January 2005 – Brooklyn Diner
The bell over the door chimed as Dante stepped inside.
Warm air hit him like a wave, thick with the smell of coffee, grease, and old vinyl.
Snow dripped from his coat in slow trails, pooling near the mat.
Elsa Bloodstone sat in a booth by the window, arms crossed, her expression balanced somewhere between patient and ready to throw her coffee.
Across from her, a half-eaten pizza cooled beside an empty strawberry parfait glass.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
"Traffic," Dante replied, sliding into the seat opposite her.
"Traffic doesn't bleed green."
He smirked. "Depends on the neighborhood."
Elsa sighed, pushing the pizza box toward him. "Eat before it fossilizes."
He flipped open the lid, pulling a slice free. The cheese stretched—half-cold and defiant.
"Still warm enough for me."
She leaned back, studying him. "You reek of gunpowder."
"You say that like it's not my natural cologne."
"Next time, shower before dinner."
He took a bite, talking around the crust. "You only invite me to dinner when there's a job. So what's the catch?"
Dante flipped the folder open with one hand, skimming through the pages. His brow creased.
"This isn't a demon contract."
"No," Elsa said evenly, taking a sip of her coffee.
"So why take it?" he asked, tapping the file. "Missing-person gigs aren't your style, Red. Usually, there's more blood and less paperwork."
Elsa exhaled, a faint eye roll following. "Because you, pizza-loving freak, keep asking for bigger cuts to fund that property you've been drooling over."
Dante tilted his head with a grin. "That's called entrepreneurship."
"It's called being broke," she countered sharply. "This job pays two million. Enough for you to finally stop whining and for me to get a week without your face."
Dante's grin widened. "Admit it—you'd miss me."
"Only if I needed target practice," she shot back, hiding the faint blush under her deadpan stare.
He chuckled. "I'll take that as a yes."
Elsa groaned, pushing the folder across the table."Shut up and read before I regret this partnership."
"See? Quality bonding," he said with a grin.
The teasing faded into a brief, comfortable silence.
Outside, the snow kept falling, painting the city in muted white. The waitress passed again, refilling Elsa's coffee while Dante drummed his fingers on the table.
Finally, Elsa broke the quiet, her tone sharpening back to business. "Alright, focus. I didn't drag you out here for another round of ego inflation."
"You say that like it's not your favorite part of my personality."
"Keep talking, and I'll feed you to your next demon."
He grinned but leaned forward as she slid a manila folder across the table. The cover was smudged and water-stained, stamped with a red seal that had been hastily blacked out.
"It's as you said, a missing-person case," Elsa said. "Young woman, early twenties. Clara Hayes. College student. Last seen near the docks about a week ago."
Dante flipped open the folder lazily.
Elsa nodded towards it. "Her father's a defense contractor. The family wants her found discreetly. Half up front, half when we deliver."
He let out a low whistle. "Two million for one girl? Guess daddy's got a conscience."
"Or something to hide," Elsa said. "Either way, we get paid."
He grinned. "That could get me a lifetime supply of pizza and parfait."
She shot him a glare. "If you blow your half on junk food, I'm taking your cut next time."
"Relax, pizza-loving freak?"—he smirked—"that's your new nickname for me, huh?"
Elsa didn't even blink. "It's earned."
She leaned forward. "We're splitting this fifty-fifty, right?"
Dante nodded without thinking much of it.
She reached into her coat and slid another envelope across the table. He opened it and blinked at the cash inside.
"That's a lot of zeroes," he said.
"It's the advance," she explained. "Five hundred grand. Your cut of the deposit. The rest comes when we bring her home."
Dante smirked again, sliding the envelope into his coat. "Thanks, my favorite accident."
Elsa blinked. "Excuse me?"
He leaned back, grin widening. "You heard me."
Her blush hit immediately. "I told you that was—heat of the moment!" she snapped, trying to compose herself. "Anyway, focus. Next page."
He chuckled, turning the photo. "Sure thing, Red."
Dante flipped to the next photo: Clara Hayes, smiling under bright lights, arms around two other young women in a crowded nightclub.
Elsa pointed at the picture. "That's Clara in the middle. Her roommate, Rachel Trent, on the left. And the blonde—Felicia Hardy. Same age, same campus. Typical party girl. Spends most nights in clubs she's not supposed to be in."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Looks like trouble."
Elsa smirked. "The expensive kind."
He leaned closer to the photo. Felicia's grin caught the neon light—confident, untouchable. Something about it tugged at the back of his mind.
"Felicia Hardy…" he said quietly. "Feels like I've seen her somewhere before."
Elsa gave him a look. "You sure about that?"
He shook his head slowly. "Maybe I just have a good memory for trouble."
Elsa tapped a finger on the photo. "You'll handle her," she said, pointing at Felicia Hardy. "I'll take Rachel Trent. Last anyone saw of them was the night Clara disappeared."
Dante glanced up. "So, I get the party girl."
"You get the distraction," Elsa corrected. "She was seen leaving a club near the waterfront. If anyone knows what happened to Clara, it's her."
Dante leaned back, smirking. "Alright. Where's this club of yours?"
Elsa slid a glossy black card across the table. It shimmered under the diner lights—the logo shaped like a pair of horns wrapped around a martini glass.
"Club Inferno," she said. "VIP-only. Opens after midnight."
Dante turned the card between his fingers, eyebrow raised. "You do know I'm eighteen, right? No way they're letting me in."
Elsa didn't even blink. She reached into her coat pocket again and tossed something else onto the table.
It was an ID card. A bad one.
The photo showed Dante with sunglasses, his hair slicked back, holding what looked suspiciously like a mugshot number. The name read:
Tony Redgrave – Age 27, Professional Exorcist / DJ.
He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at her. "You've got to be kidding me."
Elsa's lips curved into the smallest smirk. "I thought it suited you."
"DJ Exorcist? Seriously?"
"Relax," she said, standing and adjusting her coat. "They'll buy it. That club's full of people pretending to be something they're not."
"Guess I'll fit right in," he muttered, tucking the fake ID into his pocket.
Elsa dropped a few bills on the table and headed for the door.
"Meet me back here if you find anything. You've got my number."
Dante grabbed one last slice of pizza on his way out. "No promises, my favorite accident."
Her groan followed him into the snow. "I'm going to kill you, Sparda!"
He grinned over his shoulder. "You say that every week."
Ruins of the Tower Incident – Restricted Zone
Lower Manhattan – The Heart of the Blast Site
The wind cut through the night, sharp enough to sting.
Floodlights cast long shadows across the crater that used to be the epicenter of the Tower Incident.
Agent Phil Coulson adjusted his coat, squinting through the haze of snow and dust. The ruins still hissed faintly, steam rising from cracks in the asphalt where green fire had once torn through the ground.
"Still think this is radiation?" one of the techs asked, holding a Geiger counter that wouldn't stop ticking.
Coulson frowned. "Not the kind we can measure."
They moved deeper into the cordoned zone. The crater was surrounded by collapsed buildings—glass fused into strange, black shapes, as if melted by lightning. At the center, half-buried under concrete and twisted rebar, something glowed.
"Sir," a field agent called out, kneeling beside the light. "We've got something."
Coulson approached slowly. Beneath the rubble was a blade—or what was left of one. A fractured piece of steel, curved and jagged, its surface pulsing with faint, hellish energy.
He crouched, brushing away the ash. The shard hummed under his glove, the vibration almost alive.
"Looks like a sword fragment," the agent said. "Medieval make, maybe ceremonial?"
Coulson shook his head. "No ceremony I've ever seen glows like that."
The tech nearby frowned at his instruments. "It's emitting both heat and magnetic flux… but it's unstable. Like it's trying to sync with something."
The air around them rippled—just once, like a pulse from the ground. Every flashlight flickered.
Coulson's jaw tightened. "Bag it. Carefully. Tell R&D I want a full analysis."
"Sir, the readings are spiking—"
"Then move faster."
They sealed the fragment in a reinforced containment case. The moment the lid clicked shut, the ground gave a low, hollow thud, like a heartbeat buried under the city.
Coulson exhaled slowly. "And make sure Fury sees this first. I've got a feeling it's not the only piece."
The agent nodded, hauling the case toward the armored transport waiting by the perimeter.
Coulson lingered, glancing back at the crater. For a second, the snow reflected something—a faint shimmer, like the outline of a tower reaching into the clouds before fading from view.
He straightened his tie against the wind. "Whatever the hell that was… it's not over."