Chapter 2: Echoes of Sparda
Weiss Schnee woke up to silence—and panic.
The first thing she noticed was the weight. Or rather, the lack of it. Her arms were empty. Her chest cold. The warmth of Yang's body, the heaviness that had grounded her for what felt like an eternity, was gone.
She bolted upright in bed, every muscle in her back screaming in protest. The sudden movement made her vision swim, and she nearly toppled sideways off the mattress before catching herself on the bedpost. Her heart thundered like a war drum in her chest.
The room around her was dim, sun filtering in through cheap beige curtains. It wasn't the garage. It wasn't Beacon.
The sheets were rough, the mattress too soft. The air was warm—homey—but filled with smells unfamiliar: eggs, coffee, oil. Wood polish.
She wasn't in danger. She could tell that much. Her instincts weren't screaming. And yet—
"Yang…" she whispered, her voice hoarse with sleep and something far more fragile. "Where are you?"
Her legs trembled as she slid off the bed. The cold floor bit at her bare feet. Someone had changed her clothes—a loose, oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder and soft cotton pants that weren't hers. She didn't remember falling asleep. She didn't remember anything after the portal, except...
Heat. Light. And Yang's heart, faint beneath her fingers.
Weiss forced herself to move. She padded across the wooden floor and gently opened the door. A hallway stretched before her—quiet, painted a warm brown, walls dotted with framed photos and a few childish scribbles in crayon.
A strange peace hung over everything. Like the kind of quiet you find in a home before the kids wake up.
Her fingers brushed against the wall as she walked, steadying herself. Her legs still felt like glass.
Each door she passed whispered stories: muffled snoring, the faint creak of bedsprings, the distant sound of running water. The house felt lived-in. Real. She had no idea how long she'd been out—but it was long enough for this place to feel… settled.
She reached the stairs and took them slowly, hand gripping the railing tighter than she'd ever admit.
The kitchen was the first thing she saw at the bottom of the stairs. It was modest, tucked between the hallway and the living area, with a wide island counter and a half-open window letting in a soft breeze. The walls were lined with hanging pans and mismatched mugs. It smelled like warmth.
And standing at the stove, flipping something on a pan with practiced ease, was Kyrie.
The woman looked up before Weiss could announce herself.
"Oh! Good morning," Kyrie said brightly, the warmth in her voice completely genuine. "You're up a little earlier than I expected."
Weiss swallowed. "Where's Yang?"
Kyrie didn't flinch. She motioned for Weiss to sit at the table and set the spatula down. "She's okay," she said quickly. "I promise. We took her to the hospital last night."
Weiss froze.
Kyrie kept speaking, tone calm, hands busy as she poured tea into a pair of mismatched mugs. "She needed equipment we didn't have here. A proper bed. Monitors. The doctor said it was a good call—she's stable. Breathing on her own."
That last part loosened the tension in Weiss's spine just slightly.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Weiss asked softly, moving toward the table but not sitting down.
"You were dead on your feet," Kyrie said gently, sliding a cup toward her. "If I'd woken you, you probably would've tried to go with her. And if you'd collapsed again, we'd be looking at two hospital beds instead of one."
Weiss didn't argue.
She sat.
The tea was strong, dark, but sweetened—just enough. Not quite how she used to drink it, but… close. Kyrie sat across from her with her own mug, sleeves rolled up, her expression open and quietly curious.
"You've been asleep for almost two days," she said. "We weren't sure when you'd wake up."
"…Two days?" Weiss whispered, eyes drifting to the steam curling off her cup.
Kyrie nodded. "You were exhausted. Dehydrated. And running on nothing but grief and muscle memory. It's a miracle you didn't collapse sooner."
Weiss said nothing. She wasn't sure if she could.
They sat in silence for a while. Outside, the wind rustled faint leaves. Somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard creaked.
"I used to have a younger sister," Kyrie said suddenly, eyes not quite meeting Weiss's. "She was just a little older than you when she passed. She got sick. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't fix it."
Weiss looked up slowly.
"I see the way you protect her," Kyrie said. "It's not just duty. It's family."
Weiss stared into her tea. "She's all I have left."
Kyrie didn't respond with pity. Just a soft nod and a little smile.
"Well, you're both welcome here as long as you need," she said. "We'll get you to the hospital later today. And when she's ready, she can come home."
Weiss flinched at the word. Home.
This wasn't Remnant. This wasn't anything familiar.
But when Kyrie smiled at her again, warm and unwavering, for a moment Weiss didn't feel lost.
Just tired.
And safe.
The hospital was quiet in the way only medical places could be—like the air itself was holding its breath.
Weiss stood just inside the doorway of Room 213, her fingers tight around the strap of a borrowed satchel, her throat constricted around words she hadn't yet found.
The room was clean, almost sterile, but there was a softness to it—white linens, a small window with a breeze-tossed curtain, a vase of mismatched flowers from some of the orphanage kids sitting crookedly on the bedside table.
Yang lay still.
Her chest rose and fell with the slow, mechanical rhythm of assisted breathing. Her left arm was stretched along the bed, IV lines snaking from her wrist. Her right side, where her arm used to be, was bandaged cleanly, the stump wrapped with surgical precision.
She looked… pale.
Weiss's knees nearly gave out when she saw her.
She crossed the room in three hesitant steps and sank into the chair at Yang's bedside. The smell of antiseptic and gauze filled her lungs and made her feel like she was drowning in cold water.
Yang's face was slack, peaceful in a way that felt wrong. This wasn't the Yang she knew. The Yang she knew vibrated with energy, smiled like it was a challenge, and threw herself into danger with fists and fire.
But this version… this Yang looked fragile.
Weiss reached out, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her partner's brow. Her hand trembled.
"I'm sorry..." she whispered, so soft the room itself might not have heard.
She laced her fingers with Yang's—carefully, gently. Her hand was warm. Alive. It made the tears burn harder behind Weiss's eyes.
"I should've stopped it," she choked out, barely more than a breath. "I saw it coming. The barrier cracked, I felt it, and I hesitated. I thought—just for a second—I thought I could push through it. Get to Ruby. But I was too slow."
Yang didn't move. Didn't blink. The only sound was the soft beep of the heart monitor and the muffled footsteps of nurses down the hall.
"I should have died there," Weiss said. "You shouldn't have had to carry me. You shouldn't have had to protect me."
Her voice cracked, and she bit it back. She'd cried already. Too many times. In the rubble. In the guest room. In the kitchen.
But this room pulled it from her anyway.
Weiss leaned forward, resting her forehead lightly on the edge of the mattress, still holding Yang's hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the present.
"You're all I have left."
She didn't know how long she stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. The rain had started again outside, soft patters on the glass window breaking the monotony of silence.
Eventually, the door creaked open.
Kyrie's soft voice followed. "Take your time."
Weiss didn't move. Just nodded against the sheets, breathing in slowly.
"She's strong," Kyrie added, quieter. "If anyone can come back from something like this... it's her."
Weiss blinked hard and looked up at her teammate's sleeping face.
Then she whispered something she never thought she'd say:
"You don't have to come back for me. Just come back."
The hospital hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and old linoleum.
Weiss stood just outside the room, her back pressed lightly to the wall beside the door. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, fingers restless with thought. Her eyes were distant, but sharp.
She knew they were watching her. Judging. Measuring.
Nero leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, jacket damp from the rain outside. He didn't speak at first, just studied her like she was a Grimm waiting for a lunge.
Kyrie stood between them—closer to Weiss, as if shielding her with presence alone.
Weiss met Nero's eyes after a long silence. "You don't trust me."
It wasn't a question.
Nero snorted softly. "You're sharp. I'll give you that."
Kyrie shot him a warning glance.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Weiss continued, voice level but not cold. "I didn't ask to end up in your home."
"Funny," Nero muttered, "neither did the roof."
Kyrie sighed.
"Nero," she said gently, "please."
"I'm just saying," he pushed off the wall and stood upright, his tone not hostile but wary. "I don't know what kind of magic blew you two halfway across the world, but that kind of power leaves a scar. One I'd prefer not to have inside my garage."
Weiss straightened but didn't rise to the bait. "If it makes you feel better, I have no idea how it happened either."
"Doesn't, really."
"Nero," Kyrie said again—firmer this time. "She's not dangerous."
He looked at her, expression unreadable. "You felt what I felt. That pressure? The moment we stepped in the room, it was like the air changed."
"It was fear," Kyrie replied. "Not power. Or at least—not malicious power. And you know what I saw under that pressure? A girl terrified to lose someone else."
Nero glanced down the hallway toward Room 213. "And when her friend wakes up? What then? You think they'll settle down and bake muffins with the kids?"
Weiss's jaw clenched. "We don't want to be your problem."
"You already are."
That stung. More than she wanted to admit.
But Kyrie placed a calming hand on Weiss's arm. "She's asking to stay, Nero. Not for comfort. Not for charity. For survival."
Weiss nodded. "I'll repay you. However I can. Cleaning, helping with the children, working in the garage—whatever you need."
"I don't need help," Nero said, gruff.
"We do," Kyrie countered softly. "And you know it."
Silence hung for a long moment, heavy but not suffocating.
Finally, Nero exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Fine," he muttered. "They can stay."
Weiss blinked, surprised at the lack of venom in his voice.
He looked her in the eye again—this time not with suspicion, but challenge.
"But if things get weird? I'm not asking questions. I act."
Weiss nodded. "Understood."
Kyrie smiled, relieved. "Thank you."
Nero grunted and started walking away. "I'll go tell Nico we're running a damn hotel now."
As he disappeared around the corner, Kyrie turned to Weiss, her expression gentle.
"You okay?"
"No," Weiss answered honestly. "But I will be."
Kyrie gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "That's enough for today."
"I'm still not sure about them," Nero said as he and Kyrie descended through the barren levels of the parking garage, his human hand loosely grasping hers.
His voice echoed between the cars, lazy but alert, the way it always was when he didn't want to admit he was on edge.
"But I guess I may just be paranoid," he added, nudging her shoulder gently.
Kyrie smiled, letting her head rest briefly against his arm. "I'm glad," she said, soft but sincere. "I was a little afraid you'd be mad when I offered them the room."
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "I mean, I am. But I'm also trying not to be a dick about it."
The moment hung warm between them, long enough for the creeping quiet to settle into something companionable—until a low, guttural growl broke it like glass.
Nero's posture snapped upright. He stepped in front of Kyrie instinctively, hand going to Blue Rose.
She froze behind him. "Nero?"
"Something's here," he muttered, narrowing his eyes into the dark.
Pale blue light from a flickering overhead bulb revealed the thing that stalked out from behind a parked sedan.
It looked like a werewolf—but wrong. Its proportions were all off, its limbs too long and sinewy, its spine arched unnaturally like a blade drawn backward. Patches of fur clung to it in clumps, wet with thick black ichor. Its bone mask was jagged, fused like the faceplate of a skull left out in the fire too long. Those red eyes locked onto Kyrie—not like a predator marking prey, but something more intentional. Targeted.
"Go," Nero said quietly, stepping forward, drawing the revolver. "Get to the van. Now."
Kyrie didn't argue. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and bolted down the ramp toward Nico's van without looking back.
The creature crouched like a spring coiling to launch—but Nero moved first.
BANG.
Blue Rose fired, the bullet ringing out as it pinged off the creature's faceplate, carving two sharp lines in its bone.
"Keep your eyes on me, jackass," Nero growled. "Do I not look tasty or something?"
The beast didn't answer with a snarl.
It howled.
The sound reverberated through the garage like a shotgun blast of fog and fury—and then they came.
From the shadows, more of them emerged. Four. Five. Seven total, each one slightly different. One missing an eye. One limping but covered in jagged spikes. One too big, like it had devoured the others and grown bloated on ash.
Nero whistled. "You brought the whole damn litter."
The alpha lunged, claws swiping for Nero's throat. He dropped into a crouch, spun low, and fired into the beast's gut.
The first shot rang out like a thunderclap, echoing off concrete and steel.
Blue Rose bucked in Nero's hand, the recoil kicking hard as the custom-loaded round smashed into the lead creature's faceplate. Bone cracked. A thin line of glowing ichor spilled out—but the thing didn't drop.
It grinned.
"Cheap trick," Nero muttered, spinning the revolver in his palm. "Let's see what else you've got."
The answer came quickly.
The creature let out a high, broken howl—more like metal screeching than anything alive—and suddenly, shadows shifted. Shapes emerged from behind pillars and parked cars. Four… five… no, six more, surrounding him in a slow circle. All of them breathing in unison. Red eyes gleaming.
"Pack tactics," Nero said, nodding to himself. "Cute."
The alpha lunged.
Nero ducked under the swing of its claw, pivoted hard, and fired point-blank into its ribs—once, twice, three times. The impact staggered it, smoke and ash spewing from the open wounds, but it recovered too fast.
The others moved in sync, trying to corner him.
He pivoted on his heel, let off a quick double-tap into the charging one to his right—shots slamming into its mask, staggering it just long enough to duck beneath another swipe.
He kept moving, never staying still for more than a second. One shot into the knee. One into the throat. One ricocheted off the floor and still managed to pierce under the jaw.
They were fast, but Nero was faster. He was measured chaos—firing while sliding across the slick garage floor, spinning behind a pillar, using it for cover before popping out and landing another brutal shot.
Still, they adapted.
One of them leapt onto the wall, skittering along it like a spider before launching down toward him.
"Not today."
Nero spun and fired mid-air, catching it in the shoulder. It hit the ground, rolled, and lunged again—so he fired again, this time at the floor beneath it. The explosive round shattered the tile, sending shards into the creature's underbelly. It howled, twitching violently before dissolving into smoke.
That made four down. Three to go.
But the alpha had hung back. Watching. Calculating.
And then it changed.
Its limbs lengthened. Spikes pushed out through its back. Its faceplate cracked in jagged lines as black ichor poured from its mouth. Not dead. Not wounded.
Evolving.
Nero cursed under his breath, eyes narrowing.
"Guess you're the smart one."
The two remaining wolves flanked him again, one from each side.
He holstered Blue Rose for half a second just to crack his knuckles. Then he drew it again, fast as lightning.
"Alright, let's make this quick."
One beast lunged. Nero spun and shot it out of the air, the bullet punching through its neck. The other followed—but he sidestepped, letting it crash into a pillar before putting a slug in the back of its skull.
Smoke. Gone.
Only the alpha remained.
It stalked forward slowly now. Confident.
Nero raised Blue Rose, the cylinder glowing faintly as the gun hissed with heat. He checked the chamber—one round left.
The beast surged forward.
Nero didn't flinch.
At the last second, he shifted his stance—planted his heel—and fired directly into its chest.
The impact lit the creature's core from the inside, splitting the mask along glowing fault lines. For a split second, its body glowed with blue fire from within.
Then it exploded into ash.
The garage fell quiet.
Nero exhaled slowly, lowering the gun. "Damn. Almost missed that last shot."
The parking garage fell eerily still. The scent of smoke and scorched concrete lingered in the air, curling around his boots like mist. Nero turned toward the van, about to call out to Kyrie—when he felt it.
A shift.
Like static through his veins. A sudden, subtle pressure in the air, not unlike what he felt from Weiss—but more refined. Controlled. Intentional.
Then came the sound.
Clap… clap… clap.
Measured, deliberate, echoing off the garage walls.
From the far shadows, a figure emerged—a woman, sauntering into view like she owned the world and wanted you to know it. She moved with effortless confidence, her long legs carrying her over cracked tile like a catwalk model from hell.
Her skin was pale, touched with an almost glassy pink hue. Her dress—short, crimson, and clearly custom-tailored for attention—clung to her like a second skin. Every step she took was calculated seduction. Her black hair shimmered with red undertones, fading to ashen white at the tips. Golden eyes glowed from beneath dark lashes, and when she smiled—
Nero felt it in his gut.
"You certainly know how to make a girl's entrance feel dramatic," she purred.
Nero tensed. Blue Rose was still warm in his hand, but his body was already reacting—fighting off the strange pull she exuded. It wasn't magic. Not exactly.
It was instinct.
Demonic.
He lifted the gun, not aiming it just yet. "Name?"
The woman placed a hand to her chest, mock-offended. "Oh, come now. Let's not start with threats. I just watched you waste a pack of monsters like it was rehearsal. I should be applauding."
"You already did," Nero deadpanned. "Still waiting on the name."
Her smile widened just a little—hungry. "Cinder," she said. "Cinder Fall."
"Not subtle, huh?"
"Neither are you, Sparda's Kin," she purred, taking another step forward. "It's in your walk. The way your power ripples just beneath the surface. Mmm... Vergil's son, right?"
Nero's jaw tightened. He didn't answer.
Cinder took another step, her heels clicking softly. "Relax. I'm not here to fight. Or flirt—unless you want to."
The look she gave him after that sent a heatwave right up his spine—and Nero cursed under his breath. He knew this game. Knew the type. Succubi, enchantresses, even just high-level manipulators. They always wore the same smile.
Still, he hated that it was working.
"Whatever you're trying," he said, cocking Blue Rose with a firm click, "you can drop it. I'm not that easy."
Her eyes glimmered. "Oh, darling, I didn't say you were easy. Just… curious."
She let the moment stretch, then casually plucked a small black card from seemingly nowhere and flicked it toward him. He caught it without looking, his eyes never leaving hers. Gold lettering glinted on the surface—coordinates, a time, and nothing else.
"I'm looking for someone," she said finally. "White hair, pale blue eyes. Carries herself like a porcelain dagger."
Nero's heart ticked once, then twice, too loud.
Cinder's grin was subtle now. Pleased.
"You wouldn't happen to know where she is… would you?"
Nero's voice was flat. "Nope."
Shame, her smile said.
But her words? "Well then. If you do see her," she purred, turning away in a swirl of red silk, "tell her her family's looking for her."
Nero's grip tightened.
Cinder stopped just before the shadows swallowed her again. She looked over her shoulder, lips curling in a final smirk.
"Oh… and Nero?"
He raised a brow.
"You should take me up on that flirting sometime. It's not every day that someone resists my charm this well. Impressive."
And then, with a wave of her hand, she dissolved into fire—not smoke, not magic, just a sudden blaze that hissed and vanished like a dying candle flame.
Gone.
Silence returned. Blue Rose hissed with cooling metal in his hand.
Nero stared at the card for a long moment before slipping it into his jacket.
"…Yeah. This just got complicated."