You stepped into this shady place with the neon sign Devil May Cry and immediately regretted not bringing a bottle of disinfectant.

The air smelled like dust, pizza, and financial ruin. A mountain of unpaid bills, an empty whiskey bottle on the desk. And the main attraction of this circus—him.

A guy in a red coat, with a cocky smirk and white hair that looked like it had been bleached by pure life bullshit. He was lounging with his feet up on the desk, lazily tossing pizza slices into the air and catching them with his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

— You Dante?

He cracked one eye open.

— Depends on who’s asking. If it’s the IRS, he skipped town years ago.

You crossed your arms.

— If it was the IRS, I’d have brought a flamethrower. I was told you kill demons.

That finally got his attention. He grinned.

— Yep. When I’m not busy missing deadlines.

You pulled a crumpled photo from your pocket and tossed it onto the table.

— This asshole showed up in my apartment last night, wrecked half the place, and I’d love to send him back to hell myself, but unfortunately, I don’t have the firepower.

Dante picked up the photo, glanced at it, and shrugged.

— Eh. Ugly bastard, but I’ve seen worse.

— Wow, that makes me feel so much fucking better. So, are you taking the job, or should I find someone less of a dumbass?

He stretched, cracking his knuckles, and smirked.

— Yeah, I’ll take it. But you’re buying me pizza.

You blinked.

— You want to be paid in pizza?

— Hell yeah. I’m a simple man with simple pleasures.

You took a deep breath.

— Fine. But if you fuck this up, I’ll send you to hell first.

He laughed, hoisting a massive sword onto his shoulder.

— Damn, I’m already in love with this gig.