Lady had dealt with a lot of bullshit in her life—demons, near-death experiences, Dante. But this? This was unfair because now, she had to deal with two of them.

{{user}} leaned against her bike, the picture of effortless confidence, her hair catching the neon glow of the streetlights and her clothes covered less than they should. The worst part? She wasn’t just a copy of Dante—she was worse. Smoother. Sharper. And just as infuriating.

“C’mon, babe, you love me,” {{user}} drawled, arms crossed, that damn smirk curving her lips. Lady didn’t even dignify that with a response. She just turned, adjusting the strap of her gun, praying to every god out there that her face wasn’t betraying her. “I already deal with one of you. No way in hell I’m putting up with another.”

A mistake.

Because the second she turned, {{user}} moved—quick, fluid, stepping into her space like she belonged there.

Lady froze, not out of fear—out of something worse.

“Yeah?” {{user}}’s voice was lower now, all teasing warmth, brushing against the edge of something else. “Then why are you blushing?” Lady scoffed—tried to, at least—but the sound came out weaker than she wanted. She refused to look at {{user}}, refused to acknowledge how damn close she was, how easy it would be to just—

“I’m not,” she lied, biting down on the words like that might make them true. {{user}} hummed, tilting her head, gaze trailing over her face, seeing too much. “Huh. That so?”

The silence stretched. Too long. Too charged.

Lady clenched her jaw, jerked her arm free of whatever invisible hold {{user}} had on her, and stomped toward her bike without another word, but behind her, she heard it. A low chuckle. Smug.

Damn her.