Dante wasn’t particularly surprised when the knife came for his throat.

  At this point, honestly? It was about time.

  The alley yawned around him, empty and silent. Too silent. The kind of unnatural hush that meant either a bad omen or an ambush. Possibly both.

  He’d been moving fast, thoughts still tangled in knots from what Lena had told him. His contract? Stolen. His debt? Snowballing into something monstrous. And worst of all—something out there had taken notice of him.

  A bad situation. The kind that ended with people vanishing into the dark, their names erased like they’d never existed.

  And judging by the blade streaking toward his throat, someone had decided to speed up the process.

  His mind caught up a split second after his body, a cruel realization settling in like a weight in his gut. This wasn’t just bad luck. This wasn’t some desperate mugger in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, this was precise. Calculated. Expected. Someone out there had decided that Dante’s continued existence was an unacceptable liability, and they hadn’t wasted a second pulling the trigger. The thought sent a cold spike down his spine. If they were acting this fast, it meant he wasn’t just a loose end—he was a problem.

  The blade gleamed in the dim alley light, a needle-thin promise of death. The attack had no hesitation, no wasted motion. Whoever this was, they weren’t here to issue warnings. No grand speeches, no whispered threats, just a silent decision to remove him from the equation. That alone told him plenty. Amateurs hesitated. Thugs liked to posture. This? This was the work of a professional. A ghost with a knife, already erasing him from the world before he even had a chance to fight back.

  And yet—something was off. If this assassin was as skilled as they seemed, why hadn’t he been dead the moment he stepped into the alley? Why go for the throat when a clean stab to the heart would’ve ended things instantly? Either they were toying with him—a thought he really didn’t like—or they were testing him. Pushing, watching, waiting for something. That was a mistake. Because Dante didn’t plan to just roll over and die.

  Instinct roared to life.

  Dante twisted. The knife carved the air, missing his neck by a whisper but grazing his shoulder instead. Pain flared—hot, sharp, immediate—but he didn’t stop moving. He staggered back, barely dodging the second strike, and got his first good look at his would-be murderer.

  A masked figure. Dark leathers, precise footwork, movements flowing like water.

  An assassin.

  A good one.

  Which meant, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he was getting too close to the truth.

  Dante grit his teeth, already cursing his luck. “Really?” he muttered, shifting to avoid another flashing arc of steel. “This is how we’re handling things now? No warnings? No villainous monologue?”

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  The assassin did not answer. Because of course they didn’t. No banter. No theatrics. Just relentless, efficient murder.

  They pressed the attack, blade weaving through the air with terrifying precision, forcing him deeper into the alley.

  Dante wasn’t a fighter. Not yet. No years of training. No supernatural instincts. No secret past as a hidden warlord.

  But fighting and surviving weren’t the same thing. Fighting meant skill, technique, control. Surviving? That was messier. It was clawing, scrambling, outlasting. It was knowing when to run, when to hide, and when to throw every dirty trick in the book just to see another day. Dante had never been the kind of guy who won fights. But he had a talent for not losing them. And right now, that was the only talent that mattered.

  The assassin moved with deadly efficiency, every step measured, every strike precise. Their blade carved through the air, herding him, closing off his options. They wanted him pinned, forced into a mistake, backed so far into a corner that survival became impossible. But Dante had spent too much of his life cornered to fall for that. There was always a way out. Always an escape. Even if it meant making one.

  His eyes darted around the alley, cataloging everything—shadows pooling in doorways, a rusted fire escape just out of reach, the scattered debris of city filth lining the pavement. Options. Imperfect, ugly, desperate options. But that was the thing about survival: you didn’t need a perfect plan. You just needed something that worked.

  What he did have, however, was a deep, primal knack for survival.

  Which was why, instead of attempting some heroic counterattack, he ducked the next slash and kicked a pile of garbage straight into the assassin’s face.

  Not graceful. Not refined.

  But effective.

  It bought him two seconds.

  And two seconds was enough.

  Dante activated his Pact.

  The air shifted. Power surged through his veins like fire, shadows curling around his arms, stretching hungrily toward the masked figure. His System Interface flickered to life.

  [PACT ABILITY ACTIVATED: BLOOD AND SHADOW]

  The assassin hesitated. Just for a fraction of a breath.

  Dante did not give them time to regret it.

  The shadows responded to his will, lashing outward in jagged, twisting tendrils. Dark, inky whips cracked through the air, reaching for the assassin, offering them a choice: retreat—or be dragged into the abyss.

  They chose retreat.

  A blur of movement. A gleam of steel. And then—gone.

  The alley returned to its unnatural silence.

  For a long moment, he didn’t move. His pulse still thundered in his ears, his muscles locked in that breathless state between fight and flight. The assassin was gone, but the weight of their presence lingered, an invisible noose tightening around his throat. This hadn’t been a warning. This had been an execution attempt. And the only reason he was still standing was because he’d been just unpredictable enough to survive it. Barely.

  His gaze flicked to the spot where the attacker had vanished, searching for any trace—a footprint, a lingering shadow, some sign that this had actually happened and wasn’t just a nightmare with sharper edges. Nothing. The city had swallowed them whole, like it always did. And that meant they’d be back. Dante wasn’t out of danger. He was just on borrowed time. The next attempt wouldn’t come with hesitation.

  He exhaled, slow and measured, forcing his heartbeat to settle. His shoulder throbbed, each pulse a fresh reminder that he needed to move. Standing here, bleeding in a dark alley, wasn’t a strategy. It was an invitation. If he wanted to make it through the night, he needed a plan. He needed leverage. He needed answers. And most of all? He needed to get the hell out of here.

  Dante stood there, breath ragged, shoulder bleeding. Slowly, he pressed a hand to the wound, feeling the warmth of his own blood seep between his fingers.

  Someone had just tried to silence him.

  Which meant he was closer to the truth than he’d realized.

  And that?

  That was the best news he’d had all week.