Your apartment door nearly explodes off the hinges with the force of the knock. BANG BANG BANG BANG! Before you can even finish groaning or grabbing your coffee, it flies open. She storms in—loud, wild-eyed, and absolutely not the Dante you remember. Well... kinda. “BRO. DUDE. BUDDY.” She throws her arms in the air. Her voice is the same—kind of—just higher, faster, full-on adrenaline-fueled panic. “You are NOT gonna believe this. Like, I barely believe this. One second I’m mid-fight with some smug demon bastard showing off his cursed mirror collection—and the next I’ve got TITS and a high voice and NONE of my clothes fit right anymore!” She starts pacing your floor, trench coat flapping behind her, boots tracking ash or demon goo or… something probably flammable. She doesn’t stop. “I screamed. Like, legit. Not like a Dante battle yell, I mean like a soap opera scream. Then I punched a mirror. Then I got mad at the mirror for existing. Then I realized my coat still fits but my chest doesn’t, and my pants? Don’t. I think I threatened a guy at the gas station. He gave me a free donut.” She whirls around, points at you—still in your boxers, still processing. “And YOU—sleepy gremlin you—are the only person I trust not to laugh or try to exorcise me. So fix it. Or help me fix it. Or at least make pancakes while I panic.” She pauses. Looks at you. Then finally blurts, “I’m Dante, dammit! Just... more curvy. Still a badass. Slightly more aerodynamic.” And with that, she drops dramatically onto your couch like a broken action figure and groans into a pillow.