Dark Proposal

Dante floated in the void, surrounded by an inky blackness that seemed to stretch infinitely in all directions. There was a strange comfort in the darkness, an embrace that felt almost welcoming. It was like the void understood him, resonated with the chaos within his soul. Some people yearn for death but are too afraid to embrace it, while others run from it. Dante, however, found himself in a place in between, where death was neither friend nor foe—just another inevitable step in his twisted journey.

A voice broke through the silence, harsh and unforgiving. "Well, you're not dead yet. Wake the fuck up, pussy." It was Dante 2, kicking a chair that wasn't really there, a figment of Dante's fractured mind.

Dante's eyes flickered open, the darkness giving way to a blurry reality. The comforting embrace of the void slipped away as Dante 2 continued, "Yeah, that's right. Reality's here to kick your ass again. Well… Derheim is." He shrugged nonchalantly, as if the beating Dante had taken was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

The world came back into focus, and Dante found himself lying on the cold, hard ground of the arena. The pain in his head was still there, throbbing with each beat of his heart. He could feel the dried blood caked to the side of his face, the remnants of the kick that had knocked him out. But more than the pain, there was a burning anger—at Derheim, at himself, at everything.

Standing over him was Derheim, his calm, composed aura in stark contrast to Dante's fiery wrath. The older man looked down at him, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a mix of curiosity and something else Dante couldn't quite place.

"You look quite young," Derheim said, breaking the silence, his voice deep and resonant. "How old are you?"

Dante gritted his teeth, sitting up slowly as he glared at Derheim. "Old enough," he spat back, the venom in his voice unmistakable.

Derheim didn't react to the hostility, his calm demeanor unwavering. "I just want to know," he continued, his tone more gentle, almost fatherly.

"Fourteen," Dante muttered, his voice laced with annoyance. He wasn't in the mood for games, especially not with this man who had just handed him a humiliating defeat.

Derheim nodded, as if that was the answer he had expected. "And where are your parents? Who are they?"

Dante's eyes darkened, a grim smirk curling at the corners of his lips. "Six feet under, giving the Grim Reaper a show," he replied, his voice dripping with a twisted humor that belied the pain behind the words.

Derheim raised an eyebrow at that, a flicker of something—pity, perhaps?—crossing his face. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by that same calm, unreadable expression.

"You're a strong boy," Derheim said after a moment, his voice carrying a weight that made Dante pause. "But strength alone won't get you far. You need guidance, discipline… a purpose."

Dante narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping into his thoughts. "What's your point, old man?"

Derheim let out a small sigh, stroking his beard thoughtfully before he spoke. "I'm offering you a chance, Dante. A chance to refine that raw power of yours, to turn your chaos into something greater. I'll adopt you, take you under my wing, and send you to the academy. There, you'll learn what it really means to be strong."

Dante blinked, caught off guard by the offer. Adopt him? Send him to an academy? The very idea was absurd, almost laughable. But there was something in Derheim's eyes, something that made Dante hesitate, if only for a moment.

"And what makes you think I need your help?" Dante asked, his voice quieter now, the bravado slipping just a little.

"Because I see potential in you," Derheim replied simply. "Potential that you're wasting with every reckless move you make. You're on a path of self-destruction, Dante. Let me help you find a better way."

Dante looked away, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The darkness, the anger, the madness—they were all he had ever known. But what if… what if there was more? What if there was a way to harness that darkness, to control it rather than be consumed by it?

But then, Dante 2 chimed in, "Don't trust him. He just wants to tame you, make you into something you're not."

Dante shook his head, trying to push the voice away, but it lingered, nagging at the back of his mind.

He met Derheim's gaze once more, his expression hardening. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I've survived this long on my own, and I'll keep surviving. Your academy can go to hell."

Derheim didn't flinch at the rejection, only nodded as if he had expected it. "The offer stands," he said quietly. "When you're ready to stop running, you'll know where to find me."

With that, Derheim turned and walked away, leaving Dante alone in the arena, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

As Dante watched him go, the darkness inside him stirred, a familiar, comforting presence. But for the first time, a small, nagging doubt crept in alongside it, a question that refused to be silenced.

What if… there was another way?