Chapter 3: Morning Brews and Mission Reports.

The kitchen was warm in a way Weiss hadn't realized she missed.

Not regal warmth, like crackling fireplaces in a Schnee manor hall. Not polished and calculated. This was different. Homemade.

Sunlight spilled through the window, catching on floating specks of flour. The stove hissed gently. A kid giggled somewhere in the other room, followed by a thump and a loud "I'm okay!"

Weiss stood at the stove, wrestling with a stubborn waffle that refused to flip cleanly. Her brow furrowed.

"You don't have to glare at it," Kyrie said, watching from beside her with a lopsided smile. "It's just a breakfast item."

"It's defying me on purpose."

Kyrie laughed, light and honest. "It's probably scared."

Weiss snorted—quiet, reluctant—but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

She gave the waffle another go, this time with a gentler touch. It flipped clean. She blinked.

"There we go," Kyrie said, stepping forward and handing her a plate. "It's all about balance."

Weiss transferred the waffle to the plate with meticulous precision. "I'm used to precision, not improvisation."

"Well, around here, we improvise everything. Meals. Schedules. Emotional resilience."

Weiss glanced at her sidelong. "I'm still catching up on that last one."

Kyrie didn't push. She rarely did. That was part of what made her… safe. She had an innate gentleness, like someone who knew exactly when to speak and when to just be there.

The table was already half-set. Kids would be down any minute. And somehow, Weiss found herself wanting to have it ready for them. Not because it was expected—but because it felt right.

She started arranging plates.

Kyrie leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. "You're good with them, you know."

"I haven't even spoken to half of them," Weiss muttered.

"That doesn't mean they haven't noticed you."

Weiss slowed for a moment. "I'm not exactly… approachable."

"Not at first," Kyrie agreed, "but they've seen how you look after her. That tells them everything they need to know."

Weiss didn't respond right away.

Kyrie didn't know the full story. She hadn't asked where Weiss came from. Or why Yang had been unconscious. Or why her eyes sometimes looked like they were watching ghosts.

She didn't need to.

"I didn't do anything special," Weiss said eventually. "I just… did what I had to."

"That's usually where the good stuff starts."

Weiss looked up.

Kyrie smiled, soft and sure. "You're here. You're trying. That matters."

The words settled into Weiss's chest slowly, like warmth diffusing through ice.

She turned back to the plates, her movements more deliberate now. Not sharp. Not automatic.

Present.

The first of the kids arrived like a stampede in miniature.

Three boys burst in from the hallway, one of them still mid-sentence about something involving rocket-powered skateboards and a squirrel. A taller girl followed, dragging a younger sibling by the hand. The air filled quickly with half-formed sentences, mismatched socks, and the unmistakable smell of syrup hitting hot waffles.

Weiss took an instinctive step back, still unsure of her footing in the chaos. The dining table was a blur of noise and movement—chairs scraping, plates clinking, children jostling for seats like it was a battlefield.

And then—like a dart of pure sugar—a small body crashed into her side.

"HiMissWeisscanIsitnexttoyouIlikeyourhair!"

Weiss blinked down at the blur of motion and found herself face to face with a little girl—maybe seven or eight—with huge hazel eyes, a mess of springy brown curls, and syrup already on her cheek.

"Um. Hello," Weiss said carefully.

The girl was undeterred. "I'm Denise! Kyrie said you're new but not new like new-new because you've been here but also sleeping. But now you're awake, so I wanted to talk to you because everyone else is too loud and also you're pretty."

Weiss stared for a moment, unsure what language that had been.

"Thank you?" she offered.

Denise beamed and immediately slid into the chair beside her, her feet swinging above the floor. "What's your favorite animal?"

"I… suppose I've always liked swans," Weiss said.

"Oh cool! Mine's a unicorn but also cats but also dragons but only nice dragons, not the scary kind—unless they're your dragons and they protect you from the scary ones. Do you have dragons where you're from?"

Weiss hesitated. "Not… exactly."

Denise leaned closer, eyes wide. "Do you ride horses? Have a secret sword? Can you use lasers?"

Weiss nearly choked on her bite of waffle. "That's… oddly specific."

The girl's grin was too big for her face. "That means yes."

Weiss glanced across the table—some of the other kids were watching her now. Not with suspicion, but with curiosity. They weren't judging. They were interested. Even a little in awe.

Not because she was a Schnee. Not because of her Semblance. Just… her.

And somehow, that meant more.

Denise reached out and tugged lightly at Weiss's sleeve. "Can you sit with us at lunch too?"

Weiss looked at her. At the syrup smudge on her cheek. At the open, unfiltered warmth in her expression.

She nodded. "I'd like that."

Denise squealed and clapped, then immediately resumed rambling about a dream she had where a giraffe taught her kung fu. Weiss listened—half-focused, fully present—and let herself feel something close to peace.

The van rolled down the winding road with the steady hum of worn tires and an overworked engine, cutting through a wet veil of fog and light rain.

It wasn't a scenic drive. They weren't the scenic type.

The trees thinned as the city began to creep in—steel skeletons of under-construction buildings, flickering neon signs barely visible through the mist, and cracked sidewalks cluttered with trash and old flyers. Somewhere behind the haze of it all was the mainline Devil May Cry office, nestled in a corner of the city only people like them ever looked for.

Nero sat slouched in the passenger seat, spinning a custom round between his fingers—standard issue for Blue Rose, nothing flashy, but finely tuned by Nico's hands. He didn't load crap.

Nico drove with one hand on the wheel and the other lazily hanging out the window, flicking her cigarette every so often like she was trying to annoy the fog.

"You've been broody since we left," she said without looking at him. "Even more than usual."

"Thinking," he muttered.

"Dangerous."

He ignored the jab.

"Those things from the garage," he said after a beat, "they didn't move like demons. Not normal ones. They were in sync. Watching. Adapting."

"Adapting?" Nico frowned, pulling the van into a wide turn off the main drag. "Like... leveling up?"

"The big one waited. Let the others go first. Like it was testing me. Then it changed. Grew spines. Fangs. Got faster."

Nico let out a low whistle. "Great. Evolving dog monsters. Just what we needed."

"They weren't like anything we've fought," Nero continued. "Not in Fortuna. Not in the Underworld. And they weren't demonic. Not exactly."

"Demonic enough to make a mess of my garage," Nico shot back.

"Fair," he admitted. "But there was no infernal residue. No sulfur. No fire. Just... black mist and that damn bone armor."

She lit another cigarette. "So what are we thinking here? Ancient experiment? Forgotten hellhound cult? Aliens?"

"I don't know. But then she showed up."

Nico raised a brow. "Ah yes, Miss Fashionably Ominous."

"Cinder Fall," Nero confirmed, voice clipped. "Showed up right after I dropped the last one. Knew my name. Knew I was Vergil's kid. Asked about the girl—Weiss."

Nico tapped ash into a plastic coffee cup. "You think she's connected to the wolves?"

"I think she's worse."

He reached into his coat and pulled out the black card—sleek, unmarked save for a string of coordinates and a time.

Nico took it, flipped it over, sniffed it, then handed it back. "No perfume. She's all business."

"Or she doesn't need perfume when her voice hits like a sedative," Nero grumbled.

"You sure that's what she hit you with?"

He glared at her. She smirked.

They passed under an old overpass, and finally, through a narrow alley and behind an abandoned train station, the familiar red neon of a Devil May Cry satellite office flickered into view—half-lit, weather-stained, and probably still standing only because it was stubborn.

"Home sweet hellhole," Nico said, parking with a little too much enthusiasm.

Nero pushed open the door and stepped out into the mist, Blue Rose still holstered but close. The weight of the card sat heavy in his pocket.

"Let's see what Morrison's got," he muttered, "before we end up neck-deep in something we don't even have a name for."

The door creaked open, bell jingling faintly overhead.

Inside, the Devil May Cry satellite office looked more like a used record store that sold illegal weapons on the side. Posters peeled from the walls, the overhead fan clicked on every third rotation, and the couch in the corner had clearly seen too many demon hunters crash on it post-job.

Behind a desk cluttered with folders, ashtrays, and a half-finished sandwich sat Morrison—jacket draped over the back of his chair, tie loosened like it hadn't been tightened in weeks.

He looked up as Nero and Nico stepped in, a grin tugging at his mouth.

"Well well," he said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "If it ain't my favorite reckless bastard and his chain-smoking sidekick."

Nico gave him finger guns. "You always say the sweetest things."

Nero didn't waste time. He dropped into the chair across from Morrison and pulled the black card from his coat, setting it on the desk between them.

Morrison raised an eyebrow.

"That from a girl?" he asked, voice casual.

"Yeah," Nero replied. "The kind that shows up after seven mutated monsters try to tear my face off."

Morrison's eyes narrowed. He picked up the card, flipped it over. "No name. No contact number. Just coordinates and a time. That's old-school."

"She called herself Cinder Fall," Nero said. "Knew who I was. Wanted to know about a white-haired girl I've been sheltering."

Morrison whistled low. "Cinder Fall… doesn't ring a bell. But the style? Sounds like someone running with old money or older blood."

"She didn't feel like a demon," Nero added. "But she wasn't human either. Too smooth. Too confident."

"She was hot," Nico supplied. "Let's not pretend that wasn't a factor."

"Not helping," Nero muttered.

Morrison leaned forward, setting the card down again. "What about the things you fought?"

"Wolf-like. Bone masks. Black smoke when they died. Smart, too. They coordinated. Adapted mid-fight."

Morrison's grin faded. "You think they're connected to her?"

"I think they're connected to something. And I think she's at the center of it."

The room went quiet for a moment, the rain outside tapping softly against the window.

"I've been hearing whispers," Morrison said at last, opening a drawer and pulling out a manila envelope. "Small attacks. People going missing near forest borders. Burned-out homesteads. No hellgate signatures. Just… vanishings."

He slid the file across the desk. Nero took it, flipping through grainy photographs—claw marks on concrete, black ash smeared across glass, bodies too mangled to ID.

"These weren't random," Morrison said. "And here's the fun part: Lady and Trish are already out investigating something similar. Different location, but same pattern."

Nero frowned. "You didn't send them together."

"Nope. Different cities. Two different events. Happened the same night."

That landed like a weight.

Nico leaned forward. "You thinking coordinated attacks?"

"I'm thinking something big is moving," Morrison said. "And the smart money says your new friend is either in on it, or she's the spark that set it off."

Nero sat back, jaw tight.

"She left this like it was an invitation."

Morrison tapped the card. "Then maybe you oughta RSVP."

The kitchen had fallen quiet.

The dishes were washed, the kids were off playing, and Kyrie had slipped outside to check on a busted dryer in the back. Weiss had offered to help, but Kyrie insisted she rest—"You've done more than enough today."

So now, Weiss stood alone.

A single plate remained on the counter, waiting to be dried. She wiped it down mechanically, the motion smooth and practiced. A breath escaped her lips—measured, tired.

And then the lights flickered.

Just once. A brief dimming.

She paused, glancing upward. Probably nothing. This place was old. Weather-worn. The power lines had buzzed when it rained earlier.

She set the plate down and turned—her reflection caught in the window above the sink.

Except…

It wasn't quite right.

Weiss froze.

It looked like her. Same white hair. Same blue eyes. But the gaze staring back wasn't her own.

The reflection tilted its head slightly—curious. Mocking.

She didn't move.

Her breath fogged lightly on the glass. But the reflection's did not.

Then it smiled.

Weiss took a half-step back, heart thudding now. Her boots whispered against the tile. Her hand hovered near the dish towel rack like it was a weapon.

The reflection's smile widened—just a hair too sharp. The eyes dimmed, just slightly off-blue. Too pale. Frosted.

She blinked.

It was gone.

The glass showed only her—tired, pale, a little shaken. Nothing else.

Weiss let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She reached up and touched her cheek. Cold.

Her fingers trembled.

She turned away, wiping her hands on the towel and forcing herself to breathe slowly. Deeply.

It was nothing. Just stress. Sleep-deprivation. That's all.

But as she walked toward the hallway, the shadows under the cabinets seemed to stretch just a little too long.

And back in the window—only for a second—the reflection remained behind, standing still, smiling faintly.

And then it was gone.

"Weiss?"

The voice was soft—familiar.

Weiss stiffened.

She turned just as Kyrie stepped into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag. Her sleeves were rolled up, smudged with grease and lint from the busted dryer.

"You okay?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Weiss's throat felt tight. She summoned her usual composure with practiced ease, straightening her posture and folding her hands. "Just… tired," she said, forcing the words out evenly. "Long morning."

Kyrie didn't press. She just crossed the room slowly and leaned back against the counter beside her. The silence stretched—not awkward, just patient.

"I used to hate quiet like this," Kyrie said after a moment. "Made me feel like something bad was about to happen."

Weiss looked at her, puzzled.

"Before the orphanage," Kyrie continued. "The church I grew up in was too quiet. Old wood. No laughter. Just sermons and silence."

She glanced at Weiss with a small smile. "But here? The quiet's different. It's the kind you earn. After noise. After mess. After chaos. It means everyone's safe."

Weiss didn't answer.

Her eyes flicked, briefly, to the window above the sink.

Nothing there.

Still… she couldn't shake the sensation. That smile in the glass. Those eyes.

Her eyes—but wrong.

Kyrie turned to face her more fully. "You're allowed to feel it, you know."

"Feel what?"

"Everything." Kyrie's voice was gentle but unwavering. "Grief. Anger. Fear. Whatever it is you're bottling up so tightly I'm surprised you can still breathe."

Weiss hesitated. Her fingers clenched slightly at her sides.

"I can't fall apart."

"You don't have to fall apart," Kyrie replied. "But you can lean. Just a little. Just long enough to catch your breath."

Weiss's shoulders dropped—barely—but it was something.

"I'm not used to people offering that," she admitted.

"Well," Kyrie said, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder, "get used to it."

The warmth of the touch startled her more than the reflection ever could. Because it didn't demand anything. It didn't expect her to be strong or noble or composed.

It just was.

Kyrie stepped back, brushing her hair behind one ear. "Come on. Let's make some tea. You look like you're about to start dueling ghosts with a dish towel."

Weiss almost smiled.

Almost.