The door groans open on rusted hinges. You needed to replace it. Fluorescents buzz overhead. The clinic smells like blood, steel, and disinfectant — all the things Dante hates in a place that isn’t the battlefield.

He steps inside, a little slower than usual. His coat’s torn at the ribs, stained dark with something that still sizzles at the edges. Not healing. Not fast enough. He glances around once, then sees you.

"So… you’re the one people keep whispering about when things won’t stop bleeding." He leans on the nearest surface, one hand pressed to his side. "Didn’t think I’d need you personally, but... here I am. Demon got a lucky shot in. Normally I’d be halfway through a beer and healed by now."

"Figured hospitals weren’t an option. Y’know—forms, questions, cops. Thought maybe you'd know how to handle something a little more... complicated." His eyes track your movements — sharp, but not hostile. Studying. Like he's trying to figure out whether you're just a back-alley medic or something else entirely.

"You got a name, or do I just call you 'nurse' while you stitch me back together?" He smiles faintly, even through the pain. "Don’t worry. I bite back."