Diavolo laid in the street, not moving an inch.
He'd learned that each particular death would go quicker if he didn't fight it. It had been about a year now he'd been dying, over and over, non-stop.
The last death he'd experienced, he had been pushed by a passing bicycle into a fencepost that went through his chest. It had missed his heart entirely, but he was unable to get down, leaving him to bleed to death. It was rather reminiscent of how he killed Narancia when he was in Giorno's body…
...Now that he thought of it, it had been much too long between deaths. He'd been lying there for about five minutes now. Also, something about the situation he was in… felt wrong. Everything felt extremely familiar to him.
Diavolo took in his surroundings.
First, he listened. Gunshots. Around six shots.
Mista? Does his next death involve that traitor? But, how will he die if not by those bullets?
Someone's crying, extremely close to him. There's a pressure on his chest, they must be laying on him. The crying sounds familiar... like…
...His daughter, Trish?
Alright. This makes no sense. Trish would not cry over him. Diavolo knew this well, he would not shed tears over her either.
The next sound he took in was the most confusing.
The voice of that Frenchman, Polnareff or something, rang out over all the other sounds.
"He's dead, Diavolo is dead, Mista. You can stop shooting."
...What?
Diavolo slowly opened his eyes, trying to sit up. He felt a hand support the back of his head gently.
"Giorno, careful, you're badly injured," Trish said quietly, helping him sit up. "Diavolo managed to get one last hit on you and we all passed out again."
Diavolo blinked slowly and looked down at himself. He felt no pain compared to what he experienced during his deaths. He saw a large wound on his chest, in the shape of finger marks. Clearly, someone had tried ripping out his heart, blood splatter stained the purple fabric of his jacket, entirely coating his ladybug shaped brooches-
-Ladybug brooches.
...This wasn't his chest.
Somehow, after almost a year of dying, he was now in the body of the very person who put him through that hell.
Diavolo couldn't help but cough up a large amount of blood in shock, causing everyone around him to panic.
"Heal yourself already, Giorno!" Mista shouted, the gunman was also badly injured as Diavolo could see blood running from his mouth. "Then you can…"
Mista's voice trailed off as Diavolo slowly stood up. He walked over to what Mista was shooting at.
...It certainly was Diavolo's own body.
It was entirely mangled. It looked like every death he had experienced happened at once.
"Giorno, it's okay, he's dead!" He heard Trish shout, footsteps quickly approached him.
"I think he may be delirious from all the blood loss," Polnareff stated.
Diavolo continued to ignore them and he looked beside the body.
He gasped, causing more blood to shoot out of his wounds. There, entirely shattered and actively crumbling into dust, was the Arrow. Did it do this?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over. There stood Trish and Mista, both looking at him in great concern. He felt blood running down his chest in waterfalls.
He had to say something before they started to suspect something was off.
"I… don't think I can… heal myself… right now…" He weakly said, Giorno's voice thankfully fell from his lips.
The others gasped in horror as his legs gave out from under him and his vision faded to black.
Diavolo braced himself as he came to again. He was back in the loop, or he never left, right? How would he die next? He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings yet again. To his confusion, he was in his own home. Light filtered in through the windows, dust floating around in the beam trailed down to… Trish, sleeping on a sofa beside the bed Diavolo laid in. He looked down at his chest, it was wrapped in bandages. He glanced back over at the sofa and saw Mista sitting at the end of the seat. He, too, was out cold. This was his chance.
Diavolo held his breath as he slowly slid out of bed.
His chest burned like hell, but it didn't bother him. Blood blossomed on the top of the bandages as he slid out of the room as slowly and quietly as he could. He knew he wouldn't be able to take them on in this state, even if they were asleep, but he had to check something.
During the death loop, he was entirely detached from his stand.
Diavolo couldn't summon him, he couldn't feel his stand, he couldn't even speak the words "King Crimson" at all during the death loop.
To see if he was truly free from GER's trap, he had to summon King Crimson.
He stepped into the bathroom. The bathroom was large, with ornate decorations around the whole room. Plenty of room for testing.
He held his breath as he stood in front of the full-wall mirror.
The room seemed to fall apart as he started directly into Giorno's eyes. The floor itself crumbled and cracked and the walls dissolved. A red glow enveloped his body and even his eyes seemed to fill with that same red.
A figure appeared and held out its hand to him.
A practically crazed grin came to his face as he saw it.
King Crimson.
He held the stand's hand, holding it tightly to make sure it was real. His hand didn't fade through, nor did it seem fake in any way. It was fine.
He wasn't in the death loop any longer.
Diavolo turned to look back at the room he was resting in. With King Crimson by his side, he could finally kill those traitors.
As he thought… no one can escape the fate that was chosen for them…
...And it seems fate has chosen his side this time.