New York City – Dante's Motel
(Dante Sparda & Felicia Hardy)
The silence hung between them, broken only by the low hum of the neon sign bleeding through the blinds.
Felicia leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, silver hair catching the flicker of light. The crimson shimmer beneath her skin had faded — but not vanished. It pulsed faintly, a reminder neither of them could ignore.
Dante tossed the last pizza crust into the box and brushed his hands off.
"So, here's the part where I'm supposed to ask questions," he said. "But something tells me you already know a few of the answers."
Felicia's smirk barely lifted. "Depends on the question, Pretty Boy."
He ignored the jab and flipped open the folder that had spilled onto the floor.
Photos of Clara Hayes stared back up at them — smiling, mid-laugh, unaware of everything waiting on the other side of that picture.
"Her father hired me," Dante said, his tone losing its usual bite. "Wanted me to track her down quietly. She's been missing a month."
Felicia's eyes flicked to the photo, then back to him.
"I know her," she said softly. "Clara's my friend. I was supposed to meet her that night … but I got there too late."
"You think she's dead?"
"I think she's in trouble," Felicia replied. "And if Fisk's name is anywhere near this, she's not the only one."
Dante frowned. "Fisk?"
"Wilson Fisk," she said. "Big man. Bigger empire. Owns half the city above the table and the other half underneath it."
Dante leaned back, unimpressed. "Yeah, sounds like every other overpaid jackass with too much time and too few morals."
Felicia smirked. "That's one way to put it. He calls himself the Kingpin."
Dante snorted. "Kingpin, huh? Cute name. Bet he came up with it himself."
He thought for a moment. "And you think he's the one who grabbed Clara."
Felicia stopped pacing, meeting his eyes. "I don't think, Dante. I know. She called me that night — said she was scared, said someone was following her. I went to meet her at the docks … and I wasn't fast enough."
The words hit heavier than she meant them to.
Dante folded the photo back into the folder, his expression unreadable.
"Then we're hunting the same people."
The conversation cut short when Felicia's head tilted toward the window.
She froze — listening.
Dante noticed the shift before he heard it: faint bootsteps on wet pavement, the click of a gun's safety, the soft grind of a suppressed comm line. Then came the low metallic whisper of a magazine sliding into place.
"Let me guess," Dante muttered. "You didn't order room service."
Felicia's eyes narrowed. "Fisk's men. They must've pulled footage from the nightclub. They're good at following a trail once they have one."
Dante exhaled through his nose, almost impressed. "Guess they didn't like me crashing their party."
"They weren't after you," she said, glancing toward the door. "They're after me — or what's inside me."
The shard beneath her collarbone flickered faintly, a pulse of red light — quick, warning, almost alive.
Dante caught it and raised a brow. "That thing's like an alarm system, huh?"
Felicia nodded once. "It only reacts when trouble's close."
Dante reached for his coat, tone sharpening but calm. "Doesn't matter who they came for. They're here now."
Felicia stepped toward the corner, instinct kicking in. Without her mask, she wasn't about to let strangers see her face.
"I'm not exactly camera-ready," she murmured.
Dante's smirk was faint but steady. "Hide. I'll take care of this."
He pulled on his red coat — chest bare, skin catching the neon glow — and rolled his shoulders.
Across the room, Rebellion began to hum, its edges fading to crimson light as it dematerialized from the wall and re-formed in his hand. With one smooth motion, he slung it over his back.
Felicia gave him a deadpan look. "You planning to fight like that?"
Dante grinned. "Why mess with perfection? Besides …" his grin widened, cocky and unbothered " I saw you eyeing me when I came out of the shower. Consider it a little fan service for the kitty."
Felicia's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Careful, Pretty Boy. Keep showing off like that, and I might start charging admission."
Dante blinked once, then chuckled. "Guess I'd better make it worth the price."
"Better hurry," she quipped, stepping back into the shadows. "Your audience has terrible aim."
The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters.
The first merc through the frame didn't even finish his shout before Dante's boot hit him square in the chest.
The man flew backward, crashing into the hallway and knocking two others off their feet like bowling pins.
Gunfire erupted — muffled, fast, professional.
Dante moved faster.
Bullets tore through where he'd been a second ago, shredding wallpaper and lighting up the room in muzzle flash. He blurred across the floor, snagged a merc's vest, and spun him into the line of fire — the man's body armor taking the brunt of the shots before Dante shoved him aside.
"Wrong room, boys," Dante said, ducking behind the bathroom door. "No autographs."
Another soldier swung around, rifle raised.
Dante caught the barrel mid-swing, twisted it out of his hands, and used the momentum to slam the man face-first into the doorframe. The wood cracked — his nose probably did too.
Two more came from behind. Dante kicked the dresser into them — hard enough to knock them down, not break them. Cheap motel furniture splintered, scattering loose rounds across the carpet.
Felicia crouched low in the shadows, watching. Even she could tell — he wasn't just fast; he was deliberate.
Every strike hit exactly hard enough to drop them, never enough to kill.
A merc charged him from the window, rappelling line still hooked to his vest. Dante grabbed the line, yanked him forward, and spun him over his shoulder. The man landed flat on his back, winded but alive.
"Guess the window service is faster than delivery," Dante quipped, brushing plaster off his coat.
Three more tried to rush him together — Dante's grin widened.
"Now we're talking."
He dashed forward, foot hitting the wall. He used the momentum to spring up, flip overhead, and come down between them.
Rebellion appeared in his hand mid-air, materializing in a flash of crimson. He spun the flat of the blade like a bat, sweeping all three in one motion. They hit the floor, groaning.
Dante caught the last attacker's wrist before he could reload and twisted until the gun dropped. A sharp knee to the stomach sent him sprawling.
When the last man tried to get up, Dante's boot pressed lightly to his chest — not crushing, just enough to keep him down.
"Stay down, hero," Dante said, voice calm but edged. "Trust me — you don't want round two."
Silence filled the room again.
The place was wrecked — furniture overturned, bullet holes everywhere — but not a single body lay still.
Every merc was down, disarmed, and very much alive.
Felicia stepped out of the shadows, eyebrows raised. "You didn't kill any of them."
Dante shrugged, sheathing Rebellion. "Didn't feel like it."
"Really?" she teased. "Because that guy's gonna need dental surgery."
He grinned. "Hey, I'm not a saint — just selective."
She shook her head, half-impressed, half-amused. "You're lucky that looked good, Pretty Boy."
Dante brushed dust off his coat and flashed her a grin. "Please. I always look good."
One of the mercs groaned, trying to crawl toward his rifle.
Dante kicked it away with casual precision, the gun skidding across the floor and hitting the wall with a dull thud.
"Easy there, Rambo," Dante said, crouching beside him. "Wouldn't want you pulling something … like a trigger."
The merc spat blood, glaring up at him. "You don't know what you're—"
Dante rested Rebellion's flat edge against the man's shoulder, light enough not to draw blood but heavy enough to make his point. The blade hummed faintly, heat rippling through the air.
"Oh, I think I've got the general idea," Dante said, voice calm but edged with amusement. "You break into my motel, ruin my night, and almost put holes in my dinner. Now I get to ask the questions."
He leaned closer, tone dropping to something almost friendly — the kind of friendly that made men sweat.
"Where's the girl? Clara Hayes. Where'd you take her?"
The merc hesitated, jaw tight. "You think I'm scared of you?"
Dante sighed. "No. But you're gonna wish you were."
With a twist of his wrist, the flat of Rebellion pressed harder. The metal hissed as heat bit through the merc's vest — not enough to burn flesh, just enough to hurt.
"Let's skip the tough-guy routine," Dante said, his voice low and steady. "Tell me what I want to know, and you keep walking without a limp. Sound good?"
The man cracked fast, voice shaking.
"I — I don't know anyone named Clara," he stammered. "But everyone they kidnap… they're sent to Red Hook Terminal, Warehouse 47 for processing. If she's alive, that's where she'll be."
Dante's brow lifted slightly. "See? That wasn't so bad."
He pulled the blade away and tapped the merc's cheek with two fingers. "Now go home, take a vacation, maybe rethink your career choices."
The man nodded frantically, scrambling backward toward the exit.
Dante stood, sheathing Rebellion and glancing at the hole-riddled walls. "Red Hook Terminal, huh? Kinda cliché, but I've had worse field trips."
He turned toward Felicia, who stood in the dim glow near the window, silent, unreadable.
"Guess we've got our next stop."