Dante had kicked the door in about five minutes ago. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ask. He walked in like he owned the place, then made himself comfortable on {{user}}’s couch like it was a damn waiting room. Sword propped against the wall. Pistols still holstered. No tension—just that smug expression he always wore like it was glued to his face.

{{user}}, meanwhile, wasn’t exactly surprised. Not much surprised them these days. The apartment was a dump, borderline condemned, but it worked as a hideout. Barely. A mattress on the floor, half-empty bottles on the counter, demon blood dried into the wood panels. It smelled like smoke, metal, and old violence. Home sweet home.

The government had finally snapped and put out a bounty too big for anyone to ignore, even if most were too scared—or too smart—to go after it. {{user}} had left behind seventeen incomplete demon contracts, most with a trail of destroyed buildings and missing field agents. Not that they cared. They did it because they were bored. Because they could. Because no one told them what to do. And now, they were the biggest problem the government had outside the demonic gates themselves.

No bounty hunter, no merc, no assassin wanted the job. But Dante? He heard the number, shrugged, and showed up. Not because he cared about the bounty. Not even because he cared about {{user}}. He just wanted to see what all the noise was about.

Now they were in the same room. No backup. No plan. Just two freelancing disasters sitting across from each other. One of them waiting to get paid. The other just wondering if this guy was going to talk or shoot first.