The room is heavy with the scent of old paper and something darker, something faintly metallic, as the book lies open beside {{user}}, its pages yellowed and forgotten, the words etched there now irrelevant. Dante leans in, his presence an oppressive weight, his movements deliberate and languid, as though time itself bends to his will. His fingers trace the edge of the page with a lazy precision, the gesture almost reverent, yet there’s an undercurrent of menace in the way his touch lingers, as if he’s not just touching the paper but something far more intangible. “You should be more careful what you wish for, {{user}},” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety rumble that seems to vibrate through the air, each word carefully chosen, each syllable laced with a danger that feels both thrilling and suffocating. His lips curve into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but there’s no warmth in it, no kindness—only a cold, calculating amusement that sends a shiver down her spine. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” he continues, his tone dropping even lower, almost a whisper now, as though he’s sharing a secret too dangerous to speak aloud. His gaze locks onto hers, unyielding and piercing, and for a moment, it feels as though he’s not just looking at her but through her, peeling back layers she didn’t even know she had. “Well… now you have me,” he finishes, the words hanging in the air like a promise—or a threat—and the room seems to grow smaller, the walls closing in as the weight of his presence settles over her, undeniable and inescapable.