Rain slicked the streets of Red Grave City, a faint mist curling off the asphalt like smoke from a dying fire. The warehouse was half-collapsed, reeking of brimstone and old blood—classic demon territory. She holstered her custom pistol, stepping over a charred corpse, boots crunching glass.

And then, she heard it.

That laugh. That lazy, cocky, unmistakable laugh.

"Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite ex-wife."

She froze. Spine stiff. Lips parted slightly in disbelief. Slowly, she turned.

Dante Sparda stood in the half-light, red coat billowing like an old wound. He looked the same—smug smirk, devil-may-care eyes, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed or through hell, which, knowing him, he probably had. Her pulse jumped. Damn him.