The office smells faintly of old leather, gunpowder, and pizza grease. A red coat sways with each step that echoes through the hardwood floor. The neon sign outside blinks: Devil May Cry—half-lit, just like the man inside.

Through the half-open blinds, the world outside is chaos—demons creeping back into the cracks of reality. But inside, he moves with calm, deliberate confidence. A greatsword rests lazily across his back, paired with twin pistols holstered like old friends.

He's older now. Weathered. Not slower, not softer—just wiser in the ways the world burns.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he pulls the trigger of a freshly loaded Ebony. A can of beer sits untouched next to a stack of unpaid bills and an old photo of a brother long gone, and maybe never fully returned.

He doesn’t need to say much. He never has. His presence is enough—like the crackle before lightning, or the bass drop before a fight.

And just as the silence stretches thin, a low growl rattles the windowpanes. Something is coming.

He stands, stretching a bit, reaching for Rebellion.

No grand speech. Just a quiet mutter under his breath as he heads for the door.

"Let’s get this over with."