"Loki, if I gave you a chance right now… would you really kill Thor?"
Dante let out a sigh, gaze full of melancholy.
"If it were before, maybe. But now… let's just drop it."
"Why?"
"You're seriously asking me why?" Loki pointed at Thor, who was currently being pounded into the concrete by Hela.
Dante glanced at Thor's once-classic, square-jawed golden-boy face—now swollen and dented to the point of species ambiguity.
That was some sisterly love.
She wasn't even using her powers as the Goddess of Death—just pure Asgardian muscle and Mjolnir-to-face action. And thanks to Thor's insane physical durability, he wasn't dead. Yet.
Honestly? This was her being gentle.
Dante was starting to think Hela wasn't actually the cold-blooded villain history made her out to be.
Hell, she didn't even hate Odin the way people assumed.
What she hated… was being erased.
She'd conquered realms for him, killed for him, won wars—and he turned around and sealed her away on Earth like a mistake.
And for what?
Because one day, he decided he wanted to rule "peacefully" now?
Classic Emperor Dad move.
First he trains you in war, then ditches you when you become too good at it.
No wonder Hela wanted to get some retroactive payback.
And what better way to insult Odin than to reduce his poster-boy son to a cosmic punching bag?
Naturally, Dante and Loki decided to sit back and watch the live show.
Siblings brawling violently? That's family bonding—Asgard edition.
At first, Thor stayed stubborn, clenching his jaw through the pain, even trying to fight back.
But by the time Mjolnir had finished sculpting his face, even he realized this wasn't just a scolding.
This was… something else.
His sister wasn't angry at him.
She was using his face to punch Odin in the metaphorical nuts.
And being the Crown Prince?
Well, that made Thor the most punchable thing in sight.
Realizing this, Thor's massive frame shuddered with a strange new emotion:
Grievance.
"M-my elder sis… I was wrong."
Loki's poker face completely crumbled.
"PFFFFT—HAHAHAHAHA! I'm dying! That idiot actually admitted he was wrong! And begged for mercy!"
"Ahh…" Dante sighed with faux depth. "According to my professional analysis, if he were up against a life-or-death enemy, Thor would rather die than surrender. But here? Getting beat by Big Sis? Of course he's gonna beg. It's family."
"Hmph! He doesn't get to surrender yet!" Loki huffed. "If you're getting beat, you're finishing the beatdown."
He glanced at Hela.
Eyes gleaming, Loki slinked toward the sibling smackdown with a devilish grin.
Dante reached out—half-heartedly—but he was already too late.
Not that he tried that hard.
"Big Sister! Don't stop! He and Father were in cahoots! Only you and I are the real family here! We're the true heirs of Asgard!"
Hela froze mid-swing.
Then turned.
Her expression was unreadable.
But the heat behind her eyes made Loki's blood run cold.
Because while Thor resembled Odin on the outside...
Loki—adopted or not—acted like Odin on the inside.
And Hela could not stand that.
"B-Big Sister… why are you looking at me like that?"
Then—crack.
The next swing landed squarely on Loki.
"DANTE! HELP!"
"Sorry, man. I'm morally conflicted and spiritually unavailable."
Dante was already exasperated.
"Hela, just think about this. Odin let these two clowns run free across the Nine Realms, while you, who actually wanted to strengthen Asgard, got sealed away on Earth. Does that not piss you off? Does that not break your heart? Hit 'em harder! No proper King ever rose without beating the stupid out of his siblings!"
...
Despite the epic domestic violence playing out behind him, Dante remembered he had an actual job.
He left the cell, leading his squad back out while giving the siblings some… private time.
Mostly because there were too many people in there, and Hela might start holding back.
And judging by the air pressure, she'd probably already summoned her Nightsword.
As he exited, Dante glanced back one last time, pressed a palm to his chest, formed a hand sign, muttered "Amitabha," and walked away solemnly.
Once out, Dante put his game face back on.
No more religious memes—now it was mission mode.
"There are three guys down in the pit. Two of them are just petty criminals, motivated by profit. Not that dangerous. But the third…"
He glanced at Wanda.
"…He's a magic user. A very skilled one. Right now, he's fully locked down by my Will Green Light. Can't form seals, can't chant spells. But don't get cocky. He's a manipulative dirtbag with zero moral bottom."
"Yes, Captain!" Wanda saluted instinctively. She was still adjusting to seeing Dante in full federal-agent mode.
"Big Sis Hela taught me a lot about channeling magic this month. If he can't resist, I should be able to suppress his abilities temporarily."
"Perfect. Constantine's yours."
As they dropped down into the pit…
Mick Rory was still beating the crap out of Constantine.
"Alright, that's enough. Mick Rory, stop. Punishment has been served."
But Rory was full rage-mode by now.
Words were no longer getting through.
Dante sighed and gestured at Pietro.
"Make him stop."
"Yes, Captain!"
Pietro grinned—a confident, actual smile, which would've been unheard of a month ago—and disappeared in a silver flash.
To normal people, it looked like a bolt of lightning knocked Mick out cold.
But Dante saw every frame.
Pietro's speed had been climbing steadily since his mutation stabilized.
He wasn't breaking the sound barrier yet—still around 600 mph—but that was more than enough.
Quicksilver wasn't just fast. His body was evolved to handle that speed.
No fatigue toxins. Supercharged cardio-respiratory systems. Insane muscle efficiency.
Strength wasn't his thing, sure, but lifting a few hundred kilos? Child's play.
And as his speed kept increasing, the rest of his body would evolve too.
That thought reminded Dante of Barry Allen.
Honestly, if nothing weird happens, Pietro and Barry will probably become bros. Like, really fast bros.
Both lost their moms. Both had practically nonexistent dads. Both ran to escape the pain.
God, that's sad.
But hey—at least they weren't Bruce Wayne.
Speaking of…
Far away in Gotham City, Bruce Wayne paused mid-training as he suddenly sneezed.
Alfred glanced up from dusting the Batcomputer. "Master Bruce, are you alright? You haven't sneezed in years."
"It's nothing, Alfred," Bruce muttered.
Still, as he resumed training, he had a sudden sense of foreboding…
Someone, somewhere, was talking about him behind his back.
Meanwhile, back in the pit, Dante squatted next to Constantine, who was tied up like a cursed zongzi.
"You still able to talk, Constantine?"
"Wuwuwuwu! Wuwuwuwu! (Let me go! I swear I won't run!)"
"…Are you stupid? Do I look like Professor X? I can't read your mind."
Dante rolled his eyes and loosened the gag.
"But let's get one thing clear: if you run, I will hunt you down. Doesn't matter how deep into the magical underworld you crawl—I'll find you. You know I can."
Constantine nodded frantically.
Run?
Hell no.
He could feel it—at least three terrifying presences nearby.
One had just popped into the cell above.
The other was outside, near the warden's office.
And the one in front of him?
Well… that one made all the others look like warm-up bosses.
Even if he wanted to run, he knew damn well…
This time?
He probably couldn't make it out alive.
(To be continued.)