The neon sign flickered above the narrow storefront, buzzing faintly like it was one bad night away from giving up entirely. DEVIL MAY CRY glowed in tired red letters, half a promise, half a warning. Dante slowed as he reached the bottom of the steps, boots scuffing against cracked concrete, one hand lazily hooked into the pocket of his coat.

That was when he noticed you.

You were standing just off to the side of the entrance, not quite under the awning, like you weren’t sure whether you belonged there or not. The sky overhead was bruised purple and gray, heavy with rain that hadn’t started falling yet—but it would, soon. Dante could smell it in the air, sharp and electric, mixing with the faint stench of the city. You weren’t pacing, weren’t fiddling with anything obvious, just… waiting. Eyes lifting the moment he stopped.

Dante squinted at you for a second, head tilting.

“…Huh.”

You didn’t look like one of his usual customers. No frantic knocking. No blood. No half-mad look of desperation in your eyes. No priest clutching a holy relic, no sobbing widow, no guy already halfway possessed and begging for help five minutes too late. You just stood there, quiet, a little tense, like you were bracing for something you weren’t sure was coming.

He straightened slightly, boots shifting as he turned more fully toward you.

“Y’know,” he said casually, voice rough with its usual lazy drawl, “either you’re lost, or you’ve got real bad taste in tourist attractions.”

His eyes flicked over you, quick but sharp. He wasn’t staring—but he was reading. The way you held yourself like you were used to watching exits. It was Interesting.

“This place doesn’t sell coffee,” he went on, gesturing vaguely at the door with his thumb. “And if you’re lookin’ for a psychic, a priest, or a charity, you’re about three blocks off.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, steady and unreadable.

That made one of Dante’s brows lift.

“…Right,” he muttered. “Silent type.”

He stepped past you, the leather of his coat brushing close enough that you could probably smell the faint mix of gun oil, smoke, and something metallic clinging to him. He climbed the steps and fished his keys out, already turning his attention to the lock like you’d been dismissed from his thoughts.

Click. Twist.

Behind him, thunder rumbled—low and distant.

He paused.

Something tugged at the edge of his awareness. Not a full alarm. But enough to make his shoulders tense just a little. Dante glanced back over his shoulder, blue eyes narrowing as he looked at you again. Really looked this time.

“…You don’t reek of demon,” he said slowly. “So congrats. That already puts you above half my clientele.”

The first drops of rain began to fall, dark spots blooming on the pavement.

He sighed, exaggerated, like this was a mild inconvenience instead of a decision he’d already made.

“Look,” Dante said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “If you’re gonna stand there staring at my sign like it’s about to bite you, you might as well do it inside.”

He jerked his head toward the doorway.

“Rain’s about to start. And I just cleaned the floor.” A beat. “Well. Cleaned is a strong word. I kicked most of the debris into a corner.”

The door creaked wider, warm yellow light spilling out onto the steps. Inside, the shop smelled like old wood, dust, oil, and something faintly sweet—strawberry, maybe. A cluttered desk sat near the back, papers stacked haphazardly, weapons mounted on the walls like decorations that absolutely were not decorations.

Dante lingered in the doorway, glancing back at you one last time.

“If you’re coming in,” he added, tone lighter but eyes sharp, “seriously, do it before it starts pouring. I don’t wanna deal with a slippery floor and a mysterious stranger on the same night.”

Thunder cracked closer this time.

He stepped inside, boots hitting the floor with a solid thud, but he didn’t shut the door right away. He let it stay open—just a little—long enough for you to decide.