Disclaimers: Materials used from Devil May Cry and Parasite Eve are owned and licensed by Capcom and Square-Enix, respectively. This story is purely done as a fan of both series. Please support the official release.
A/N: Chapter 1 rewritten on April 7th 2025
Chapter 1: Devil May Cry
New York City. Forever pulsing with the chaos of modern life. Car horns blared in every direction, gridlock choke every street corner, and the city dwellers going about their daily lives. When night descends over the so-called City of Dreams, the familiar gives way to the strange. Ordinary folks retreated behind their warm homes, while the freaks and villains come out to play.
Truly, it's a city that never sleeps.
A winter storm had passed through recently. Tonight, however, the skies were merciful. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the heavens, dressing the city in a soft and quiet white.
Past the glittering skyline and bright marquee lights, beyond where tourist dared to wander, a forgotten stretch where the city neglected. Where gutters overflowed with fifth, and broken windows were all too common. Decaying buildings leaned into each other for support, graffiti tags on surfaces like bruises, and not one roam these streets without watching their backs. Sirens wailed from the distance, and stray dogs barked by the blaring sounds.
In the middle of this concrete jungle stood a small, and run down building. Above its entrance hung a flickering neon sign that read: Devil May Cry.
The "D" sputtered in and out, likely the result of bad wiring or a Mickey Mouse installation job. The red-pink glow bathed the snow-dusted sidewalk in an eerie hue. The sign buzz softly enough to hit a nerve.
A woman stood a few yards away, eyes fixed on the neon sign. She looked like she belonged somewhere better. An off-white winter coat with fur-lined hood framed her face, beneath it, a charcoal turtleneck sweater. A deep red scarf looped neatly around her neck. Her skinny jeans hugged her legs, in all the right places, tucked into a pair of dark brown boots. Her black leather gloves gripped the strap of a beige hand bag slung over her shoulder.
Her golden hair dance in through the gentle breeze, and her sapphire eyes studied the building of curiosity and a thin veil of skepticism. She reached into her coat and patting down her pockets.
"Pretty sure this is the place." Aya muttered, her breath fogging in the cold.
She rifled through her coat, getting increasingly annoyed as her memory failed her. Her hand then dipped into her back pocket—there, she felt the familiar rectangular shape.
"Found it," she pulled the card free and gave it a stare.
The was coated in glossy black and red letterings printed in bold and italic font: Devil May Cry. It had the same typography as the glowing sign. Below the name had an address, and phone number printed as well.
Still unconvinced, she pulled out her phone and tapped the address into it, cross checking the location only to receive a confirmation.
"Well… this is definitely the place," she said, eye the building again.
Her gaze drifted to the business rating: one and a half stars.
"Real promising, Mary," she muttered with a sigh.
She slips the card and phone into her bag. Her breath frosted in the air as she stood for a moment longer, thinking if she should go along with this.
Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps—each one feeling uneasy the higher she went, like something was telling to her turn back.
-Two Days earlier-
Flurries of snow drifted lazily past the fogged windowpane of the blonde's usual coffee shop. Outside, fellow New Yorkers hurried past, braving through the bitter cold.
Inside Aya's little haven, it was peaceful. The sharp scent of freshly ground beans mixed with the hiss of the expresso machine, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had stopped.
She took a slow breath, savoring the thick aroma of her coffee, letting it fill her lungs, and chase the chills from her bones. The mug was warm against her palms felt nice. Her white turtleneck sweater hugged close, wrapping her in comfort. She took a sip of her drink, a soft smile played at her lips.
*Ding-ding*
The shop door chimed, snapping her from her thoughts. Her eyes drifted to the entrance—there she spotted someone familiar.
Jet-black hair, cut in a sharp chin-length bob. Gold-rimmed sunglasses perched on her nose. A sleek, tailored black coat that flowed into her matching slacks. A stunning pair of red heels clicked against the hardwood floor that command authority.
Aya smile grew and gave a wave.
The well-dressed woman caught motion from the corner of her eye, she turned, and met her gaze. A smirk tugged at her lips as she walked over.
The two women embraced like old friends—warm, tight, and familiar.
"It's been a while, Aya." the woman in black said, releasing her.
"I should say the same, Mary." Aya grinned. "Come—sit."
Mary slid into the chair across from her.
"The same table by the window," Mary said with a chuckle. "Some things never change."
They eased into conversations with the kind of comfort that only comes from old friendships. Laughter filled the air, carrying with it the ghosts of shared memories.
"Has it really been that long?" Aya asked, stirring her coffee to distract herself.
"About three years," Mary replied with shrug. She leaned back into her chair, studying her old friend. "So, how's Kyle?"
The question hung in the air, heavy, and unwanted.
"Kyle…"
Aya looked down to her cup, the shimmering light of the coffee drifted her back to the events to The Third Birthday. The real Aya was long gone. What sat here now was a soul in a borrowed skin, a ghost clinging to the memory of who she used to be.
Mary raised a brow and picked up on her silence.
"Didn't work out, huh?" she said gently, thinking she hit a sensitive topic. "Forget I asked."
Aya managed a weak smile and nodded, thanked her for not prying any further about her personal affairs.
"I take it this isn't a chat over some expensive coffee, is it?" Mary eyes narrowed behind her shades.
Aya didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her bag under her chair and pulled out three thin folders. She placed them on the table, between them.
"You're aware I worked for the FBI, right?" she said.
The real Aya had worked in multiple subdivision of the FBI. One of them would be the Counter Twisted Investigation group (CTI). A team, who's task is to eliminate the Twisted, a hostile alien species bent on human extinction. However, that event never existed due to a time paradox that drastically altered the timeline. In this new world, she is Aya Brea and this is her new reality—a fresh start in life.
"Sure," Mary said with a shrug. She lazily shifted her eyes towards the window, disinterest. "Data analyst, right? I bet through spreadsheets were killer."
"Former special agent," Aya coolly corrected her. She scoots the folders towards her, "I have a feeling these cases might interest you."
"Oh? And why would that be?" Mary said, smirking.
"Word is," Aya leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "There's a woman around who accept odd jobs... real odd ones. The kind most people pretend don't exist—she goes by Lady."
"That could anyone, Special Agent Brea." The woman in shades lips twitched with amusement.
"Short black hair. Heterochromia. Scar across her face—ring a bell?"
"Alright, you got me." Mary sighed.
She slid off her sunglasses, revealing her miscolored eyes—steel blue and amber red. And a faded scar slice across her the bridge of her nose.
"What do you wanna know?" she asked, her tone shifting from amusement to cautious.
"Just take a look at it," Aya nudges the folder toward her again. "I think these murders are connected and I need your help."
Mary opened the first folder and casually flipped through its contents. Graphic photos of shredded bodies—a carnage that defied logic. Her expression didn't so much as flinch.
"I usually steer clear from anything with a law enforcement watermark." She said, tapping on the agency's logo.
"This is strictly off the books," Aya respond. "No agencies are involved."
"How scandalous," Mary teased, lips curling into a smirk. "But these cases have officially wrapped."
"I don't believe a single man could've done this," Aya explained. "Its something else. Something… otherworldly…"
Mary didn't respond right away. Instead, she tapped a finger against her temple, silent for a beat. Then she closed the folder and leaned back in her chair.
"Tempting as it sounds, but I've got a job overseas—time sensitive," Mary said.
Aya's heart sank a little, but didn't let it slip out. She simply nodded.
"But…" Mary added.
"But?" Aya echoed, a flicker of hope returned.
"One of my associates might be able to help," she reached into her coat pocket and fished out a sleek black card, placing it on the table. "His name's Dante—tell him Lady sent you."
The blonde woman seizes the card from the table with interest. In glossy black, with letters printed in red.
"Interesting name." she murmured.
Before Mary could add anything else, her phone buzzed. The ringtone slicing through the café ambience. She checked it, then rose to her feet, slipping on her coat and sunglasses in one fluid motion.
"That's my client—gotta run. Sorry to cut this date short, Aya."
"Wait—this Dante guy. Is he…legit?" Aya stood too with urgency in her voice.
"He's a jackass, but reliable." The sunglasses woman said. She gave a causal wave heading for the door.
Through the window, Aya watched her cross the street to meet a young woman who handed her a yellow envelope. The exchange was quick and professional. Seconds later, they vanished into the crowd.
Aya sat back down and glances back to the card in her hand.
"Devil May Cry…" she read the card aloud. "Huh, I wonder…"
-Present Day-
Aya buried her hands deep into her coat pockets as she climbed the final steps of the stoop, her breath curling visibly in the winter air. The weathered OPEN sign dangled from the doorknob, creaking slightly in the wind like it might give up at any moment.
"How inviting." She muttered, dryly.
She pushed open the double doors. A soft chime overhead announced her entry with a gentle ding.
Aya peeked inside for a quick survey of the interior. To her right, a dusty drum set sat neglected against the wall. Beside it, a dented jukebox sulked in the corner, its chrome finished dulled by age and plastered with half-peeled stickers.
Dead center in the room stood a pool table. The cues balls neatly racked and sticks propped against the table like they have been left mid-game. To the left, a modest lounge setup—worn couch, small coffee table, and a mini-fridge humming faintly.
At the far end of the room, two closed doors flanked a large wooden desk. One probably led to a backroom or maybe an upstairs—hard to tell. Beside the desk stood a coat rack, where a brown trench coat and fedora hung in quiet vigil.
"Hello?" Aya called, taking a few careful steps inside.
The door behind her closed shut with another faint chime, sealing her into a dimly lit, quiet space. The place felt less like an office and more like someone's personal hangout.
She moved to the desk, eyes scanning the mess of papers scattered across its surface. In the corner, a lone picture frame caught her eye. She picked it up, curiosity piqued.
The photo inside showed a middled-aged woman with flowing blonde hair and soft blue eyes. She wore a crimson robe draped over a black sweater. Her gentle smile forever frozen in time.
"At least this Dante guy knows where to find them." Aya murmured, setting the frame back down.
Then, a soft creak.
One of the doors by the desk cracked open.
The sound startled her, yelping slightly as she spun toward the source.
A tall man stepped through, dark-skinned, and looked somewhere around his mid to late fifties. His receding hairline and bread mostly claimed by gray. He wore a deep purple vest over a crisp white dress shirt, charcoal-black slacks, and polished dress shoes.
"Can I help you, miss?" he asked, voice even and calm.
"Are you Dante by any chance?" Aya asked, already second-guessing.
"God, no," the man scowled in mock offense.
"Oh! Sorry," she dipped her head, mildly flustered.
"No harm done," he waved it off with a light chuckle, then extended a hand. "Name's JD Morrison—but Morrison works fine."
"Aya Brea," she shook his hand.
"Please, have a seat," Morrison said, gesturing toward the couch.
They moved to the sitting area. The older gentleman took the armchair while she settled into the couch, slipping off her coat and setting it beside her bag.
"Aya Brea…" Morrison repeated thoughtfully, fishing for a cigar case from his vest. He selected one with practiced care. "Now where have I heard that name before…?"
"You're probably mistaken me for someone else," Aya replied smoothly, sidestepping the question.
"Maybe," he shrugged and bit off the tip of the cigar before lighting it. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke that coiled around him. "So, Miss Brea, what brings you to Devil May Cry?"
"Lady sent me—she said you and Dante might be able to help."
She reaches into her bag pulling out three thin folders and handed to him.
Morrison raised a brow as he accepted the files. He flipped through the pages with a cigar curling between his fingers as he read.
"These cases date back a few years," Aya explained, leaning in slightly. "Labeled as the work of a serial killer. A suspect was tried and convicted. Case closed. But something about it… doesn't sit right."
"These are police reports…" he said, puffing his cigar and exhaling a trail of smoke. "You do know we don't accept thing tied to law enforcement, correct?"
"I'm aware," she said firmly. "No agencies involved—I'm here on my own."
Morrison sat the folders down on the table and took another long drag from his cigar—contemplating about the police reports.
"And why exactly the perp they caught wasn't the real deal?" he studied her for a moment through the curtain of smoke.
"A closed case doesn't always mean solved," Aya tapped a finger on the red stamp marking on the folder. "The pattern, the victims, the mutilations—it doesn't add up."
Morrison narrowed his eyes, thoughtful, but unconvinced.
"Well, I can tell you, we can't—"
The front door slammed open like sharp sound of a gunshot. Wind howled through the doorway, carrying snowflakes and silence in its wake.
Aya whipped her head around to assess the commotion.
A tall figure stepped through the doorway. He stood nearly six feet tall. Crimson trench coat with its sleeves rolled to the elbows. A navy-blue shirt hung half-unbuttoned beneath it, over a pair of black jeans that looked like they'd seen a few brawls. Black fingerless gloves covered his hands and thick, scuffed boots thudded with each step. Slung across his back was a guitar case—well-worn and heavy.
What drew her eyes wasn't the man's attire, but his hair—thick, silver, and a mess. He looked around to be the same as her, maybe older.
"Speak of the devil," Morrison said with a chuckle as the familiar crimson coat walked in.
"Freezing my ass off out there," grumble the silver-haired man, brushing the snow from his shoulders.
The door thudded shut behind him with the overhead bell giving a half-hearted jingle.
"I told you to wear something warm," Morrison sighed, snuffing out his cigar in the astray as he stood up. "But no, you had to storm off without a word. Again."
"What are you, my mother?" Dante scoffed.
The woman watched their exchanged in quiet interest—they bickered like old friends.
"He's gotta be Dante."
"Is it done like I asked?" Morrison said.
"It's history." Dante coolly replied.
Dante removed his coat, gave it a final shake before lazily flick it onto the coat rack. He did the same with his guitar case, however, gently leaned it against the wall.
He dragged the chair behind the desk and dropped into it with a groan of relief. His boots thudded loudly onto the desk. Stretching back, he finally noticed the woman across the room.
"So… who's the babe?" he asked with a smirk, his icy blue eyes locking onto hers.
Aya stiffened slightly. There was something about the weight of his stare—sharp and unnerving. Dante noticed her reaction and chuckled under his breath, clearly entertained.
"She happens to be a potential client," Morrison said.
"Oh?" Dante leaned back further into his chair, already sounding uninterested. "Let me guess—Lost cat? Cheating husband? A bridal shower in need of a last-minute exotic dancer?"
His sarcasm dripped with fatigue. This was a man who seen too many dead ends and little paychecks.
"I don't need another gig protecting lonely housewives because their husbands won't screw them anymore." Dante muttered, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "I should be out there doing real work."
"It involves the supernatural—if that matters." Aya stood. She had enough with his mouth.
The silver haired man raised a brow, seemingly interested now. His chair creaked as he leaned back and the soft rasp of the leather glove against his stubble filling the silence. Finally, he exhaled and dropped his chair back to all fours.
"Alright," Dante said, eyes sliding back to Aya. "If you don't mind explaining—I might consider it."
She grabbed the folders from the coffee table, crossed the room, and handed to him.
"Three victims," she said with arms crossed. "All killed in similar fashion and I've ruled out the serial killer theory."
Dante flipped through the files; his expression was unreadable.
"What makes you so sure it isn't a whack job?"
Aya let out an audible sigh. She hated repeating herself and her patience was already wearing thin.
"I'll get to the point," she said firmly. "No human could've done this. The injuries. The conditions of the bodies. They scream something else."
Dante arched a brow, but didn't argue. He kept flipping through the file, absorbing the gruesome images and autopsy notes.
"What do you think, Morrison?" he asked without looking up.
"I've looked at them over." The older gentleman said, arms folded. "She's not wrong—wouldn't hurt to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.
"Alright, what's the payout?" Dante closed the folder, setting the them on his desk, and turned his gaze back to the woman.
"One of three victims, Willis Tuck, was a wealthy man. Family estate in the Hamptons, trust fund, the works." Aya pulled a photo from one of the folders, an ID shot of a redheaded man in his forties. "We prove to the family what really happened—the reward will be substantial."
"Numbers, lady. I don't work on vague promises."
"Two hundred fifty million in assets," Aya said coolly. "Do the math."
"Math was never been your strong suit," Morrison quipped with a grin.
"Real encouraging, Morrison." Dante rolled his eyes
"If the Tuck family got that kind of money," Morrison added. "Even a silver of it could wipe your debts clean. Hell, you could drown yourself in pizza and strawberry sundaes for the whole year if you want."
"Yeah, yeah." The silver haired man muttered. "You don't need to guilt trip me."
Dante fell quiet, eyes dropping to the floor as he folded his arms and thought. His boots slid off the table and onto the hardwood floor. He rose from his chair and extended a hand towards Aya.
"Alright, you got yourself a deal, gorgeous," he said with a cocky smile. "I hope there aren't any strings attached."
Aya started at his hand for a moment, then met his gaze and returned a handshake with a steady smile.
"I hope you know what yourself into… Partner," she said, pausing deliberately at the final word.
"Wait… What?"