the fountain, a woman lounged against the stone rim, legs crossed, sunglasses perched low on her nose. A strand of golden hair slipped over her cheek as she blew another lazy bubble of gum. The pink orb popped again, snapping back with a flick of her tongue.
“Look what the devil dragged in,” Trish drawled, arms folded behind her head.
Next to her, a taller figure leaned against a column, rifle slung across her back and arms crossed with a familiar air of irritation barely veiled beneath cool professionalism.
“About damn time,” Lady muttered, eyeing the van and its scorched paint. “We were starting to think you got eaten.”
Nico gave a short laugh. “We almost did.”
Dante gave a crooked grin. “Guess it’s a full reunion now.”
Vergil said nothing, but his eyes lingered a second too long on Trish. She met his gaze through dark lenses, unreadable.
Kyrie’s voice returned like balm. “Let’s go inside, dinner’s almost ready and you all look like you could take a little breath.”
The doors of St. Lucia’s Refuge closed behind them, leaving the courtyard to its evening hush and the slow ripple of the fountain, where gum popped once more in the fading light.
A few hours later, the plates had been cleared, the wine was cheap but warm and someone had found an old radio playing low jazz beneath the crackle of static. A dim light hung from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating a sitting room that still carried the scent of incense and dust, half-devoured by mismatched couches and chairs dragged in from other rooms.
Dante had his boots kicked up on a chipped coffee table, while Nico was smoldering a cigarette between her fingers. Nero leaned on the windowsill, arms crossed, watching the last hues of twilight bleed into the sea. Kyrie had left with a tray of dishes and a soft smile, promising to bring tea.
Trish sat in an old armchair like a queen in exile, graceful and perfectly detached. The sunglasses were gone now. Lady stood behind her, arms folded, surveying the room with the subtle sharpness of someone always counting exits.
Vergil remained silent in a corner, cloaked in shadow, his presence unmistakable even when he barely moved.
“So,” Nero started, not taking his eyes off the dark horizon, “Operation Mundus. Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve heard whispers,” Trish said finally. “It was classified even in the higher circles. You didn’t talk about it unless you wanted something crawling into your skull.”
He raised a brow. “That sounds promising.”
“They were trying to replicate Sparda.”
The words hung in the air for a beat too long.
Dante let out a low whistle, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, what the hell does that mean?”
She didn’t flinch. “Exactly what it sounds like. The core of the project was to recreate his power. His legacy. Mundus wanted a way back into this world, and to do that, he needed a vessel or maybe a weapon.”
“So, not a clone,” Nico said, exhaling smoke. “More like a… demonic meat suit.”
Trish nodded, slow and grave. “Something molded to survive the crossing between realms. He couldn’t pass through fully after Sparda sealed the gates. Not without help. This... Operation Mundus... was his solution. A long game.”
Dante shifted slightly in his seat. “And you never mentioned this before?”
“I wasn’t sure it was real,” she answered, eyes narrowing. “And back then, it was all whispers and theories no one dared speak aloud. But if it was real…. well….”
He muttered, “And now we’ve got a whole damn opera troupe picking up where he left off.”
Trish frowned. “Those Mascherati... I don’t understand their angle. They weren’t part of this. Not originally. This smells of something... newer.”
Lady stepped forward. “Then how do they have access? Those files, the sigils, the information… it's all straight out of Mundus’ private hell.”
“Maybe someone sold them the script,” Nico offered, voice flat. “A cultist, a traitor, a demon with too much free time.”
“Well,” Dante tilted his head, then slowly turned to glance toward the corner of the room, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Vergil? Got any infernal contacts you forgot to mention? Old pen pals from Hell? Clown college roommates?”
Vergil didn’t move for a second. Then, without shifting his gaze from the floor, he answered coldly. “The only clown I’ve ever associated with is you.”
His brother let out a bark of laughter. “Ah, there it is. Feels good to be loved.”
Lady rolled her eyes. “Great, the apocalypse is near and we’ve got sibling comedy hour.”
Just then, the door creaked open.
Kyrie entered, balancing a tray of mismatched tea cups and a chipped porcelain teapot. “I hope I’m not interrupting something world-ending,” she said with a warm smile. “Thought you might need this.”
“Perfect timing,” Dante grinned. “We were just debating who’s the bigger red flag: Vergil or my dating history.”
She placed the tray on the coffee table and began distributing cups, her calm presence briefly soothing the heavy air. Then her eyes landed on one of the crumpled sigils Nico had pinned to the armrest with a screwdriver.
Kyrie tilted her head. “I didn’t know you were planning to visit the circus.”
The entire room froze.
Nero turned from the window. “The what now?”
She pointed delicately. “That symbol. I’ve seen it around the Red District. Posters. Flyers. A night of masks and miracles, I think the tagline said. Very dramatic.”
Trish leaned forward slowly. “You’re sure?”
“I haven’t gone,” Kyrie clarified, placing a cup in Vergil’s general vicinity. “Not really my kind of show. But the posters are everywhere in that part of town.”
Dante sat up straighter. “You’re telling me these lunatics are putting up ads?”
“It’s... well, Fortuna’s changed since the Order fell. The Red District’s been repurposed for shows, clubs, that kind of thing. Some say the acts are disturbing, others think it’s performance art. No one really knows.”
Nico snorted. “Of course, makes perfect sense. Demonic cult running theater in the sketchiest part of town, real subtle.”
Nero shot her a glare. “Expert in symbols, huh?”
The tanned girl blinked. “What?”
He pointed to the sigil. “You said and I quote; Sweetheart, I dated a librarian from Fortuna. I know every weird-ass seal that town ever stamped on a cursed basement door.”
Nico raised both hands. “Okay, how was I supposed to know they’d go full Cirque du Satan?”
Dante grinned. “I kinda want to see it now.”
Lady groaned. “You would.”
Most of the lights had gone out by now, the sitting room abandoned save for a few empty wine glasses and the soft hum of the old radio still whispering jazz. Somewhere above, a door creaked, and another slammed gently shut as footsteps retreated down the west wing.
In the kitchen, water ran quietly.
Kyrie stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a loose knot. Nero dried plates beside her with a dishcloth, slow and distracted.
“You’re helping tomorrow, right?” she asked gently, not looking up. “With the prep. I’m sure there’s some outfit somewhere for sneaking into the Red District.”
He gave a non-committal shrug, staring at the glass in his hands as if it held answers.
Kyrie glanced over, catching the far-off look in his eyes. She smiled faintly. “So… that’s the famous Vergil, huh?”
“I guess,” Nero muttered.
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“Not really. We don’t… have much to say.”
Kyrie dried her hands and leaned on the counter beside him. “You don’t have to force anything. But it’s okay to be curious.”
Nero let out a quiet breath, his voice low. “It’s not about being curious. I mean… he didn’t even know I existed. Imagine some grown-ass stranger walks up to you one day and says: Hey, I’m your kid. What the hell do you even say to that?”
He set the glass down carefully. “The time with V… that was real. Human. And I guess I’ve been holding onto that, letting it be enough. Maybe this… whatever this is... needs time. If he wants that, if not—” he gave a tight shrug, “—then he’s just what I always figured my parents were. A donor, nothing more.”
The faucet dripped once, Kyrie said nothing for a moment.
“Maybe… you could also try to learn more about your mother, if you ever felt ready.”
At that, Nero’s hands froze.
His jaw clenched.
“Kyrie…” His voice cracked just slightly. “Please don’t.” She turned fully toward him now, concern blooming behind her soft eyes.
“They used to say stuff, back at the Order. That she was a… someone who didn’t want me. That she left me because I was a burden.” He swallowed hard, blinking faster. “And maybe it’s bullshit, but I don’t think I could live with it if it wasn’t. If it turns out that it’s true, that she really was just a…” Nero broke off.
“I’m not ready for that answer,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to know if the truth is worse than the story I’ve already survived.”
Kyrie stepped forward, wordless and wrapped her arms around him, the sink kept running.
And Nero, for just a moment, let his head fall forward and rested it on her shoulder.
Scena dei Mascherati:
A clock ticked.
The chime echoed across the marbled hall, where shadows bent around crimson drapes and golden candlelight flickered without heat. A long table stretched like a stage, lined with ornate chairs, most of them filled.
At its head, the woman in red rested one gloved hand over a deck of tarot cards, their backs inked with black filigree. Her face remained hidden behind a mask of porcelain white, untouched but for a single crimson teardrop that bled down her eye.
The Gran Regista turned a card. “The Flame,” she whispered. Her voice was velvet, quiet, and amused. “She burned brightly… but fell on cue.”
Fiammetta’s card drifted to the floor, curling as it landed in a puddle of melted wax.
“To be expected,” rumbled a deep voice. From the shadows to her right, a golden mask gleamed. Crowned with laurels, Pantalone reclined like a serpent in silk, rings on every finger, robes too fine for the stink of sulfur he carried. Greed, walking and breathing.
“She was unstable,” said another. The voice came from behind a beaked mask, its lenses glowing faint purple. The Dottore stood perfectly still, dressed head-to-toe in void-black, one gloved hand tapping the top of his surgical cane.
A sharp click came from across the table.
“The test continues,” said Tartaglia, barely glancing up from the crystal tablet in his lap. His face was hidden behind VR glasses, sleek and modern. An archivist’s mask for someone who’d seen the scroll become a screen. “The script is unfolding as written.”
The Gran Regista drew another card.
“The Lovers,” she murmured, turning it toward the table.
Two figures, back to back. One in blue, one in gold. Flames and vines curling around them both. The title scrawled beneath: Gli Innamorati.
“They move closer,” she said. “Even without realizing it.”
A choked laugh escaped someone nearby.
Arlecchino leapt onto the table without warning, limbs bending too far, bells on his collar jangling in a rhythm no human could follow. Half his mask smiled in joy, the other half wept in orange despair. “Ooooh, how romantic!” he sang, spinning on one foot. “Shall I plan the wedding or the funeral, Director?”
“Sit down, freak,” growled Pulcinella. He leaned on his hammer like a butcher resting after a long day. His cracked mask revealed a sliver of black tongue, twitching behind crooked teeth.
“Let him dance,” came a smoother voice. Brighella leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, a smile carved into his mask so permanent it might have been real. Cloaked in shadows, untouched by dust, he watched and said little, but saw everything.
“I’d rather see blood than ballet,” muttered a colder voice from the edge of the hall. Scaramuccia stepped into the light, dressed in white like a ghost of a samurai, and twin swords hung at the hips, his oni mask gleamed faintly. “He’ll come,” he said simply. “He always does. I’ll be ready.”
A slow stomp echoed behind him. Metal on stone. Capitano marched into view, towering in infernal bronze. His face was a helm of old war, an imperial general forged in fire, reborn through conquest. “They will all come,” he said. “That is the script.”
Behind them, a low hum, almost a song.
Colombina emerged last, trailing silk and perfume, mask shifting with every step—a coy smile one moment, a weeping widow the next. Her dark hair glimmered like night water. “I heard the mirrors whisper,” she said, voice like honey and knives. “The curtain rises soon.”
Lisetta at her side chuckled. “I made new dolls,” she whispered, tugging red strings that shimmered like veins. “They’re made from skin this time. Much softer.”
The Gran Regista placed the final card.
Stamped in red: Il Copione. The Script.
The ink shimmered.
“Let the descendants of Sparda take center stage,” she said, rising to full height, cloak unfurling like wings behind her. “All they will do… is exactly as written.”
And the candles flickered out.