(so the change of powers vote is over and people said yes and this chapter will be setting up the reasons why his powers will change so enjoy it. It was supposed to be two chapters a week but today I had some other plans.)
Dante stepped out of his room and into the polished halls of Utopia. The door shut behind him with a hiss, sealing in the silence and unease he'd left sprawled across the bed.
He didn't have a destination—he just started walking.
The corridors stretched on like a maze, sleek and pristine, but sterile. It wasn't long before he realized the people here didn't move like students. They marched. Sharp turns, fast steps, tight expressions. The air felt thinner somehow—not because of elevation, but because of pressure.
It felt like a military base.
Everywhere he turned, there were teens his age—sometimes younger—moving in coordinated drills or standing rigidly beside instructors. Some ran formations. Others recited orders like mantras. The walls didn't echo with laughter or chatter—only footsteps and clipped commands.
Dante slowed, eyes scanning the faces.
They were serious. Focused. Tired.
He'd heard people online call the X-Men out for training kids to fight. "Child soldiers," they said. "Weaponized mutants before they could grow up." But what he saw at the Jean Grey School never matched that. Yeah, there were classes for defense and training for emergencies, but there was still room for normalcy—games, friends, mistakes. They fought, sure—but they didn't live like they were at war every second of the day.
Here?
Here, it was different.
Utopia wasn't preparing students to protect themselves—it was shaping them to survive a battlefield. Permanently.
And that scared him.
As he moved through the compound, he finally found a few small corners where things felt more familiar—a cluster of younger mutants whispering and laughing under their breath near the edge of a courtyard, another group playing cards behind one of the training halls. For a moment, he felt relief.
But the moment those students realized he was watching—they stopped. One of them froze mid-smile, blinked at him, and then pulled a straight face as if it had been drilled into them.
It wasn't fear of him.
It was fear of being seen.
Dante walked past them slowly, not saying a word. But it gnawed at him.
Further on, he passed a narrow hallway where two older students stood, their backs against the wall, speaking in low voices. One of them sounded like they were trying not to cry. The other didn't console—they just stood there. Not cold, but… resigned.
When they noticed him coming, both of them fell silent. Their eyes met his for only a second before they straightened their backs and walked away like nothing happened.
Masks.
This whole place was full of them.
Dante exhaled quietly and turned down another hall. His pace slowed even more.
He had loved the environment at the Jean Grey School. It wasn't perfect—not by a long shot—but it had life. Even with all the craziness, the danger, the weird science and occasional explosions, it felt like a place where people wanted you to grow into something better. Something whole.
This place?
This place felt like it expected you to die.
A frown tugged at his lips. He could feel the weight in his chest tighten with every step. The longer he stayed, the more he wondered if coming to fight in the first place had been a mistake. If he'd just stayed behind, he'd be safe at the school. He'd be surrounded by people who weren't cracking under the weight of something they didn't choose.
But here he was.
Stuck in a base disguised as a home, surrounded by kids forced to become warriors before they finished growing.
"This place is depressing as hell," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
And yet…
A crooked, humorless smile crept onto his face.
It's kind of funny, isn't it?
The thought came without warning. Not just that—he meant it.
This place was miserable. And yet a part of him found it funny. Enjoyable, even.
That made him stop walking entirely.
What the hell?
Dante blinked, stunned at himself. Why would I think that?
There was nothing funny about what he saw. Nothing enjoyable about watching hope drained from people his age. And yet—for a flicker of a moment—his instincts didn't care. His instincts had liked it.
His hands clenched at his sides.
It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Since activating his devil trigger, there were moments—rare but disturbing—when thoughts slipped through that didn't quite feel like his.
Instincts that weren't his.
And now that he stood alone in a place full of battle-ready kids and broken smiles, that flicker inside him felt louder than it should've.
He forced the feeling down, tightening his jaw.
Something was changing inside him.
And not all of it felt right.
Dante moved quickly, weaving through the corridors until he found a narrow, empty corner tucked behind a closed-off storage room. The hallway lights barely reached here. It was quiet. Hidden. Safe.
He leaned his back against the wall, slid down to the floor, and buried his face in his hands.
"…What the hell was that?"
His voice was low, hoarse. Not from shouting—but from fear.
He hadn't just thought it. He'd felt it. That cold, detached amusement while walking through a place that should've made him sick with sympathy.
It scared him.
Ray? he called through their psychic link, trying to steady his breathing. Please tell me that was just some weird glitch in my brain.
Ray responded almost immediately, but the worry in his voice was unmistakable.
I… don't know. I need to check your body for a second. Give me a moment.
Dante waited, back pressed to the wall, eyes locked on the floor.
The silence that followed felt endless. When Ray finally spoke again, it came with a quiet heaviness.
This isn't good.
Dante's heart sank.
What do you mean "not good"? What happened?
We might have… messed up a little.
Dante's stomach twisted. Ray. What is it?
The Devil Trigger, Ray said reluctantly. It didn't just change your body, Dante. It changed your mind, too. Not completely—but enough. It gave you certain… demonic traits. Mental ones.
Dante stared forward, unblinking.
Wait. Are you saying this transformation is messing with how I think?
A little, yeah. Ray sounded like he hated every word he had to say. It's not growing worse, at least. Whatever changes the Devil Trigger made, they're locked in as-is. It won't corrupt you more the longer you use it. But…
He paused.
But what? Dante pressed, his voice low but tight with tension.
But those demonic instincts—they're in there now. Dormant, mostly. But sometimes? They'll rise. You'll feel urges or thoughts that aren't you. Not really.
Ray hesitated again, and that silence spoke louder than any warning.
If those instincts surface at the wrong time—during a fight, under stress, if you're pushed too far—you might do something you regret. Something permanent.
Dante felt like a weight had settled onto his shoulders.
You're saying I might hurt someone.
I'm saying… Ray sighed. You might kill someone. Someone you care about. Or someone who didn't deserve it. And it won't feel wrong until it's too late.
The words hit harder than any punch Dante had ever taken.
I'm sorry, Dante. Ray's voice softened. I never expected the Devil Trigger to affect your mind like this. I wouldn't have gone through with the merge if I'd known.
For a moment, Dante said nothing. He just breathed. Slowly. Deeply.
He wanted to scream. To punch the wall. To rip the power out of him with his bare hands.
But he didn't.
Somehow, he managed to calm himself. He leaned his head back and exhaled slowly.
Is there a way to fix it?
Ray didn't even hesitate.
Yes. Or at least, I think so. I've already started running through possible solutions. I'll find something—just give me time.
Okay. Dante nodded faintly, even though no one could see it.
But for now, Ray added, you need to stay low. Be careful. If those tendencies show up again, you can't let them take over. Until I figure this out, I need to disconnect. I'll be busy working on it from the inside. Just… hold on.
The connection cut.
Dante was alone again.
He sat in the shadows, staring at his hands. They looked the same. But now he wasn't sure if they were.
Eventually, he stood.
He didn't want to sit there thinking about all the worst-case scenarios. About what he might do. Who he might hurt.
He made his way back to his room quietly, barely looking up as other students passed by. No one spoke to him.
He didn't want them to.
When he entered, the door closed softly behind him. The room looked just as he left it—neat, quiet, empty. Too clean to feel like his.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands still clenched, mind still heavy.
And without realizing it, he stayed like that until the next morning.
Eyes open.
Waiting.