Under the low light, the dark diamond studs of her cheeks and brows sparkled against the violet highlight of her umber skin. 

“Well, what?” Dante avoided her gaze and attempted to light a cigarette, but his lighter sparked nothing.  

“Oh, I don’t know, how about apologizing for causing another scene in my club?” She responded. 

“You hired me as a bouncer,” He said, watching sparks flash and fade with every click of his lighter.

Nore scoffed. “Yeah, and that means preventing problems from happening, not causing them by throwing out every customer who looks at you the wrong fucking way.” 

Dante shrugged, and Nore sucked in a deep breath. 

She rubbed her temples in frustration, then dropped her hands against her thighs with a smack. 

“Dante, we can’t keep doing this every single night. And you know it.” 

It was an old conversation. 

One they’ve had several times throughout the past month after Dante realized it was easier to use drunken assholes as an outlet for fifteen years worth of rage. 

There were some instances he’d let slide, but Dante was never any good at self-control. 

Nore wanted to overlook things as best she could, having known Dante longer than anyone else. She just wanted to help him, something she couldn’t do decades prior after failing to convince Dante that some people weren’t worth the oath he wanted to take. 

He didn’t listen then, and maybe he resented her for that. 

But, Nore deserved better than his bullshit. 

She gave him everything, and the least he could give was his respect, though it wasn’t easy.

The anger was always there—for them, for her, for himself—always moving like maggots through dead flesh.

“I know…things have been hard since you got out—”

Nore went on. 

The pressure he put on his lighter made indents on his skin, and pain started to rub his thumb raw with every click.

“—Faron and I are worried, Dante—”

Click. Click. Click.

Nore’s voice tuned in and out, merging with failed sparks and the thundering pressure building in his temples. 

“For you, for us—”

Dante nearly bit through the butt of his cigarette. He told himself to breathe, to think past her worrisome bitching and this goddamn, fucking lighter. 

“If anyone found out you’re here…”

Each click dulled into the sound of an empty chamber trying to fire one last bullet.

“...that we’re helping you…”

Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe.

“…if Asael found out—”

Dante threw his lighter across the room where it shattered against the wall. He stood—nostrils flaring, muscles tightening, and his hands folding behind his neck. 

Nore leaned onto her desk and stood silent as Dante paced around the office trying to calm down. She watched him—maybe in pity, maybe in resentment—then looked away, shaking her head and biting back her lips. 

For a while, it was quiet, nothing but the thundering waves of music drifting between them.

Then, Nore inhaled softly and lifted her hands in a gentle surrender. “Why don’t you head home for the night and cool off?” 

He didn’t move, didn’t turn to look at her, and she stood off her desk. 

Dante heard her boots drawing closer before a hand gently rubbed his shoulder. “Faron can handle that asshole.” 

He glanced down at Nore’s hand, then finally, looked her in the eyes. His guilt thickened. 

Nore gave him a reassuring smile, the best she could do, and Dante touched her face. 

“Sorry.” He stroked her cheekbone.

“...I know.”

Dante removed his hand and walked past her to pick his broken lighter up off the floor. He stared at the hole in the wall and turned around. “I’ll…pay for that.” 

Nore snickered. “Fuck yeah, you will.” 

He smirked back and squeezed the pieces in his hand before leaving the office without another word. 

Dante grabbed his jacket on the way out and walked outside into a hornet’s nest of screaming. 

Several feet away, Faron tried reasoning with the whiny bitch and his woman, but the man spotted him. The two of them cursed and pointed in his direction, but Dante kept walking, knowing all too well it was wiser to leave everything to Faron as Nore said, and eventually, their voices faded into the night. 

Dante wandered down the alley; though his memory was hazy, he remembered roaming these backstreets once or twice before. Cities change, businesses get replaced or abandoned, but the alleys stayed the same—wet paths twisting through a labyrinth of grease-heavy smells and puddles reflecting darker worlds. Pipes dripped, rats scurried off into pools of shadows, and the distant sounds of sirens and gunshots split the night in two. 

He removed an old minute phone from his jacket and dialed one of only three numbers saved, but after an eternity of ringing, Dante hung up. 

His grip tightened. 

Nothing, again.

Dante wanted to throw the fucking thing, but with the outburst at Nore still fresh on his mind, he held back the urge to do so. 

Most men would run back and beg for forgiveness out of fear or obligation, though the thought of submitting like a dog was worse than admitting he was wrong in the first place. It was easy for people like Nore to preach about letting shit go and moving on, but the anger was always there, always waiting like a dying wolf ready to devour the first sight of reason.