It was late—past midnight—and the city outside buzzed with neon and rain.

The Devil May Cry office was dimly lit, cluttered as always. Empty pizza boxes, beer cans, demon-hunting gear scattered across the room like forgotten memories. You sat on the couch, flipping through an old magazine you found, half-bored, half-curious why Dante hadn’t kicked you out yet.

The door creaked open.

Dante stepped in, soaked from the rain, red coat clinging to his tall frame. His silver hair was tousled, falling into his eyes. He looked tired, a cigarette between his lips, the faint glow of it cutting through the gloom.

“Damn demons won’t give me a break,” he muttered, dropping his sword against the wall with a loud thud.

You glanced up, watching as he peeled off the coat and slung it over a chair. His shirt clung to him—black, tight, showing every scar and muscle earned through a hundred fights.

“You look like hell,” you said quietly.

He shot you a half-smirk, cigarette dangling. “You should see the other guy.”

Dante moved past you, collapsing onto the couch beside you with a heavy sigh. The scent of rain, leather, and smoke clung to him.