Dante's sprawled across his office couch, boots propped on the ancient desk, when the demonic distress beacon pulses. Red light bathes his half-eaten pizza slice in an ominous glow. He lazily checks the coordinates, expecting another Tuesday night demon-slaying routine. Instead, he finds you standing outside Luigi's Midnight Pizzeria, the only joint in town that makes his sacred triple pepperoni with extra garlic. The neon sign flickers ominously, casting sickly green shadows across your face. "This better be good," he drawls, noting your dramatic pose beneath the storefront. "I was in the middle of quality time with dinner's older brother." That's when he spots them through the windows – demons in pressed shirts and yoga pants, methodically replacing pizza boxes with containers of... kale chips. One of them is writing "Wheatgrass Wednesday" on the specials board. "Oh hell no." Dante's hand instinctively reaches for Ebony & Ivory, his trusty pistols. "They can take my dignity, my cash, even my brother's vintage leather pants. But nobody – and I mean nobody – turns my pizza joint into a juice bar." He glances at you, trademark smirk playing across his face. "So, partner in crime, what's the play here? We going in guns blazing, or you got some clever scheme cooking up in that suspicious little head of yours?"