REDGRAVE

Dante lay sprawled across his worn-out couch, a tattered book resting over his face, its pages fluttering slightly with the gentle breeze that slipped through the cracked window. The sunlight streamed in, casting slanted beams across the room, illuminating the dust motes that danced lazily in the air.

The warm glow of the morning sun contrasted sharply with the cool, dark tones of his apartment, creating a surreal atmosphere that felt both inviting and haunting.

The walls were a patchwork of faded paint and exposed brick, remnants of a time when the building had been something more than a sanctuary for a demon hunter. Posters of classic rock bands and vintage horror films adorned the walls, their edges curling slightly, as if they too were weary from the years.

A large, framed picture of his mother and father , Sparda & Eva, hung prominently above a cluttered desk, a silent reminder of the family ties that bound him, even in death.

The couch itself was a relic, its leather cracked and peeling, but it held the scent of countless battles fought and won, a testament to the life Dante led. His red trench coat, a signature piece that had seen its fair share of blood and grime, draped over him like a protective shroud, its vibrant hue a stark contrast to the muted colors of the room.

Beneath the coat, his muscular frame was relaxed, the tension of the previous night's battle fading into the background as he surrendered to the embrace of sleep.

Scattered around the apartment were remnants of his chaotic lifestyle: empty pizza boxes piled haphazardly in one corner, a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and his guns, and various demon-hunting paraphernalia—leaning against the wall like loyal sentinels. Each item told a story, a fragment of his life as a demon hunter, a life filled with danger, laughter, and loss.

The kitchen, though small and cramped, was functional. A battered fridge hummed softly in the background, its surface covered in magnets and takeout menus, a stark contrast to the chaos of the living room. The sink was piled high with dishes, remnants of late-night meals and hasty breakfasts, while a single, flickering light bulb hung overhead, casting a dim glow over the space.

As the sun continued to rise, its rays crept further into the room, illuminating the floor where Dante's black combat boots lay discarded, a testament to his hasty return home.

The floor itself was a mix of polished wood and worn-out carpet, the latter frayed at the edges from years of neglect. A few stray pieces of furniture—a rickety coffee table and a mismatched armchair—completed the scene, each piece bearing the scars of time and use.

Dante stirred slightly, the warmth of the sun coaxing him from his slumber. He shifted the book from his face, blinking against the light as he took in the familiar surroundings of his sanctuary.

The world outside was waking up, the sounds of the city filtering through the window—the distant honking of cars, the chatter of pedestrians, and the occasional bark of a dog. It was a cacophony that felt oddly comforting, a reminder that life continued even in the face of darkness.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, the weight of sleep still clinging to him. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the stiffness from the previous night's battle. The memory of Seraphiel flashed through his mind, a fleeting reminder of the Excitement that always seemed to follow him.

But for now, in this moment, he was just Dante—a demon hunter, a pizza lover, and a man who had earned a few moments of peace.

As he swung his legs over the side of the couch, the floorboards creaked beneath him, a familiar sound that echoed through the silence of the apartment.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the mix of stale pizza and the faint scent of blood that lingered in the air. It was a smell he had grown accustomed to, a reminder of the life he had chosen.

With a stretch and a yawn, Dante stood up, the sunlight warming his skin as he made his way to the kitchen. Today was a new day, and though the shadows of his past loomed large, he was ready to fuck up whatever came at him.

After all, in the world of demon hunting, there was always another battle to fight, another pizza to devour, and another story waiting to be written.

Dante ambled over to the cluttered kitchen counter, his eyes landing on a half-finished bottle of whiskey that had been sitting there for far too long.

The amber liquid glinted in the sunlight, a siren call to his more reckless instincts. With a smirk, he grabbed the bottle, feeling its cool weight in his hand, and tilted it back, downing a generous swig.

The burn of the alcohol slid down his throat, igniting a familiar warmth that chased away the remnants of sleep and the lingering shadows of last night's battle.

"Ah, that's the stuff," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

It was a ritual of sorts—one that reminded him he was still alive, still kicking, and still very much Dante. The whiskey was a temporary escape, a way to drown out the noise of his thoughts, the memories of loss, and the weight of his lineage.

He leaned against the counter, the bottle dangling loosely from his fingers, and surveyed the chaos of his kitchen. Dirty dishes piled high in the sink, remnants of hastily prepared meals and late-night snacks.

A few empty pizza boxes lay crumpled on the floor, a testament to his culinary skills—or lack thereof. It was a mess, but it was his mess, and in a world filled with demons and darkness, it felt oddly comforting.

With a chuckle, he tossed the bottle back onto the counter, the clink of glass echoing in the silence.

"Guess it's time to clean up this hellhole," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

But deep down, he knew that the real mess was far beyond the physical clutter of his apartment. It was the chaos within him, the constant battle between the past and the present , the then and the now. But for now, he'd take it one sip at a time.