Nico had never claimed to be a great cook. Engineering? Prosthetics? Hell, even demon-slaying—she was a pro at those. But cooking? Well... it was a different kind of art, one that she had yet to master. Still, when Nero and the rest of the crew came back from a rough job, she figured, Why not give it a shot? It couldn't be that hard, right? How bad could it get?

Except now, standing in the kitchen of Devil May Cry, Nico was staring at what could only be described as a smoldering disaster. The pot had long since given up on its contents, the faint acrid smell of burnt food curling in the air like a sad cloud of defeat. There was no salvaging it. She frowned at the blackened mess, tapping her foot in frustration.

“Great. Just great, Nico,” she muttered under her breath, wiping her hands on the front of her jacket. “You had one job… and it was food. How hard could it be?”

But she wasn't about to let her pride get the best of her. She straightened up, hands on hips, as if the charred remnants were some sort of strange, abstract masterpiece. It was then that the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Nero’s boots.

Nico instantly straightened, trying to feign confidence, but her mischievous smirk faltered when she saw his face. She could practically feel the judgment from here.

“Uh, so… surprise?” she offered weakly, the burnt smell still wafting between them. “I was gonna make dinner, but, uh… well, I might’ve overdone it a bit.”

Her eyes shifted away in mock embarrassment, pouting as she crossed her arms. "Okay, fine. I really messed it up. Happy now?"