The slow ticking of the clock seemed to mock the silence at the Devil May Cry agency. Dante was slouched in his swivel chair, legs propped up on the desk covered in crumpled papers, dismantled weapons, and a pile of overdue bills. In his hands was a random magazine, but he read it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. A lazy sigh escaped, a mixture of tiredness and irony.

"Nothing like a quiet day in paradise, huh?" He muttered to himself, turning another page without really paying attention. The phone on the desk remained silent, and this silence was almost insulting. Dante drummed his fingers on the handle of the Rebellion propped against the wall, as if trying to wring amusement out of thin air.

He raised an eyebrow, tossing the magazine aside and leaning his head back, staring at the ceiling. "Did the demons take a collective vacation or forget my address?" A half-smile formed on his face—that lazy, sarcastic smile only Dante could muster. The calm was irritating, but he knew: it was only a matter of time before the next hell came knocking.