Dantes Fire の小説・ストーリー

It was like a buzzing like a robotic voice. “Hades, Find the truth about that night” The voice spoke. A date was given next. An oddly familiar date. The same date. The date of that night. The address. The voice stopped. Hades looked at me and in the next moment, I dragged behind someone and fell on the road, the rough surface grazing my arms. The blast rang and flames erupted in the car. Its pieces flew into the air and fell to the ground. Men in black tried to take cover. Blood was everywhere. Fallen men their bodies their blood.

he hissed, bending his head closer. "Wrong move," I growled, shooting my hand up to grasp his wrist, channeling intense heat into his bones. "Now!" I yelled at my dad as I dropped the walls, forcing the last of my fire's reserves into the man's bloodstream. I let my own power surge into him at the same time, stealing what remained of his life while the fire literally cooked him from the inside.

I replied, determination lacing my words. Dante reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone, instructing me to film him. I followed his directive, positioning myself to capture the pivotal moment. With a flick of his lighter, he ignited the fire, watching as the flames hungrily consumed the source of my struggle, pain, torture, and scars. I stood witness as the weight of that burden turned to ashes, carried away by the wind. Though I knew this act wouldn't eliminate all our problems, it symbolized a victory, a step forward in our tumultuous journey. I saved the video as a testament to our resilience, handing Dante his phone back as the flames dwindled and faded.

“Pack? You said next week.” “I said when the heat’s clear. It isn’t. Harlan’s people are scrambling since the dock fire. That’s bad for business.” She frowned. “And good for us.” “Good if you’re smart,” Dante replied. “Bad if you keep underestimating how quickly things burn in this city.” There was something in his tone. A hint of mocking and detachment.

This was an inferno. I looked at Dante. He hadn't moved. He just sat there, staring at the blaze through the windshield. His face was a mask of cold, hard anger. There was no panic, no shock on his features. Just a deep, calculating fury that was somehow more frightening than any outburst. This was a direct attack on his empire, and he was already counting the cost, already hunting for the source in his mind. After a long minute, he finally moved, opening his door. The chaotic sounds of the firefight rushed in—the crackle of flames, the hiss of water turning to steam, the shouted orders.

I answered as I stepped a couple feet away, just enough not to invade their hug with a voice that didn't belong with popcorn. "Dante?" His voice came through lower than usual, like he was walking fast. Or like someone might be nearby. "Gwen. Are you home?" "I am. What's wrong?" I saw Nick glance at me over Bella's head, already sensing trouble. I gave him a small shake of my head. It's under control. Even though I didn't feel that way at all. "Listen," Dante said. "I'm in Montelira and… I've got news about the fire."

The eastern windows glowed faintly orange, the shadows of fire flickering against the night. The door burst open. A guard shouted in Italian, his voice raw with panic: “Incendio! The east wing is burning!” Before Emilia could react, Dante stormed into the room. His jacket was gone, his shirt half-open, his face carved from steel. He seized her arm. “Move.” The hallway was chaos. Alarms blared, guards shouted orders, the air filling with smoke that clawed at her throat. She stumbled as Dante pulled her through the corridors, past servants carrying buckets, men hauling weapons, doors slamming in frantic succession.

“You took her from me. You didn’t just kill her, Dante. You erased her.” Bianca’s voice was a jagged shard of glass cutting through the thick, metallic tang of the halon gas. She stood over him, her chest heaving, lungs burning. Dante lay sprawled on the server room floor, his fingers twitching against the cold tile. The red emergency lights pulsed, casting long, bloody shadows over the rows of humming machines. “I... I didn’t...” Dante’s voice was a wet rattle. He gripped his head, his knuckles white, slamming his temple against the floor as if trying to beat the memories into place. “The docks. The fire. I remember the fire, Bianca.”