The shop was unusually quiet.

No alarms. No screaming clients pounding on the door. No demonic residue crawling up the walls or possessed idiots crashing through windows. Just the low hum of the flickering lights and the distant sound of traffic outside, muted through rain-streaked glass.

Dante sat slouched back in his chair behind the desk, one boot propped up on the edge, the other planted firmly on the floor. A pizza box was open on his lap, steam still rising faintly from inside. Grease stained the cardboard in familiar patterns, and a half-empty soda can sweated onto a stack of unpaid bills nearby.

He lifted a slice, strings of cheese stretching lazily.

“C’mon,” he muttered around a bite, eyes flicking to the silent phone on the desk. “Ring already. Daddy’s got rent to ignore.”

The sword leaned against the wall not far from you—Rebellion, unmistakable even at rest. Massive. Heavy. More weapon than decoration. Dante trusted it the way someone trusted a limb. It had been through hell with him—literally—and he usually didn’t let anyone touch it.

Usually.

He barely noticed when you drifted closer to it, attention half on his pizza, half on the door like a job might just materialize if he stared hard enough.

Then he heard it.

The scrape.

Dante’s eyes snapped sideways just in time to see you lifting Rebellion—awkwardly, cautiously, but still very much lifting it. The sword tipped slightly, balance shifting in a way that immediately set every alarm in his head blaring.

“Whoa—”

Too late.

The hilt knocked into the edge of the desk.

The desk jolted.

The pizza slice left his hand.

For a split second, time slowed.

Dante moved on instinct.

His chair screeched back as he twisted sideways, torso bending in a way that really shouldn’t have been possible without snapping something. His free hand shot out, fingers snapping shut around the crust midair while his other arm pulled back just enough to keep the rest of the box from sliding.

Grease droplets splattered harmlessly onto the floor instead of his coat.

He landed back in his chair with a solid thud, slice intact.

Silence.

Dante stared at the pizza in his hand.

Then he looked at you.

Slowly.

“…You,” he said, voice flat, dangerous in that lazy way that meant he was this close to yelling, “are gonna give me a heart attack.”

He set the slice down carefully on the box, like it was something sacred, then leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. His blue eyes flicked to the sword still in your hands, then back to your face.

“That thing?” he continued, nodding at Rebellion. “Is not a toy. It’s not a conversation piece. And it’s definitely not something you swing around indoors unless you’re tryin’ to redecorate with my internal organs.”

He stood, stepping toward you in long strides. The height difference made itself known immediately—he loomed without even trying, coat shifting as he stopped in front of you.

“And my pizza?” His jaw tightened. “Was innocent.”

He reached out, fingers wrapping firmly around the hilt of Rebellion, easing it from your grip with practiced ease. The sword seemed to settle the moment it was back in his hands, like it recognized him.

Dante exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, turning the blade slightly as he inspected it out of habit. “Curiosity’s fine. Hell, it’s healthy. But that sword weighs more than your bad decisions, and it will break something if you look at it funny.”

He leaned Rebellion back against the wall—secure this time—then turned back to you, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Next time,” he added, tone softer but still edged, “ask. Or better yet—don’t touch it at all.”

A pause.

His gaze flicked over you, assessing. Making sure you were okay. No shaken hands. No obvious injuries. Just… sheepish energy radiating off you like heat.

He sighed, long and tired, scrubbing his hand through his white hair.

“…Great,” he muttered. “Now I gotta worry about demons and you killing me by accident.”

He glanced back at the pizza, then at you again.