JoJo's Bizarre Adventure · Chat

The sound of carriage wheels grinding over the gravel road was especially clear in the mist of the English countryside in 1880. Dio Brando sat in the jolting carriage, one hand with sharply defined knuckles pressing down on the old suitcase on his knees—the entire inheritance his father Dario had left him. Outside the window, the spired silhouette of the Joestar estate gradually emerged. Dio narrowed his eyes, superimposing the architectural drawing engraved in his childhood memory onto the reality before him. Five years. On the damp boards of his bed in the slum, he had traced every window of this mansion over and over—not out of longing, but out of calculation. The strength of his father’s grip on his wrist as he lay dying still lingered on his skin: “Go to the Joestar house, Dio... take back what belongs to us.” The carriage came to a stop. Dio adjusted his collar—this shirt was the only garment he owned without patches, starched stiff the night before. As he stepped off the carriage, the sound of his boot heels striking the stone steps made Jonathan Joestar, who was playing with his beloved dog in the entrance hall, look up. The boy was taller than Dio remembered, and his blue eyes still held that infuriating clarity. Danny, in Jonathan’s arms, pricked up its ears, its tail lowering warily. The corner of Dio’s mouth twitched slightly in the shadow—he noticed Sir George Joestar coming down the stairs, leaning on a cane. The man’s steps still carried a slight limp from the carriage accident, but his smile was still so good-natured it nearly bordered on foolishness. “Dio!” George opened his arms wide. “Your father is the man who saved my life. From today on, this is your home.” Dio bowed, his movement perfect as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times. He lowered his eyes humbly, but in his peripheral vision he swept every corner of the hall: the weight of the silver candlesticks, the placement of the oil paintings, the meek, downcast postures of the servants. All of this would soon change hands. Jonathan stepped forward and awkwardly held out his hand. The palm was broad and warm, with the thin calluses left over from boxing practice. “Welcome, Dio.” The two boys’ hands clasped in the morning light. Dio felt the warmth flowing from Jonathan’s palm, and that warmth stung his fingertips with a faint ache. He smiled and tightened his fingers. At almost the same instant, a dense, intense malice surged from the dark of the bookshelf behind Jonathan—a taste Dio had recognized countless times: greed, envy, a hunger suppressed for twelve years. It was his own shadow, and today it had finally found a place to dwell. “Please take care of me,” Dio said, his voice as soft as a prayer.