Dante woke up with a jolt, gasping for air. His chest ached like something had punched straight through it.
He looked around, the same broken walls, same flickering light. Everything looked untouched, but his body felt different.
He pressed a hand to his head as flashes hit him, images of people fighting, others having sex, their bodies glowing, their faces unnaturally beautiful. Each vision felt too real, too detailed, like he had been there.
"What the hell…" he whispered. His heart pounded faster.
He looked around again, the suitcase still on the table, now completely empty.
"Oh, Dante… what did you do now…" He ran his hands through his hair, pacing in circles. "I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead!"
He panicked, grabbed his helmet, and ran outside.
The moment he stepped out, he froze. The air shimmered faintly, tiny white particles floated around him like glowing dust, drifting in the night. They sparkled softly, disappearing when he tried to touch them.
"What the hell is this…?"
His instincts screamed at him to leave. He jumped on his bike, started the engine, and sped off into the street, heart hammering, those strange white sprinkles still glowing faintly in his mirrors as he rode away.
As Dante sped down the road, the night wind stinging his face, he couldn't stop cursing at himself.
"Dante, you stupid fuck! Why did you do that?"
He gripped the handlebars tighter, weaving through empty streets. "Why the fuck am I talking in third person? Ah—yeah, I'm dead. Definitely dead. Am I going to hell… or heaven?"
He groaned. "Fuck, I don't wanna go to hell. No way. But heaven? Isn't that just… eternal church?... maybe i need church in my life"
He shook his head, laughing nervously. "Maybe I'll go to Zeus or something. That'd be cooler."
His thoughts spiraled further, dark and ridiculous at once. He imagined some mob boss tracking him down, chopping off his fingers one by one, then moving lower.
"Oh no," he muttered out loud, eyes wide. "I love my dick."
He sped faster, the streetlights flashing over him as if mocking his panic.
Dante twisted the throttle, the bike roaring louder as he flew through the next intersection. The light turned red, he didn't care.
He blasted straight through.
Horns erupted behind him. Tires screeched. Someone leaned halfway out their car window screaming, "YO, YOU TRYNA DIE TONIGHT, ASSHOLE?!"
Another voice followed, "GET A CAR, YOU BROKE DOORDASH MOTHERF—!"
Dante yelled back over the wind, "YEAH? SUCK MY—" He couldn't finish before a truck honked so loud it rattled his ribs.
He swerved, barely avoiding a side mirror. "Jesus, I'm gonna die before the mob even finds me," he muttered, heart pounding.
Someone else shouted from a convertible, "HEY, NICE HELMET, POWER RANGER! GO BACK TO YOUR PLANET!"
He flipped them off without looking back, shouting, "Appreciate the concern, Hollywood reject!"
As he rushed down the wide stretch, the city lights surrounding him blurred. Every curse, horn, and angry yell drifted away behind him. The only thing left was the rush of adrenaline and the beating in his chest, which was faster, hotter, and heavier than before.
Something wasn't right.
The bike engine hummed beneath him, but his heartbeat was louder.
Much louder.
Dante winced as a sharp migraine hit him mid-ride. His vision wavered, but luckily, his apartment complex came into view.
He pulled into the narrow lot beside his building, parked his bike, and pulled off his helmet. The world tilted slightly as he stumbled forward, still lightheaded.
As he passed the alley next to his building, something caught his eye, movement in the dark.
A bloody hand reached out.
He froze. Oh, hell no… did they find me already?
Before he could react, a woman staggered out of the shadows. Her clothes were soaked in blood, her face pale, eyes wide with pain.
"Help me…" she whispered.
Dante just stood there, caught between fear and disbelief. "Why the fuck do problems keep finding me?" he muttered under his breath. He rubbed his face. "I mean, yeah, I'm greedy and stupid, but I'm not heartless."
He rushed over and caught her as she nearly fell. Her body was ice-cold against his.
"Okay, okay, I'll call an ambulance—"
Her hand shot up, grabbing his face. "No… don't."
"Uh, yeah, I know it's expensive and all, but you're literally bleeding out, lady—"
Her grip tightened. Her eyes locked onto his. "Don't call… ambulance. Take me to your home."
A sudden wave hit him, his mind buzzing like static, thoughts turning sluggish. His body moved without permission.
"Yeah… sure," he muttered weakly, his voice distant.
He lifted her carefully, her blood soaking into his jacket, and carried her toward the stairs. His head spun, and yet, he couldn't stop himself.
His thoughts echoed, muffled and confused.
What's happening to me?
They reached his small studio apartment, and Dante carefully laid the woman on his bed. Blood smeared across the sheets, soaking into the blanket.
She blinked weakly, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you… I…" Before she could finish, her eyes rolled shut, and she went completely still.
Dante froze. "Oh, come on… don't do this to me." He crouched beside the bed, panic rising in his chest. "What the hell am I supposed to do? If she dies here, I'm screwed! They'll think I killed her, I'll get arrested—and those mob guys'll find me in prison, and then I'll be somebody's wife!"
He held his head with both hands. "Okay, calm down. You're exaggerating. Probably."
He took a deep breath and forced himself closer. There was a long cut on her arm, deep but strangely clean. He stared at it, the panic shifting into confusion.
Then he saw it.
The wound was closing. Slowly. The blood dried, the skin knitting itself back together right before his eyes.
Dante's jaw dropped. "What the hell…"
He stumbled back, tripped over his own shoes, and crashed into the floor, hitting his head on the side of the dresser.
Everything went black.