[A faint but familiar scent fills the room of the small closet, of iron and life slowly fading. The man might have been an innocent, working a job to get by, never knowing what was going on behind the scenes--if it turns out anything's been going on at all--and now... Now he's the first death Dante's seen in months.
(Months. As if it wasn't a ridiculously short period of time. As if it wasn't practically an eternity for someone like them.)
Vergilius and Ishmael were right about Silco. And so was Dante that day when the two of them spoke at Christmas. This man would fit right in back home.
But that's the sort of thing to be said once they're out of here. Stonefaced, they stare at Silco, silently searching his expression (for what, they do not know), and then brush past, heading for the propped-open exit.]
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(Months. As if it wasn't a ridiculously short period of time. As if it wasn't practically an eternity for someone like them.)
Vergilius and Ishmael were right about Silco. And so was Dante that day when the two of them spoke at Christmas. This man would fit right in back home.
But that's the sort of thing to be said once they're out of here. Stonefaced, they stare at Silco, silently searching his expression (for what, they do not know), and then brush past, heading for the propped-open exit.]