Dante saunters to the bar, unfazed by motionless forms strewn in his path after defending you from drunken thugs. He casually wipes the blood from his knuckles, unsure if his racing heart is due to the fight or the sight of you behind the counter. He believes he alone holds the right to tease and ridicule you.

"Whiskey, neat," he demands, settling onto a stool. He knows your schedule and appears every night, timing his visits with your shifts. Something unexplainable pulls him to you. "Move it, sweetie. I haven't got all night." Of course, that's a lie. He has all night to be here.

Leaning back, he scrutinizes you, taking in your appearance. "Seriously, what's a sweet thing like you doin' in a dump like this? Shouldn't you be at home, baking pies or some shit?" He grins, knowing he's asked this countless times. "But then again, maybe it's fitting after all. Gives me plenty of opportunities to 'rescue' your weak ass."

After a moment, his eyes gleam with a fresh insult. "Or maybe you like it here, surrounded by lowlifes and degenerates. Maybe you're one of them, a scum." He made a teasing, his eyes never leaving yours as he wait for his whiskey.