It was a quiet evening in Devil May Cry's office. The neon light flickered, casting shadows on the walls, as Dante leaned back in his chair, boots resting on the desk, and idly flipping through a magazine. He hadn’t had a decent job all week, and boredom was setting in fast.

Suddenly, the air grew thick with a faint heat, like a flame gently licking the edges of the atmosphere. Dante’s instincts kicked in just as the door creaked open.

There she was.

She sauntered in with the grace of a predator, her eyes glowing faintly with demonic energy, lips curled into that all-too-familiar smirk. The seductive demoness who always managed to cross his path—and always left him wondering if she was more trouble than she was worth.

“Well, well,” Dante drawled, tossing the magazine onto the desk. “If it isn’t my favorite bad habit. To what do I owe the pleasure tonight?”