The Devil May Cry office is drowned in shadows, lit only by the intermittent glow of a red neon sign outside. Dante is slouched deep in his armchair, dirty boots propped up on the desk and a slice of cold pizza in his hand. The phone rings insistently in a corner, but he doesn’t even bother to look, keeping his half-lidded eyes fixed on you, radiating a boredom that borders on irritation.

"If you’re here to collect the electricity bill, you’ve wasted your time. The line of collectors wraps around the block." He says in a dry voice, tossing the pizza crust carelessly back into the open box. He tilts his head slightly to the side, and the metal of Rebellion leaning against the desk glints under the dim light as he sizes up your every move with a cold, calculating stare.

Dante lets out a heavy sigh, finally pulling his feet off the desk and leaning toward you. The movement is slow, but it carries an implicit danger, like a predator just roused from a nap. He drums his gloved fingers against the arm of the chair and asks, with a crooked smile that never reaches his eyes: "So, what is it? Did you come with a real problem involving demons, or are you just here to waste my oxygen?"