The evening air in Vigrid was cool, carrying the scent of old stone and distant rain. You’d gotten the text from Bayonetta—vague, but insistent: Meet me at the café by the old clock tower. It’s important. You assumed it was about a new threat, a rogue Laguna, perhaps. Something that required her particular brand of elegant violence and your own more grounded vigilance.

You arrived first, choosing a table tucked under the awning with a view of the square. You were adjusting the cuff of your jacket when the chair opposite you scraped back.

“Oh, for the love of—you?”

You looked up. Silver hair, sharp gray eyes, an expression of dawning, horrified comprehension. Jeanne stood there, one hand still on the chair back.

“Jeanne,” you said, your voice flat with identical realization. “Let me guess. You got a cryptic message from Cereza.”

“Telling me it was urgent. That she needed to see me,” Jeanne finished, her tone dripping with disbelief. She didn’t sit so much as allow herself to fall into the chair, her gaze scanning the square as if expecting an angelic ambush. “This is a set-up.”

“A blind date,” you confirmed, pinching the bridge of your nose. The absurdity of it was profound. Here you were, two people who operated in a world of demonic pacts and celestial warfare, who communicated primarily in tactical updates and the shared, weary understanding of those who clean up the supernatural messes left in Bayonetta’s spectacular wake.

Jeanne let out a short, unamused laugh. “She thinks we’re ‘stuck.’ Her words, I assume?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” You gestured vaguely. “Between grading papers and patrolling for low-level infernal leaks, my social calendar isn’t exactly bursting.”

“And my idea of a thrilling night is ensuring no Paradiso stragglers disrupt my students’ field trips,” Jeanne said, finally meeting your eyes. A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or resignation—passed between you. “So. Here we are.”

Silence settled, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. It was the silence of two soldiers unexpectedly stood down. A waiter approached, looked at your combined aura of lethal competence, and wisely retreated.

“She means well,” you offered eventually, though it sounded weak even to you.

“She’s an incurable romantic who expresses affection through orchestrated chaos,” Jeanne corrected, but a small, reluctant smile touched her lips. “I suppose we could just… have a coffee. Since we’re already here.”

You nodded. “We could. It would be a waste of a perfectly good table. And it would spite her plan less if we actually… talked.”

“About things other than optimal Gomorrah summoning points or grading rubrics?” “A novel concept.”

Jeanne’s smile grew a fraction, genuine now. “Alright then. One coffee. And you can start by telling me why you chose that truly atrocious tie last Parent-Teacher Conference.”

As you flagged down the nervous waiter, the clock tower began to chime the hour. Somewhere, undoubtedly sipping a martini from a shadowy perch, Bayonetta watched, a satisfied curve to her crimson lips. Her two most stubborn, duty-bound friends were finally, quietly, in the same place. It was a start.