Chapter 51: Angel of Death
Dabi woke slowly, reaching out instinctively for Dante’s warmth. His hand slapped empty sheets, cool to the touch.Frowning, he peeled his eyes open. The plush darkness of Dante’s private suite felt colder, emptier."Dante?" His voice rasped, sleep-thick.Silence. He sat up, scanning the room. The bathroom door stood open, dark.No sound of movement."Baby?" Louder this time, a thread of unease snaking through him.Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, speared through his chest, an echo of Dante’s own terror hours before. He scrambled out of bed, naked, heart hammering against his ribs."DANTE!" He yanked open the bathroom door.Empty. Checked the walk-in closet.Empty. The spacious, opulent room felt cavernous, suffocating. The lingering scent of their sex and sweat was suddenly cloying, replaced by the sterile smell of absence. Dante hadn't just stepped out. He was gone.Not again. Not after the nightmares, the vulnerability. Dabi’s breath hitched, ragged. He stumbled back into the main space, grabbing his discarded jeans. He fumbled with the buttons, his hands trembling. Where the fuck would he go? Not downstairs to the club alone, not like this.Not without telling him. A cold dread settled in his gut, colder than the sheets.Something was wrong.Terribly wrong.
He bolted from the suite, barefoot, shirtless, ignoring the startled look from a passing cleaner. He pounded down the dimly lit hallway towards the secure wing where Vincent and Sukuna had rooms. He didn’t bother knocking on Vincent’s door; he slammed his palm against it, over and over."Vincent! VINCENT, OPEN UP!"The door swung open almost immediately. Vincent stood there, impeccably dressed as always, though his eyes were sharp, alert. Behind him, Sukuna appeared from the shadows of the living area, shirtless, tattoos stark against his skin, his expression instantly wary."Dabi? What is it?" Vincent’s voice was calm, but his eyes scanned Dabi’s frantic state.
"He’s gone!" Dabi gasped, leaning against the doorframe, struggling for air. "Woke up… bed’s cold… checked everywhere, Vincent!He’s fucking gone!"
Sukuna pushed past Vincent, his crimson eyes narrowed."Gone where?" His voice was a low growl, the air around him crackling with suppressed power."I don’t know!" Dabi yelled, frustration and fear warring in his voice."He wouldn’t just leave! Not after… not after last night! Something’s happened!Someone took him!" His mind raced back to Dante’s nightmare, the raw fear of being chained, forced to watch. "It’s real, isn’t it? What he dreamed… someone’s got him!"
Vincent stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Dabi’s shoulder. The touch was grounding. "Breathe, Dabi.Tell me exactly what you saw. Anything out of place?" His gaze, usually unreadable, was laser-focused.
Dabi shook his head violently."Nothing! Place was locked.Just… empty. Bed rumpled, like he got up… or was dragged out.Fuck!" He raked a hand through his messy hair. "We have to find him!Now!"
Sukuna’s expression was thunderous. "He wouldn't be taken easily. Not unless…" He trailed off, his gaze locking with Vincent’s. A silent understanding passed between them, heavy with dread. "He was vulnerable.Distracted."
Vincent nodded grimly."The nightmare left him raw. He let his guard down here, where he felt safe."He turned back to Dabi. "Get dressed.Properly.We move now. Check the security feeds from the suite corridor immediately."
Pain was Dante’s first conscious sensation. A deep, radiating ache in his shoulders, wrists, and ankles. Cold metal bit into his skin. He forced his eyes open against a gritty, unnatural heaviness.Not his bed. Not his room. Not even the familiar, comforting gloom of the Inferno.
He was upright.Chained. Heavy, unforgiving manacles, thick and cold as glacial ice, clamped his wrists high above his head, the chains bolted into a dark, smooth stone ceiling. His feet barely touched the floor, another set of chains securing his ankles to the ground, forcing his weight onto the balls of his feet and straining his shoulders. The position was agonizing, designed for torment. He was naked, vulnerable.Fuck. Another dream? The panic from earlier tried to claw its way back, acidic in his throat. The cold metal, the strain on his joints, the rough stone under his bare feet – it felt terrifyingly real.Too real. He tested the chains. They didn't budge.Not a whisper of give. Not Hell-forged, but something… older. Purer.Angelic iron. A chill that had nothing to do with temperature seeped into his bones.
The cell was small, windowless, illuminated by a single, blindingly bright shaft of light falling from high above, catching swirling motes of dust or ash. The air was stale, devoid of scent except for the tang of ozone and the metallic whisper of his own blood where the manacles chafed. Silence pressed in, thick and absolute, broken only by the ragged sound of his own breathing.Not a dream. The realization hit him like a physical blow.This was different. This was capture. The panic flared, white-hot.Dabi.Was he safe? Had they taken him too? Images of Dabi, vulnerable in their bed, flashed through his mind, sharp and horrifying. He strained against the chains again, a guttural growl tearing from his throat, the sound echoing hollowly in the stone chamber."FUCK!"
The sound of heavy stone grinding on stone shattered the silence. A section of the wall opposite him slid open with unnerving silence. Light flooded in from whatever lay beyond, momentarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, a figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.Tall. Impossibly still. Draped in robes that seemed woven from shadows and starlight, shifting and deep. Silver-white hair fell straight to sharp shoulders. The face… coldly beautiful, inhumanly perfect.And the eyes. Eyes the color of faded violets, ancient and depthless, holding the chilling emptiness of the void between stars.They fixed on Dante with terrifying focus.
Recognition slammed into Dante, colder than the chains. He knew those eyes, that aura of absolute, desolate finality. Cain’s features, but refined into something utterly alien, stripped of humanity’s messy heat. Azrael.The Angel of Death. Cain’s brother.
Dante’s panic crystallized into a razor-sharp point of defiance. He couldn't show fear.Not to him. He forced his body to relax against the chains, as much as the position allowed. He tilted his head back, a smirk twisting his lips, the gesture familiar, practiced – the mask of the King of Hell slipping into place. "Well, well," he drawled, his Detroit rasp deliberate, laced with mocking amusement. "Look what the fucking cat dragged in. Or did the cat finally crawl out of its celestial litter box? Bit overdressed for a prison visit, aren't we, Azzie? Come to gloat over the big bad Devil's kid?"Azrael didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His expression remained utterly impassive, a mask of marble. He stepped fully into the cell, the door sealing shut behind him without a sound. The air grew colder, heavier. His violet gaze swept over Dante’s naked, chained form with detached appraisal, like a pathologist examining a specimen.
Dante pushed harder, the smirk widening."Miss me? Bit dramatic, this whole setup. Could’ve just sent a postcard. 'Wish you weren't here.Signed, Death.'" He flexed against the chains again, a show of bravado. "Or is this about your pathetic excuse for a brother? Still crying over spilt Abel... and Cain?"A flicker. Microscopic, but Dante saw it – the faintest tightening around those ancient violet eyes. Gotcha. He leaned into it, voice dropping lower, laced with deliberate cruelty. "Cain.Yeah. How is dear old brother dearest?Oh, wait. That's right." Dante licked his lips, his eyes locking onto Azrael’s, pouring every ounce of malice he possessed into his next words."I killed him. Staked him out like the rabid dog he was. Listened to him beg. Watched him break.Piece by fucking piece. Crumbled like wet sand." He paused, letting the image hang in the frigid air. "The look on his face when he realized it was over? When he realized he’d lost everything, even his precious brother couldn't save him?Fucking priceless. Best show I’ve seen in millennia."
The silence that followed was absolute. Thicker than before.Colder. The temperature in the cell plummeted further. Frost began to spiderweb across the stone floor, creeping towards Dante’s feet. Azrael hadn’t moved a muscle, but the air around him crackled with contained power, a silent storm gathering force. The violet eyes had darkened, swirling with something terrible and ancient.
He didn’t speak. He simply raised one hand.It wasn’t a gesture. It was a command. The blinding shaft of light intensified, focusing solely on Dante, searing his skin like focused sunlight. But it wasn't heat. It was pure, agonizing light that burned into his retinas, seared his nerve endings. Dante gasped, instinctively trying to turn his head, but the chains held him fast. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the light penetrated his eyelids, a white-hot agony drilling into his skull. A choked scream escaped him, raw and involuntary.Then, the light shifted. Dimmed slightly, but concentrated. It formed a blade. Not physical, but pure solidified radiance, humming with divine energy. Azrael lowered his hand slightly, pointing a single, pale finger.The light-blade slashed downwards.
It didn't cut flesh; it bypassed it. It carved directly into Dante’s essence, into the core of his being, the ancient, resilient soul housed within the human-seeming form. The pain was beyond comprehension. It wasn't localised; it was everywhere and nowhere, tearing through every atom, every memory, every shred of his identity. It felt like being flayed alive from the inside out, dipped in liquid fire, while simultaneously frozen solid. A silent scream tore through Dante, shredding his throat, his body convulsing violently against the chains. Sweat and tears mingled instantly on his face, freezing against his skin.
Azrael watched.Utterly still. Utterly silent. The only sound was Dante’s ragged, tortured gasps and the clanking of chains as his body spasmed uncontrollably.
The light-blade vanished.
Dante hung limp for a moment, shuddering, gulping air like a drowning man. The aftershocks of agony still rippled through him, making his muscles twitch. He spat blood onto the frost-covered floor, his vision swimming. He forced his head up, meeting Azrael’s gaze again. His smirk was gone, replaced by a rictus of pain, but his eyes still burned with defiance. "That… all you got?" he rasped, his voice shattered."Cain screamed… louder."
Azrael’s other hand lifted. This time, the light coalesced into intricate, glowing sigils that spun in the air before him. They pulsed with a low, malevolent thrum. With a flick of his finger, Azrael sent them flying towards Dante.They struck his chest like molten brands. Not physical burns, but symbols seared onto his soul. Each sigil ignited a different kind of torment. One felt like his bones were grinding to dust. Another like his blood had turned to acid, boiling in his veins. A third unleashed a psychic barrage – every failure, every loss, every moment of doubt he’d ever experienced amplified a thousandfold, screaming in his mind. Dante’s body arched off the wall, tendons standing out like cables in his neck as a guttural, animalistic roar ripped from him, echoing horribly in the stone cell. He thrashed wildly, the chains biting deeper, drawing fresh blood that froze instantly on the icy metal.
Azrael stood impassive, a statue of divine vengeance. He watched the convulsions, the agonized writhing, the desperate, wordless cries tearing from Dante’s throat. He watched as the King of Hell was reduced to a broken, shuddering thing suspended in chains. The violet eyes held no pity, no anger, only the cold, relentless certainty of retribution.
The sigils faded, leaving Dante hanging, trembling violently, gasping shallow, painful breaths. He was drenched in sweat that froze immediately, coating him in a thin layer of rime. Blood dripped steadily from his wrists and ankles where the manacles tore at his skin. The defiance in his eyes was a dim coal, buried under layers of excruciating pain, but not yet extinguished. He lifted his head a fraction, meeting Azrael’s gaze through a haze of agony. "Still… standing," he whispered, the words barely audible, a bloody bubble popping on his lips."Your brother… isn't."
Azrael’s expression didn’t change. He raised a hand again. The light shifted, coalescing into something new, something infinitely worse. The cold violet eyes held Dante’s, promising only the continuation of eternity in agony. The silence stretched, thick with dread, broken only by Dante’s ragged, desperate breathing and the slow drip of freezing blood onto stone. The void in Azrael’s gaze deepened, ready to swallow him whole.
The void in Azrael’s gaze deepened, ready to swallow him whole. Then, the light changed. Not a blade this time. Not sigils. It coalesced into shimmering, liquid strands – gossamer threads of solidified agony. They drifted towards Dante, ethereal and beautiful, humming with the high-pitched whine of divine wrath. They touched his bare skin, freezing instantly, adhering like barbed wire made of ice and fire. Dante flinched as the first strands settled, cold burning deep into his nerve endings. Then Azrael moved his hand, infinitesimally small. The strands pulled.
It wasn't just skin tearing. It felt like his very molecules were being stretched, ripped apart, held taut an instant before snapping back with a sickening jolt that vibrated through every bone. Dante screamed, a raw, wet sound shredding his already raw throat. The strands tightened again, pulling in different directions, sending conflicting waves of excruciating tension through his muscles, tendons, ligaments. He felt like meat on a rack, slowly being disassembled. "Fuck... your... knitting!" he gasped out between ragged breaths, his body jerking uncontrollably against the chains. Sweat and blood mingled with the freezing condensation coating him. "Angelic... fucking... lace! Couldn't... spring for... actual tools?"
Azrael remained silent, the cold perfection of his face untouched. He twisted his wrist. The strands vibrated, becoming sonic scalpels. Dante felt the high-frequency buzz inside his skull, inside his teeth, vibrating his eyeballs in their sockets. His vision blurred, doubled. A low, guttural moan escaped him as the vibration intensified, shaking his internal organs, making his bones feel like they were grinding to dust. Tears streamed freely down his face, freezing instantly on his cheeks. He tasted copper, felt a hot trickle from his nose. "Sounds... like... shitty techno!" Dante managed to choke out, forcing a bloody grin through teeth clenched against the tremors shaking his jaw. "Your... taste... in... music... sucks...
The vibration ceased abruptly. The strands dissolved into chilling mist. Dante sagged, trembling violently, sucking in air that felt like shards of glass in his lungs. The reprieve lasted only seconds. Azrael raised both hands now. The light coalesced not around Dante, but beside him. It formed a perfect, shimmering replica of Cain. Not as Dante last saw him – broken and terrified – but Cain as he was moments before the end: proud, defiant, eyes burning with desperate fury. The apparition turned its head, looking directly at Dante chained beside it. Its gaze held the exact expression Dante had described with such cruel relish: the dawning, absolute horror of inevitable, inescapable destruction.
"Remember," Azrael spoke for the first time. His voice wasn't loud. It was the absence of sound given form, a chilling whisper that bypassed the ears and resonated directly within Dante's mind. It scraped across his consciousness, carrying the desolate cold of the void. "Remember his face. His fear. His knowing."
The image didn't move. It just stared. Its eyes bored into Dante’s soul, reflecting back the monstrous glee Dante had felt as he orchestrated Cain's downfall. Dante tried to look away, to shut his eyes, but the chains held his head rigid. Azrael's power forced him to see, forced him to absorb every micro-expression of terror and despair frozen on the specter's face. It was a psychic branding iron. "He deserved it!" Dante snarled, the defiance brittle, cracking under the relentless psychic assault. "He was... weak! Pathetic! A fucking joke!" But his voice hitched. Seeing it, feeling the echo of Cain's despair amplified by Azrael's power, was corrosive. It wasn't just memory; it was raw experience forced upon him.
"His blood," Azrael’s void-voice whispered again, "cries out."
The image of Cain shimmered, dissolving. In its place, the light coalesced into a thick, viscous liquid – blood-red, pulsating with a sickly inner light. It hovered before Dante. Then, with agonizing slowness, it began to seep towards him. Not splashing. Oozing. It touched his bare foot. The cold was absolute, deeper than any arctic chill. It felt like the touch of oblivion itself, leaching warmth, leashing life, draining sensation. It slid over his skin, leaving behind a trail of searing numbness that rapidly gave way to an indescribable pain – the agony of freezing cells rupturing, nerves dying. It climbed his leg, deliberate, inevitable. Dante writhed, his screams reduced to choked whimpers as the icy blood reached his thigh, his hip. "S-stop... fucking... stop it!" he gasped, panic finally edging into his voice, the cold burrowing into his core. "It's... just... blood!"
"Is it?" Azrael murmured, the word a glacial shard in Dante's mind.
The red light intensified around the creeping tide. Dante felt it seep into his pores. It wasn't just cold. It carried the psychic residue of Cain's death – the terror, the betrayal, the soul-crushing despair, the searing pain of the final moments Dante had inflicted. It flooded Dante’s senses, his mind, overwhelming his own identity with the raw, brutal horror of his victim's end. He wasn't just feeling pain; he was Cain dying. He felt the stake pierce his own flesh, tasted his own blood filling his mouth, felt his own power drain away under Dante's triumphant gaze. The King of Hell bucked against his chains, a long, agonized howl tearing from his throat, primal and utterly terrified. Tears, hot and desperate, streamed down his face. "NO! GET OUT! GET OUT OF ME!" he screamed, the words raw, stripped bare of all defiance, pure animal fear. He felt his mind fracturing under the alien, consuming tide of another's annihilation.
Azrael watched, expressionless, as Dante dissolved into wordless screams, body convulsing, eyes wide with terror that was no longer performative. The icy, bloody tide reached Dante's chest, climbing towards his throat. The cold invaded his lungs, making each gasp a struggle. The psychic assault intensified, threatening to drown him completely in Cain's final, suffocating moments. Dante’s screams hitched, turning into desperate, wet gurgles. His head thrashed wildly. "P-please..." The word, weak and broken, slipped out. Then, defiance flared one last time, fueled by sheer, desperate will. He forced his head up, meeting Azrael's void eyes through the haze of agony and encroaching blood. His lips moved, forming words lost in the gurgle, but the intent was clear in his blazing, tear-filled eyes: Fuck. You. He choked, the cold blood reaching his chin. "STILL... HERE..." he rasped, bloody spittle flying.
Azrael lowered his hands a fraction. The creeping tide of blood-light paused, a hair's breadth from Dante’s mouth and nostrils. The psychic assault lessened fractionally, enough for Dante to drag in a single, shuddering, icy breath. The Angel of Death tilted his head, the movement inhumanly precise. The violet eyes held Dante, broken, trembling, barely conscious, yet still spitting defiance. A whisper, colder than the chains, colder than the blood, echoed in Dante’s dissolving mind. Does it hurt yet?