Somewhere Upstate – Night
The Bloodhound rumbled down a dark stretch of highway, its rebuilt engine humming like a beast beneath the hood. Inside, the air smelled faintly of gun oil, leather, and leftover pizza — Dante's idea of new-car scent.
The neon dashboard lights painted everything in soft red and blue. Outside, snow flurries drifted past the windshield, blurring the world into streaks of silver.
Dante sat half-asleep in one of the booth-style seats toward the back, his coat draped over him like a blanket. Rebellion leaned against the wall beside him, humming faintly in its sheath — a reminder that rest never came easy.
From the front seats came the steady murmur of voices. Elsa and Felicia. Again.
"Remind me," Elsa said, her tone clipped as she steered through the snow, "why exactly are you here? You're not on the payroll."
From the passenger seat, Felicia — sleek in her black catsuit trimmed with white fur — didn't even flinch. Her reflection smirked back at her in the glass.
"Relax, babe. Money's not a problem for me. Besides, I can sneak in while you two make all the noise. Win-win situation."
Elsa shot her a glare over the rim of her sunglasses. "Don't call me babe."
Felicia grinned. "Fine. Sweetheart, then."
From the back, Dante cracked one eye open. "Careful, Cat. That one's trademarked."
Felicia twisted halfway in her seat, flashing him a teasing smile. "Then maybe I'll pay off the charges," she purred — and blew him a kiss over her shoulder.
Dante smirked, one eye still half-open. "Careful, Cat. Keep that up and I might start believing you're the generous type."
Felicia chuckled softly. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm generous in all the right ways."
Elsa exhaled slowly through her nose — the kind of breath that meant she was mentally counting to ten. "You're insufferable."
Felicia stretched, arms behind her head, smug and comfortable. "And yet, here I am. Riding shotgun."
Dante chuckled under his breath, leaning back. "You two are gonna make this road trip feel longer than it already is."
Elsa didn't miss a beat. "You volunteered for this, Sparda."
"Yeah," he muttered, eyes closing again. "Remind me to question my life choices when we hit the next gas station."
The Bloodhound hit a bump, rattling the mugs hanging from hooks above the mini-counter. Outside, the highway stretched into endless black, snow melting under the headlights.
Elsa kept her hands steady on the wheel. "According to Coulson's coordinates, we'll reach the town by morning."
Felicia leaned forward, peering at the radar scanner she'd modified herself. "Small place. Looks boring. Bet it's crawling with trouble."
Dante smirked without opening his eyes. "That's why we're going, Kitty."
Felicia's grin widened. "See? He gets it."
Elsa rolled her eyes, muttering, "God help me."
Dante half-smiled, half-asleep. "You've got me instead."
Elsa didn't respond — but he could feel her glare through the rear-view mirror.
Outskirts of Salem – Night
The Bloodhound rumbled through the fog like a beast half-awake.
The wipers squeaked across the glass, barely clearing the mist that clung to the windshield. Streetlights flickered in and out — long, sickly shadows stretching across the snow-dusted road.
Dante stirred from the back seat, coat slipping off his shoulders. "We there yet, or did we drive into a ghost story?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Elsa was at the wheel, sharp-eyed even in the haze. "Ghost story might be optimistic," she said. "At least those end with survivors."
Felicia leaned forward, peering through the fog. "Charming place. I give it ten minutes before something jumps out of the mist."
"Only ten?" Dante yawned. "You're losing faith in me."
Something fluttered against the windshield — a sheet of paper, half-torn and plastered with wet snow.
Elsa slowed the van as Dante reached out the side window and snatched it mid-air.
He flipped it over — a missing-person poster.
MAYA WRIGHT – AGE 16 – LAST SEEN TWO WEEKS AGO.
Beneath the photo, in smeared ink: "Bring her home."
Dante looked ahead. The walls on either side of the main street were plastered with more — dozens, maybe hundreds. Every pole. Every boarded-up storefront.
Elsa frowned. "They're all dated within the last month."
She eased the van forward, headlights cutting through the mist. "Something's been picking them off systematically."
Dante stared out the window. The silence pressed too thickly around them. "Where did everybody go?" he said quietly.
Felicia smirked faintly, trying to break the tension. "Maybe it's curfew. Or maybe your reputation preceded us, handsome."
"Cute," Dante said, glancing at her reflection in the glass. "But I don't think this fog's here to ask for autographs."
The van rolled past the old town sign — WELCOME TO SALEM – EST. 1823 — the letters half-erased by rust and bullet holes.
Beyond it, the main street stretched into nothing but haze. A single streetlight flickered over a toppled police barricade.
Elsa scanned the readings on her wrist-mounted sensor — the Bloodgem pulsing faintly in sync. "The air smells like ash and brimstone… that's not good."
Dante stood, grabbing his coat and Rebellion. "Guess we stretch our legs, then. See what kind of party we just crashed."
Felicia cracked her knuckles, her claws briefly flickering with faint embers before fading. "You two do that. I'll circle around — rooftops give a better view. Besides," she flashed a grin, "I don't look good in fog. Moisture's murder on the hair."
Elsa rolled her eyes. "You didn't have to come, you know. This isn't a sightseeing tour."
Felicia smirked. "Please, babe, I go where the action is. Someone's gotta make you two look good."
Elsa arched an eyebrow, her tone bone-dry. "Oh, wonderful. Let's all split up while we're at it — maybe one of us will get killed first."
That earned stunned silence.
Felicia turned, mock-gasping. "Wait — did you just make a joke?"
Dante cracked one eye open, grinning. "And here I thought Red didn't have a funny bone."
Elsa glared, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. "Great. I've been hanging around you two for way too long."
That earned twin smirks from Dante and Felicia — the latter already slipping out of the van.
Dante followed soon after, boots crunching against the frozen pavement.
The wind howled faintly between the empty buildings — low, almost like a whisper.
The fog thickened as Dante stepped farther from the van, Rebellion slung across his back. The street stretched ahead — cracked pavement, dead storefronts, and a stillness that made even the snow seem to hang in place.
He squinted through the haze. "You know, Cat might be on to something. Feels like the part in every horror flick where something really bad happens."
Elsa, still inside the van, replied dryly, "I was thinking the same thing."
Then something moved in the fog.
A sound drifted through the air — low, layered, and not human.
A dozen voices whispered the same phrase in unison, each syllable curling like smoke:
"Son of Sparda…"
Dante froze, eyes narrowing. The last time he'd heard his name ripple through the air like that, a tower had torn its way out of New York.
"Red," he called back, voice tightening, "we've got company."
From the mist, a fiery demon emerged — half-molten, half-flesh, wrapped in chains that glowed with infernal runes. The cult mark of Mephisto was seared across its chest, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The whispers rose into a chant.
"The heir of Sparda is here. The ritual can begin."
Dante barely had time to draw Rebellion before the creature lunged.
The impact sent him flying backward — crashing through a row of abandoned cars and into a half-collapsed wall. Concrete exploded around him.
"Dante!" Elsa shouted, throwing open the van door. The Bloodgem on her collar flared crimson, reacting violently to the creature's presence.
Dante groaned, dragging himself from the rubble. "Yeah, I'm fine — just needed the quick tour."
He looked up — the demon was already towering over him, its maw splitting open like a furnace vent. Flames poured out.
Dante spun aside, boots skidding across cracked asphalt. "Why can't you guys ever shut up about my old man?"
Elsa fired from the van, holy-tipped rounds tearing through the smoke. The creature staggered, bellowing, but it didn't fall — it just turned toward her through the haze.
"Red! Stay put — !" Dante started, but the monster slammed a claw into the street. The shockwave ripped through the ground, collapsing the road between them.
The explosion hit like a freight train.
The Bloodhound skidded backward, tires screaming as asphalt folded in on itself.
Dante hit the pavement hard, smoke and flame blinding his vision.
For a second, all he heard was ringing — Elsa shouting his name somewhere behind the haze — and then the world bled red.
He pushed himself up, brushing glass from his coat. "Still breathing. That's a plus."
The crater burned ahead of him — molten, alive.
And in its heart, something was moving.
A low rumble shook the air, followed by a sound that didn't belong in any world he knew — half roar, half scream, like molten metal being torn apart from the inside.
The ground cracked. Fire poured through.
And then it crawled out.
A massive, twisted silhouette dragged itself from the pit — part demon, part machine, its skin molten black with veins of Hellfire crawling beneath it like lightning. The Hellfire Hybrid — one of Shaw's abominations — only now it had changed.
Unstable fissures shimmered across the air around it, glowing cracks ripping open the space itself. Through them, Dante could see movement — dozens of shapes writhing beyond the veil.
"Hell's getting crowded again," he muttered, drawing Rebellion.
The hybrid raised its head, empty sockets blazing red. Flames poured from its mouth as it screamed, the sound warping the world around them. Each note split another rift in the air.
The sky fractured.
Demons poured through.
Lesser fiends clawed their way into the street — howling, burning, hungry.
Dante smirked, flipping Rebellion into a reverse grip. "Guess I'll be your welcoming committee."
He charged, fire exploding at his feet. The first swing of Rebellion cut through a demon mid-leap, scattering molten chunks into the wind. The hybrid countered — its arm slamming down, shaking the entire block.
Dante rolled aside, firing Ebony and Ivory in a staccato rhythm that lit the dark. Bullets hissed into the beast's open wounds, but the cracks in its body only widened — leaking more fire, more chaos.
"Okay," he muttered, "definitely not fixing that with duct tape."
The hybrid's roar split the air. The cracks above widened further — thin lines of red and violet light, bleeding energy from Hell itself. Dante could feel the pull now, gravity twisting sideways.
He drove Rebellion into the ground to brace himself.
The city lights flickered, wind screaming through the ruptures.
From somewhere deep within the distortion, he heard laughter — familiar, cold, infernal.
"Mephisto…"
The name slipped out like a curse.
The hybrid lunged again, molten claws tearing through concrete.
Dante met it head-on, Rebellion flaring with Hellfire as he swung upward — steel and flame colliding in a blast that turned night into daylight.
The shockwave hurled both of them backward across the molten street, sparks trailing through the air like falling stars.
Dante skidded to a stop, boots digging into the cracked asphalt. His coat caught the firelight, eyes burning red.
He grinned through the chaos. "Alright, big guy… round two."
Behind him, the fissures in reality widened — more demons tumbling through, wings snapping, eyes gleaming with hunger.
The world was coming apart, and the night had only just begun.
Elsa's POV
Elsa crouched in the driver's seat of the van, breath steady though her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. The engine idled low; the Bloodhound's headlights cut through the fog as if daring the night to blink.
From somewhere out in the haze, she heard the clash of steel and flame — the unmistakable rhythm of Rebellion cutting through chaos. A roar answered, followed by the crack of gunfire echoing through the fog. Relief filled her, cold and sharp. He was still out there. Alive. Fighting.
A low rumble shook the van. She glanced in the side mirror, snow swirling like ghostly dancers in the red and blue dash lights. Then something else caught her eye. Movement — and not just the shadow of falling snow. Figures poured through the mist, dark silhouettes converging on a church at the end of the road. The sign above read St. Dymphna's Church – Salem, NY, the faint glow of runes flickering in the fog around its steeple.
The cultists moved in formation — robes tattered, eyes aglow, chants rising like steam from the frozen ground. Elsa felt her skin crawl. The Bloodgem at her collar flared crimson, reacting to the energy pulsing from the church.
She swallowed. "Dante," she whispered into the cold air. "You've got to hurry."
Her hand tightened on the wheel. Waiting wasn't her style — not when something was drawing every cultist in town toward that church.
Elsa stepped out of the Bloodhound, boots crunching against the frost-bitten pavement. The fog swallowed her in seconds, but she followed the distant glow of torchlight and chanting until the church came into view.
St. Dymphna's stood half-sunken in the snow, its steeple cracked, stained-glass windows long shattered. The front doors hung ajar, the faint sound of machinery humming beneath the low drone of voices.
She pushed inside. The air reeked of incense and sulfur. Candles lined the pews, burning in unnatural patterns, their flames bending toward the altar. And there — where a statue should have stood — was a metal panel embedded in the floor.
Elsa knelt, brushing dust from the edges. Beneath the grime, a keypad blinked to life — clean, modern, and completely out of place in a ruin like this.
"Cultists with circuit boards," she muttered. "That's new."
She pulled a compact multitool from her belt and pried open the access plate. Wires glowed faintly inside, humming with power. A few quick adjustments and a spark later, the screen flickered, flashed red, then green.
A low chime echoed as the floor split open, revealing a narrow elevator descending into shadow. Warm air rose from below — mechanical, sterile, wrong.
Elsa stared into the dark, the Bloodgem at her collar pulsing faintly in response.
"I didn't know cultists were this high-tech," she muttered, reloading her shotgun with a soft click.
With one last glance toward the fog where Dante's fight still raged, she stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut behind her, sealing her in with the hum of unseen machines.
The floor rumbled — and the descent began.