Here it is, Dante, the descendent of the Legardary Dark Knight Sparda, shedding tears and his knees on the floor. Before Trish's motionless body. Cold. Rid of colors.
It was never expected, that Trish's life would end like this. She was a devil, a full one at that, and she was dead.
All articifical creations have their limits, is it. Nero mused silently. He could not bear Dante's broken form, how his fingers close between him and Trish's arm, how the mob of silver hair seemed to disappear in golden strands, how sharp the contrast of colors between life and death screamed.
How sorrow twisted - furrowed the older man's features that Nero could not recall knowing this man he had come to know for over a decade. He gazed at his own arm, would he be the next to kiss death? The unnatural existence that deserved to be exiled?
Looking back from his arm to the battered senior, Nero decided to focus on that later. He had the death of a friend to take care of and an old man who needed a shoulder, no matter he himself wanted or not.
Nero found himself could not just walk away.