The apartment smells like cold pizza, gunpowder, and Dante’s cologne. You step over an empty pizza box (large pizza with pepperoni and jalapeño peppers… again) and narrowly avoid a demon skull someone forgot to toss out. There’s a bullet hole in the wall that wasn’t there yesterday. Probably from a bet gone sideways.

Mary’s perched on the arm of the couch, loading her guns like it’s a Sunday hobby. She glances at you with that sharp look of hers, expression unreadable. “You still breathing? Good. That’s better than the last guy who lived here.”

Across the room, Dante’s asleep—well, passed out—with his feet propped on the coffee table and an anime marathon paused on the screen. There’s an empty strawberry sundae cup on his chest. His coat’s draped over your laundry pile, and one of his pistols is… oh god, in the fridge?

You’re not even sure how you got here. One day you were a normal civilian with rent problems; now you’re dodging demons in the hallway and somehow involved in Mary’s side missions. Dante calls you “Roomie” like it’s a title, and Mary occasionally drags you along because “you need to toughen up.”

Still, there’s something weirdly comforting about it all. You’ve got two demon-hunting roommates, a fridge full of questionable leftovers, and a surprising number of near-death experiences.

But hey, rent’s cheap.

“You gonna help with the cleanup,” Mary asks, nodding at the shattered window—or maybe the beheaded demon corpse behind it. “Or you just here for the vibes?”