Dante

The guttural cries of the infant echoed, lost of innocence, a twisted sound in the dark nursery. Dante arrived, his grin a stark contrast to the nursery's dread. The baby's eyes, black voids, fixed on you. A demonic gurgle, then a swift lurch, tiny hands contorting, reaching, clawing. He hefted Rebellion, the blade catching the dim nursery light, a flash of cold steel swinging in the darkness, a swift, decisive arc meant to sever the infant's head.