Waterfront Manhattan – Midnight
The bass hit like thunder before Dante even reached the door. Inferno—a waterfront club built in a converted warehouse, the kind of place that pretended exclusivity just to make sin feel expensive.
Cold mist rolled in off the Hudson, mixing with exhaust and perfume. Neon from the docks bled across the puddled asphalt, turning the rain-slick street crimson. Cargo cranes loomed in the fog like sleeping giants.
A line snaked down the block—glitter and leather, laughter sharp in the wind. The smell of salt water cut through cologne.
Dante stepped up to the velvet rope, hands in his coat pockets, grin easy. No sword tonight—just the twin weight of Ebony and Ivory hidden beneath the red leather.
The bouncer looked him over, unimpressed. Dante flashed his ID, laminated and freshly fake.
Name: Tony Redgrave
Age: 27
Occupation: Professional Exorcist / DJ
The man squinted. "Exorcist and DJ?"
Dante shrugged. "Depends on the crowd. Sometimes I clear 'em, sometimes I kill it."
The bouncer smirked despite himself and waved him through. "Welcome to Inferno, Redgrave."
The doors opened, and the city disappeared.
Sound swallowed everything—heat, light, the blur of moving bodies under red and gold strobes. The floor pulsed like a heartbeat; the walls breathed with the rhythm.
Dante moved slow, taking it in—the scent of whiskey, sweat, and smoke layered beneath expensive cologne. Every face here was trying to be someone else.
He passed the bar, scanning corners, exits, and shadows. Elsa had given him a name: Felicia Hardy. Last seen here. But no one said why.
He adjusted his coat, eyes flicking between reflections in the glass and the crowd twisting below. No sign of her yet.
A group of socialites brushed by, laughter spilling like coins. Somewhere in the mix he caught a faint whiff of something that didn't belong—ozone, static, the air before a storm.
"Great," he muttered. "Even the music smells electric."
He leaned against the railing overlooking the floor, cigarette between his fingers — unlit, just a prop to make him look like he belonged. The haze did the rest, wrapping him in the illusion of experience.
The DJ dropped the tempo; lights dimmed, and the crowd screamed. A mechanical heartbeat thumped through the dark.
The bass was still pounding, but Dante wasn't listening anymore. Something else cut through the noise—soft, broken, distant.
A voice. Not in his ear, but inside his chest.
Help me… please…
It came with a flicker of power—thin, weak, but familiar. Demonic energy. Not enough to start a fight, but enough to make his skin prickle.
His gaze drifted toward the far end of the club, where a neon sign marked the VIP section. The beat there was different—slower, heavier, like a heartbeat buried under silk.
"Figures," he muttered, tossing the cigarette aside. "Always the fancy rooms."
He started across the floor, weaving through dancers and drink trays until he reached the red-roped stairs.
A wall of muscle waited at the top—bald head, black suit, earpiece; the kind of guy who thought security meant standing still and looking angry.
"Invite?" the man asked.
Dante grinned. "Working on it. I was supposed to meet someone."
"Name?"
He thought for a second. "Redgrave. Tony Redgrave. DJ, exorcist, bad influence."
The man didn't blink. "No list, no entry."
Dante sighed. "Well, that's disappointing. I was really looking forward to the service."
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Tell you what—how about I leave a tip?"
Before the man could answer, Dante's fist snapped forward, faster than a blink. The punch caught him square in the chest—enough force to lift him off his feet and drop him hard.
The bodyguard slumped against the railing, unconscious but breathing.
Dante shook out his hand. "Guess I just made the list."
He pushed past the rope.
The air changed as soon as he entered. The bass dulled, replaced by muffled laughter and the clink of glasses. Expensive cologne covered the sour tang of fear—and something chemical.
Then came the screams.
Not loud enough to reach the dance floor—just muffled cries drowned beneath the beat.
Dante followed the sound down a narrow hall, lights flashing crimson in rhythm with his heartbeat. He turned the corner—and froze.
Felicia Hardy.
Even half-conscious, she looked like she'd stepped out of a dream meant to kill you slowly. Silver hair spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the red light like mercury fire. A black satin dress hugged her frame—low-cut, slit high at the thigh, glittering faintly under the strobes.
Her heels scraped across the carpet, straps loose, her balance gone. Diamonds glinted at her ears, but her eyes—half-lidded, unfocused—were dull and heavy. Whatever was in her drink was doing its work.
One of them laughed, voice rough over the music. "C'mon, she said she wanted to party—Kingpin pays double for the pretty ones."
Another shoved her forward. "Let's get her in the car before the boss bails."
Dante's hand shot out, catching the first guy's wrist mid-pull. The smile that followed didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm sure he does," he said quietly. "But you don't get to collect."
The man blinked. "Who the hell are you—"
Dante twisted, bone cracking under his grip. The guy went down with a strangled shout as the others stumbled back.
"Now," Dante continued, stepping between them and the woman, "you're gonna do something new tonight. You're gonna walk away."
The nearest one sneered, hand drifting toward his jacket. "You got no idea who we work for."
"Oh, I do," Dante said, grin widening. "That's why I'm giving you a head start."
The first thug swung; Dante met him halfway—a blur of motion, a crack like thunder. The man dropped, limbs twitching. The others hesitated, caught between fear and stupidity.
"Back off," Dante warned, voice low but sharp. "Before I forget to hold back."
The bass thumped through the walls, muffled now by velvet and distance. Dante shifted the half-conscious woman in his arms, careful not to drop her. Her skin burned like fever, and that faint, wrong hum in the air made the back of his neck itch.
It wasn't just chemical. It was demonic.
He couldn't see it, but he could feel it—something pulsing faintly beneath her ribs, like a shard of something alive whispering through her heartbeat.
He frowned. "What the hell did they put in you, lady?"
Behind him, one of the college kids groaned and staggered upright, clutching his jaw. Another followed, wiping blood from his lip.
"Hey!" one slurred. "Put her down!"
Dante turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. "Seriously? You guys still conscious?"
The first one lunged. Dante sidestepped—but before he could even raise his arm, the guy tripped over his own shoe and face-planted into the carpet hard enough to knock himself out cold.
Dante blinked. "…Huh."
Another grabbed a bottle from the bar and swung. The floor slicked with spilled liquor; his heel slipped. The bottle flew backward, hitting his friend instead.
Glass shattered. Both went down in a tangled heap.
Dante stared at the mess. "Okay, that's new."
The woman stirred weakly in his arms, her voice barely a whisper. "Lucky… me…"
"Yeah," he muttered. "Something like that."
The rest of the fight unfolded like a comedy of bad luck. Tables collapsed, lights shorted, the chandelier fell, and within moments, the entire room was a wreck. Dante hadn't thrown more than three punches, and the floor was already littered with unconscious bodies.
He crouched beside the woman, brushing silver hair from her face. "You've got some strange luck, lady. Not sure if it's good or bad yet."
When Dante looked at her face more closely, he was sure he'd seen this girl before.
Felicia Hardy, her gaze cloudy, looked up at him and murmured something that made the memory click.
"Hey… there, handsome."
Dante froze, recognition snapping into place—a woman in a black catsuit, fighting cultists in an alley a few months back, when the Tower split the sky.
His brow furrowed. "Kitty?"