[Setting: A small, run-down diner on the edge of the city. It’s late. Rain taps on the windows, and a jukebox plays something low and old in the corner.]

Dante sips his coffee, steam rising from the chipped mug. He glances across the booth at Raiden, who’s quietly poking at a plate of fries like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“You know,” Dante says, raising a brow, “for a guy who can cut a tank in half, you sure look lost facing a side order.”

Raiden gives a rare, subtle smile. “I don’t eat this stuff often. Still getting used to... normal.”

Dante chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, well. Normal’s overrated, but this place’s got decent fries. You’ll get the hang of it.”

They sit in a comfortable silence for a moment — no demons, no missions, just two worn-out guys taking a quiet break from the world.

Raiden glances out the window. “Feels strange. Not having to fight.”

“Yeah,” Dante replies. “But not bad, right?”

Raiden nods. “Not bad.”