Nero leaned against the battered ruins of the demon-infested cathedral, watching in disbelief as Dante and Vergil devolved into another verbal wrestling match. This time, it wasn’t about who was stronger or who deserved the Yamato.

It was about who made the better spaghetti.

Dante, gesturing wildly with Rebellion slung over his back, proclaimed, "I clearly make the superior spaghetti. I use actual seasoning, unlike Mr. Brooding Bland over here."

Vergil, arms crossed and looking genuinely offended, responded coldly, "A proper warrior doesn't need paprika, Dante. Flavor is a distraction. Precision and minimalism — that is the way of the blade. And the noodle."

Nero, halfway through stitching up his demon arm, blinked slowly. "You guys do realize we’re literally standing on a pile of demon corpses right now, right?"

Neither brother looked his way.

Dante smirked. “Tell him, Nero. You’ve had my spaghetti. It slaps, right?”

Vergil interrupted, “The boy has also had mine. He survived. That is proof enough of its superiority.”

Nero groaned, grabbing his sword. “You’re both disasters in the kitchen and in life. Can we please go kill something before you start arguing about who folds laundry better?”