Demons Aren't Usually Called Charlie

Danté

This had become a complete and utter mess. Everything was everywhere. Danté knew there had been witnesses. It was imperative he disposed of them. Especially Meg. The alcohol he'd guzzled that night must've gotten to him for once. Danté had made the huge error of giving her his meat-suit's real name. A rookie's mistake. Danté prided himself in his expert status at his 'profession'. She knew more than Danté wanted her to, so she would have to pay for his mistakes. Danté was a very dangerous thing to be around.

Damien wasn't supposed to die like that. Not messy, not dignified. He was supposed to die screaming, begging for mercy in the clutches of Danté. But now he was immortalised as the innocent. That man had been far from innocent, but that was something the media always covered, like a murderer covering their footprints in the snow. It was the media's job to murder some people and revive others. For once Danté was the victim, infamous for a horrific killing of a citizen. He had seen the live coverage of the situation, how they had slandered him as the villain. Danté never saw himself as the villain. He was just simple misunderstood.

Meg had been stupid enough to give him her phone number. Danté was grateful that he'd kept it. He'd text Meg that morning, asking for her address. She was too keen and had given it to him up front, no questions asked. That would be her last mistake, well apart from the fact that she kept calling him Tony, but that was what she had read on his dog tags, so Danté would just have to roll with it. As soon as he'd repaired his beloved trench coat from the bullet wounds, he'd materialised into her apartment building. He stood there patiently,waiting for her to chug through her morning routine before knocking.

Meg tottered around her apartment. It was small, compact but that was how she liked it. She could not believe that Tony had actually messaged her first. Even though she had written her name down for him to do exactly that, he didn't seem like that kind of guy. She tended to trust her instincts on men, she could trust them after all the men she'd been with. Looks like she would have to retrain them. Tony was for sure a wild card. What kind of guy doesn't get drunk after ten drinks? Even she got drunk after that many. The mask he wore as well,it was so unusual. His black hair, battered trench coat, dog tags, it was all very alluring for Meg.

Fluttering with nerves, she grabbed her breakfast and sat on the edge of the dining chair. The thin plastic wrapping crinkled as she tore the contents free. She sighed, it was shitty but if would have to do. Nothing better than a balanced breakfast. That was impossible to get in America. She nibbled on the cream-filled sponge, only sightly regretting sinking her teeth into it. The sponge was fake, that vanilla was probably laboratory made, the cream... Was that even cream?

Who knew, who cared? Not Meg that was for sure. She hated them but still ate it with vengeance.

There was a knock at her faux-wood door. She almost regurgitated her not sponge and almost cream. Faking calm, she rose from the chair, and walked over to the door, tossing her unloved breakfast in the bin. Where it belonged. It was disgusting, those things could last forever.

Before opening and answering, she breathed in slowly. This was stupid, she always got nervous before meeting a man like this even though she'd done it many times before. Screw it, Meg flung the door open wide, no regrets.

Tony stood there, casually leaning on the door frame, puffing on a cigarette.

"Kon'nichiwa, Meg." he smiled lightly.

God, he was so casually hot, these thoughts raced around her mind, a hundred miles an hour.

Meg should really stop gawking at him, she was going to catch flies. Danté resisted telling her that, he needed to keep her wrapped around his little finger for this to work. He flicked the cigarette onto the well-walked red carpet, it hissing as it singed a bitter mark, Danté stamping it out. An apartment fire would be an embarrassment when meeting a lady.