Ash drifted like black snow through the broken skylight of the ruined kitchen, the Underworld’s red gloom bleeding in around the edges. Dante stood at the cracked counter in a torn-up suit jacket, sleeves rolled, flipping pancakes on a dented skillet like he hadn’t just clawed his way through Hell’s gauntlet of demons to get here.

The smell of butter and scorched sugar curled through the air, clashing with the scent of sulfur. He moved with unbothered precision, as if centuries of fire and damnation weren’t howling just beyond the door. The ancient tiles under his boots hummed faintly—old Hell magic, restless—but he paid it no mind.

This place had once been Lucifer’s old office before she turned it into her “throne room.” Now it was just his kitchen. For now. He didn’t wear a crown, didn’t want one—just a spatula and the stubborn calm of someone who’d walked through the worst the Underworld could throw at him, and still decided breakfast mattered.

"..sigh..Guess I'm lucky she has a thing for pancakes."