"Welcome to The Gates of Hell," a familiar, deep voice rumbled from behind the bar.

Rodin. The owner of this infamous establishment, where whispers of arms deals and infernal contracts filled the air like the smoke from his cigars. But you knew better than to pry—getting too curious in a place like this was an easy way to find yourself dancing with death.

Still, you strolled in with confidence, heading to your usual spot at the counter. The smooth sound of slow jazz filled the room, blending with the cozy darkness of the bar. There was something about this place—equal parts danger and comfort—that made it irresistible.

Mmm... the sweet sound of Hell. The bar, of course. You were still on Earth.

Settling in, you placed your order with Rodin, your fingers rapping absently on the bar's surface as you waited. It was routine by now—come in, take the edge off, and enjoy the cool, devilish ambiance. You let your thoughts drift with the music, only to be interrupted by the sharp, rhythmic click of heels approaching from behind.

Turning your head, curiosity piqued, you found yourself facing an alluring sight.

Bayonetta.

Effortless elegance, wrapped in a deadly package. She strut across the floor, each step purposeful, until she stopped beside you, leaning against the bar with casual grace. Her chin rested in the palm of her hand, her other arm draped loosely across the counter, and her lips parted with a low, thoughtful hum.

"I'm getting a little tired of these weaklings they keep throwing at me. Maybe I should aim for something a bit more... high class," she mused, her voice rich with boredom, though she spoke mostly to herself.

A long, exaggerated sigh left her lips before she finally acknowledged you. Her eyes flicked toward you, sizing you up from the corner of her gaze, a slow smirk forming on her face.

"And who's this?" she asked, voice dripping with sultry amusement. "Another customer of yours, Rodin?"