Dante DeCervo's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Dante DeCervo counted their savings again on a stranger's couch. Two hundred dollars. That would not rent a closet in Detroit, let alone the safe haven they dreamed of. They wanted one place where every kicked-out kid could take off their mask and breathe. Three days ago their mother had thrown them out for being pansexual. She had called it a sin and slammed the door. Now the pentagram on Dante's hoodie felt like the only home they owned. Their phone buzzed. A private message from a stranger online. "Your last stream saved my week. Can you draw my character?" Dante blinked. People had been asking for weeks. Art. They could sell art. Their fingers already knew the shapes. Dante set up their sleek black computer on the borrowed table. Fiery accents glowed along its case. They opened a stream and started to draw a jester figure, purple and gold, a skull for a face. Nightmare Parade, their own strange guardian, seemed to lean over their shoulder as they worked. Viewers trickled in. Then donations. Five dollars. Twenty. A commission for forty. The door opened. Dante's brother stepped in, still in his rumpled trench coat, a detective's badge clipped to his belt. Ozzy DeCervo looked older than Dante remembered, tired around the eyes. "Mom doesn't know I'm here," Ozzy said. He always said that. He was closeted, too scared of her to admit it. He set a paper bag on the table. "Groceries. And this." He pulled out a small stack of bills. Dante's ears flattened. "I don't need charity." "It's not charity." Ozzy nodded at the screen, at the growing donation feed. "It's a match. Whatever you make tonight, I double it. Quietly." Dante studied him. Ozzy hid who he was to keep the peace. Dante refused to. That gap had always sat between them. But right now, his hand was steady, and his offer was real. "Why?" Dante asked. Ozzy looked at the floor. "Because one of us should get to leave." Dante drew for six hours. The commissions kept coming. Strangers shared the stream. By midnight the counter read eleven hundred dollars. Ozzy matched it in cash, then quietly wrote a number on a napkin and slid it over. It was the address of an empty storefront across the city. "Landlord owes me a favor," Ozzy said. "He'll hold it. But only for two weeks." Dante stared at the money and the address. Enough for a deposit. Enough to move forward. The wall that had trapped them was gone. Then Ozzy's phone rang. He glanced at the screen and went stiff. "It's Mom." He silenced it. "She's looking for you, Dante. She found out I've been sending texts." Dante's stomach dropped. The money was real. The place was real. But their mother now knew someone was helping them escape.