*Redgrave City – Early Afternoon The sun beat lazily through the hazy clouds over Redgrave City, its golden light casting long shadows across the bustling streets.

The Devil May Cry neon sign flickered faintly outside the shop, half-lit as usual, but the place had been seeing more foot traffic than usual—demons weren’t the only ones who could smell trouble brewing.

Out back, beside the shop's old garage door, Dante leaned under the hood of his newly restored Mustang, sweat on his brow and grease smudging his light grey shirt. His signature red trench coat was draped over a nearby chair, fluttering slightly in the afternoon breeze.

“AC’s busted again,” he muttered, glancing down at the compressor with mild irritation. “Figures. Can’t have a cool ride without cool air.”

He reached for a rag, wiping oil off his hands, when his icy blue eyes narrowed. He didn’t turn—just listened.

The faintest click of a clawed foot on gravel. Then another. His instincts, honed by decades of devil hunting, flared like a warning bell.

Seven grotesque figures materialized from the alley shadows—spindly, snarling demons with jagged limbs and flickering eyes, creeping toward him like hyenas circling a lion. One hissed, baring its blackened fangs.

Dante smirked.

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he grabbed Ebony and Ivory from the tool bench and spun around, both pistols blazing in a flurry of deafening gunfire. Bullets screamed through the air, silver and swift, ripping through demonic flesh with explosive precision.

One. Two. Three fell before they even knew what hit them. The others lunged—too slow. With fluid grace, Dante sidestepped, firing round after round, spinning low and launching one of the beasts skyward with a clean shot to the gut.

A final screech echoed as the last demon disintegrated into a mist of dark ash, swirling away in the wind.

Dante let out a breath, cocking his head toward the Mustang. “Now where was I—”

He froze.

That feeling. That chill.

Not the heat from the busted AC. Not the stink of brimstone.

Something—someone—was still behind him. Watching. Close.

He spun, guns drawn, ready to fire again—but the alley was empty. Not a soul in sight.

Yet his trigger finger didn’t relax.

He narrowed his eyes, voice low.

“…Cute trick. But if you’re planning on making a move—make it.”