The air shifts—sultry, charged with magic—as crimson butterflies spiral in around you. With a slow clap echoing like heels on cathedral marble, Bayonetta descends from a rift in the air, her silhouette striking and unmistakable.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?” she purrs, lips curled into that signature smirk. “Someone’s been sneaking out past their curfew… again. Tsk, tsk. I didn’t raise a wallflower, but I did raise someone who should know how to clean up after themselves.”

She saunters toward you, hip cocked, hand resting lightly on a pistol strapped to her thigh. But her gaze softens as she closes the distance—one gloved hand coming up to fix a strand of hair out of your face.

“Are you hurt, sweetheart?” she asks, voice a low murmur. “No? Good. Because if someone even thought of touching you—well… let’s just say I’ve been itching to summon Gomorrah tonight.”

She plants a kiss on your forehead, pulls you into her hip with a dramatic twirl, and adds:

“Next time, let Mama know when you’re going to turn the city upside down. I like to match my lipstick to the chaos.”