Devil May Cry : New World

POV: Michael

The forest had gone still again.

No more gunfire. No screaming. Only the pop and hiss of burning wood, and the slow drift of embers rising like ghosts through the broken trees.

Steve was barely breathing. His body trembled in broken patterns—his legs bent the wrong way, one arm twitching with each shallow gasp. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the ruined earth.

Michael stood over him once more.

Cold. Silent.

"Huhh" Steve rasped. "You gonna drag me back? Let them put me in a box? Parade me around like some damn warning?"

Michael raised his pistol.

Steve's eyes widened. "...Wait—"

"You thought I'd really do that," Michael said.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out across the clearing.

Steve's body jerked once. Then it stilled.

Blood seeped slowly into the dirt, soaking the forest floor beneath him.

Michael didn't blink. Didn't move. Not until the last breath had left the traitor's chest.

Then he turned.

At the edge of the clearing, near a shattered tree trunk, Mary still lay unconscious.

Her body was curled slightly, one arm outstretched in the dirt. Ash clung to her skin, to her hair. Her brow furrowed with faint pain, as if even in sleep she could feel the weight of what had happened.

Michael knelt beside her.

He gently brushed a strand of soot-darkened hair away from her cheek. His fingers lingered near her temple.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

The words cracked as they left his throat. He looked away, jaw tight, throat closing around something that felt too raw to swallow.

Tears stung his eye, but he didn't wipe them away.

"You don't even know," he murmured. "You don't know what I am."

She didn't know what she'd seen.

Not the full picture.

Not yet.

A part of him wanted to stay.

Tell her everything. Maybe—maybe she'd understand. Maybe… she wouldn't hate him for it.

But then he saw her bandaged wrist. The wince across her sleeping face at the far-off rumble of gunfire. The way her hand curled slightly whenever something stirred nearby.

She hated demons.

And he was one.

Michael closed his eyes and breathed deep—once.

Then he stood, slow and heavy, the weight of the moment hardening into something sharp and permanent.

'I'll get stronger,' he thought. 'Stronger than anything. But not for revenge. Not to prove anything. Just to protect what I can't have. What I'll never be part of.'

With one last glance, he stepped away from her side.

The air shimmered.

Michael's form twisted.

His skin flushed deep red. Horns curled upward from his skull—black and jagged. His muscles stretched, lengthened. Bones reshaped. Veined, leathery wings unfurled from his back with a low ripple of energy.

In seconds, the man was gone.

In his place stood a red-skinned demon—tall, powerful, his silhouette carved in shadow and silence.

He turned once.

Then his wings flexed, and in a single burst of force, he soared into the sky—disappearing into the ash-colored clouds above.

Gone.

POV: Mary (Unconscious / Nightmare)

The world around her was fire.

She stood in her childhood kitchen—walls cracking, windows shattered, heat rolling in like breath from an open furnace.

Her father towered over her.

Monstrous. Snarling. Half-shadow, half-memory. His face was a twisted mask of rage, distorted by time and pain.

"Useless girl," he growled. "You were never enough."

She screamed.

Ran.

He caught her by the hair, yanking her back.

She hit the floor hard.

Then—

A wall caved in.

From the rubble stepped a figure cloaked in smoke and flame.

Michael.

But not like before. His face was sharper. His eyes glowed. His voice was deeper, calmer.

And kind.

He stepped between her and the nightmare.

"You'll have to go through me."

Her father lunged.

Michael didn't move.

The world turned red.

Mary jolted upright with a scream.

"MICHAEL!"

The name echoed through the trees.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one sharp and shaky. Her body ached—ribs, back, arms. But the pain meant she was alive.

She blinked through the blur of tears.

There was no one.

Just smoke.

And silence.

And the wind through scorched branches.

Her gaze swept the clearing, heart hammering. She saw no figures. No movement. Just blood-soaked soil and the lingering scent of fire.

She whispered again, voice smaller now. "Michael…"

But there was no answer.

Only the rustle of leaves.

Only the hush of a world that had already moved on.