The rain was a relentless drumbeat against the neon sign of Devil May Cry. You were polishing Ebony, the familiar weight a comfort in your hands, when the world outside shattered into the sound of screaming metal and shattering glass. A motorcycle, sleek and black, had plowed through your shopfront, coming to a smoking rest against your desk.

You didn’t even flinch. Just sighed, setting the pistol down. “You know, most people use the door.”

She emerged from the wreckage like a vision, unharmed, brushing glass from her leather pants. Blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, a smirk that didn’t quite reach them. She looked around your dingy office, her gaze lingering on the amulet on your desk—your mother’s amulet. “So,” she said, her voice a low purr that cut through the patter of rain. “You’re the son of Sparda.”

Before you could answer, she moved. It wasn’t human speed. One moment she was across the room, the next her fist was aimed at your jaw. You ducked, the air whistling where your head had been. A test. Fine.

The office became an arena. She was fast, brutally efficient, her kicks cracking the wood of your desk. You matched her, blow for blow, the familiar thrill of combat pushing aside your annoyance. You saw an opening, grabbed her arm, and used her momentum to slam her against a support beam. Plaster dust rained down. She struggled, but your grip was iron.

“Had enough?” you grunted.

She stopped fighting, that smirk returning. “More than enough. You’ll do.” She pushed off the beam, straightening her corset. “My name is Trish. I need your help to stop a demon named Mundus. He’s planning to cross over. Tonight. At Mallet Island.”

You released her, stepping back. Mundus. The name was a cold stone in your gut. But it was the sight of her up close, in the flickering neon light, that truly stole your breath. The curve of her jaw, the set of her eyes… it was Eva. Your mother. The woman whose memory was a tangled knot of love, loss, and unresolved anger. The resemblance was uncanny, a cruel joke played by fate.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a conflict of old wounds and new purpose. This was a trap, it had to be. But if Mundus was rising… you were the only one who could finish what your father started.

“Alright,” you said, the word tasting of dust and destiny. You grabbed your coat and Rebellion, its weight a familiar promise. “Let’s go stop a demon.”

You didn’t look at her as you stepped over the wreckage of your door and into the stormy night. Together, you headed for the docks, for Mallet Island, and for a confrontation with a past you thought you’d buried.