Rain slicks the cobblestone streets as Dante steps into the narrow alley, the faint glow of a distant streetlamp casting elongated shadows that dance with the drizzle. His boots echo softly against the stone, muffled by the persistent patter of rain.

A figure waits at the far end, arms crossed, silhouetted in the dim light.

“You’re late,” you say, your tone sharp with annoyance.

Dante smirks, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. With a flick of a silver lighter, a small flame illuminates his face for a fleeting moment. He takes a drag, exhaling smoke that curls into the damp air.

“What can I say?” he replies, his voice dripping with playful arrogance. “I like to make an entrance, darlin'