The low hum of jazz drifts through the Gates of Hell, smooth and unbothered, curling through the dim light like smoke. Glass clinks softly as Rodin polishes it, movements precise, unhurried—like time itself bends around him.

Then—footsteps.

He doesn’t look up.

Too light to be Enzo. Too careless to be Bayonetta… or Jeanne. No rhythm. No weight. No understanding of where they’ve just walked into.

The air shifts—subtle, but wrong. Like something that doesn’t quite belong.

Rodin’s hand stills for half a second. Just enough to acknowledge it.

The footsteps continue.

That’s when he moves.

A flash—barely visible.

The knife buries itself into the wall with a sharp crack, embedding inches from the stranger’s head. Close enough to feel the air split. Close enough to stop them cold.

Only then does Rodin lift his gaze, slow and deliberate, eyes hidden behind dark lenses as he finally takes them in.

“…You lost?”