The unstoppable Dante

His uncle.

The man who had taken him in after his mother died, who had fed him, clothed him, and protected him when his father had been too busy chasing his ambitions to care. Marley had been his rock, his family, the only constant in a childhood torn apart by loss and abandonment.

And now, the system wanted him dead.

"No..." Dante whispered, shaking his head. "This can't be real."

[It is real, Dante.]

The voice of the system returned, calm and cold, cutting through his denial like a blade.

"You don't understand," Dante said, his voice trembling. "Marley... he's not just some name. He's my family. He raised me. I can't—"

[Mission parameters are non-negotiable. Marley Sinclair is your target. Failure to complete the mission will result in consequences.]

"Consequences?" Dante's voice rose in panic. "What consequences?"

The holographic screen flickered, and suddenly, new images filled the air around him. Visions of chaos and pain.

A suffocating darkness engulfed him as the system's voice droned on.

[Failing to comply will initiate the System Punishment Protocol. Observe.]

Dante gasped as his own body appeared before him, writhing on the ground, veins bulging as if fire coursed through them. His screams echoed in the vision, a haunting, guttural sound of agony that sent shivers down his spine.

[Physical degradation begins within hours. Internal organs collapse progressively. Neural pathways will be forcibly rewired to induce compliance. Death is the final outcome if resistance persists.]

The scene shifted. This time, it wasn't him. It was Marley. The vision showed his uncle surrounded by armed men, bloodied and beaten, pleading for mercy. A gunshot echoed, and Marley crumpled to the ground.

"No!" Dante shouted, staggering to his feet despite the pain. "Stop this! I won't kill him!"

[Refusal will only expedite the consequences for both you and Marley Sinclair. Time remaining: 10 hours.]

The hologram vanished, leaving Dante alone in the cold, silent street. His body trembled—not from the injuries Lucas and his goons had inflicted, but from the weight of the impossible choice before him.

"Why?" he muttered, staring at the empty air where the system's screen had been. "Why him? He's not my enemy."

The system didn't answer. The oppressive silence pressed down on him, leaving him to wrestle with the suffocating reality.

Dante clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Marley had been the only one who cared for him when his world fell apart. The only one who stayed when everyone else left.

And now, after years of separation, after believing he might never see his uncle again, this was how they would meet? A mission. An assassination.

"I can't do this," Dante muttered to himself. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew the system didn't care. It wasn't about what he wanted.

His gaze flickered to the faint glow still lingering in the corner of his vision. The timer.

09:59:43

Every second ticked down, a relentless reminder of the decision he had to make.

Kill Marley, or let the system destroy him.

Dante drifted off into a restless sleep, his mind tormented by fractured dreams.

A sharp blare of a car horn jolted him awake.

"Oi! You filthy bum, move out of the way!"

Dante's eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to his feet, blinking rapidly as the harsh morning sunlight hit him. A sleek black car was stopped just inches away, the driver leaning out of the window with a disgusted expression.

"What kind of lowlife just sleeps in the middle of the road? You trying to get yourself killed?" the man sneered, shaking his head.

Dante opened his mouth to respond, but his voice caught in his throat. He glanced around, realizing he was no longer in the dark alley where he'd passed out. Instead, he was sprawled in the middle of a busy street. People were walking by, their eyes darting to him with thinly veiled contempt.

"Look at him," someone muttered. "Probably some drunk who couldn't even find his way home."

"Disgusting," another said, their voice dripping with judgment.

Heat crept up Dante's face as he took in their stares, their whispers. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. This was the last thing he needed.

"Get out of the way!" the driver barked again, revving the engine.

Dante quickly limped to the sidewalk, his heart pounding with embarrassment. He turned away from the crowd, trying to avoid their piercing gazes, when he realized something.

He wasn't limping.

Dante froze and looked down at his legs. The pain from the night before—the searing ache in his ribs, the sharp, unbearable throb in his right leg—was gone. He bent his knee experimentally and found no trace of the injury that had left him crumpled and helpless in the alley.

"What the hell…?" he murmured, running a hand over his leg. The torn fabric of his pants still bore the bloodstains from the beating Lucas's men had given him, but beneath it, his skin was smooth.

His heart raced as realization dawned.

"The system…"

The faint glow of the timer caught his eye again.

08:42:15

It wasn't just a threat—it was real. The system had healed him, but not out of kindness. It had fixed him because it needed him to complete the mission.

"Damn it," Dante muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The gravity of the situation hit him all over again. He hadn't made a decision yet, and the clock was still ticking.

Dante's stomach growled loudly, reminding him of just how long it had been since he'd eaten anything. The ache in his belly was almost as sharp as the anger simmering in his chest from the humiliation he'd just endured on the street.

He shuffled aimlessly down the sidewalk, unsure of what to do next, when a loud voice caught his attention.

"Where is he?!"

The booming shout came from inside a nearby building. Through the glass doors, Dante could see a frantic-looking man in a white chef's coat arguing with another man in a suit.

"I don't know, Chef!" the man in the suit stammered. "He hasn't shown up. Maybe he got sick or—"

"Sick?!" the chef interrupted, his face turning red. "Do you know who's booked this place today? The biggest, most influential family in this city! One screw-up, and we can kiss our reputation goodbye!"

Dante hesitated by the doorway, watching the scene unfold.

The chef threw his hands up in frustration. "A no-show waiter! On the most important day! This is a disaster."

He scanned the room, his sharp eyes landing on Dante, who froze like a deer in headlights.

"You!" the chef barked, pointing a finger at him.

Dante instinctively glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the chef was yelling at someone else. But no—there was no one else.

"Yeah, you! Come here," the chef snapped, waving him over.

Dante hesitated before stepping inside, the warmth of the building contrasting sharply with the icy tone of the chef's voice.

"You need something?" Dante asked cautiously, his voice low.

The chef gave him a once-over, his lip curling in disdain. "What's your name?"

"Dante," he said, shifting uncomfortably under the man's glare.

"Well, Dante," the chef said, dragging out the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth, "you look like someone who's desperate for money."

Dante's stomach growled again, loud enough for both of them to hear. The chef smirked.

"Thought so," he said. "How about this? I'll give you $25 to cover the shift. All you gotta do is carry trays, refill glasses, and stay out of the way."

Dante's face brightened slightly at the offer, but the chef wasn't done.

"On second thought…" The chef's eyes roamed over Dante's rumpled clothes and unshaven face. He shook his head with a sneer. "You don't deserve $25. Look at you. Five bucks—take it or leave it."

Dante clenched his fists, biting back the sharp retort that sprang to his lips. His pride screamed at him to walk away, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach screamed louder.

"I'll do it," Dante said quietly.

The chef raised an eyebrow. "Good. At least you know your place." He gestured toward the kitchen door. "Get dressed. And for God's sake, clean yourself up. You look like trash."

Dante nodded stiffly and turned to go, but the chef's voice stopped him.

"Wait."

Dante turned back, his jaw tightening.

"If you so much as look at one of the guests the wrong way, I'll throw you out on the street so fast you won't even know what hit you. Got it?"

"Got it," Dante said through gritted teeth.

"Good," the chef said, already turning back to bark orders at the staff. "Now hurry up! We don't have all day."

Dante made his way to the back, swallowing his pride with every step. As humiliating as it was, $5 and a meal were better than nothing.

Dante adjusted the ill-fitting waiter's uniform as he stepped into the grand dining hall.

"Table three," the chef barked at him from the kitchen door. "Champagne. Now!"

Dante picked up the silver tray holding a single bottle of champagne and two glasses. He balanced it carefully, reminding himself not to make any mistakes. He needed this money.

He weaved through the tables, trying to avoid the disapproving stares of the well-dressed guests. As he approached table three, a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

It was Lucas.

And Mia.

Dante froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. Lucas was leaning across the table, whispering something into Mia's ear before planting a slow, deliberate kiss on her lips.

Dante's chest tightened. Mia. His Mia. Or at least, she had been his once—before Lucas had swooped in and stolen her away.

He tried to look away, to focus on the tray in his hands, but he couldn't. The image of them together felt like a punch to the gut.

She never kissed me like that, Dante thought bitterly. Not once during their entire relationship had she looked at him with the same dreamy expression she now wore for Lucas.

What are they even doing here? Dante's mind raced, confusion and jealousy twisting in his gut.

And then it hit him.

The realization slammed into him like a freight train.

This is that hotel. The one Lucas had bragged about—the five-star paradise where he said he'd propose to Mia.