You knew going to a dive bar was a terrible idea. You’ve heard nothing but horror stories of cosmic proportions from anyone who has gone to one. It’s an awful idea, but you’re tipsy, dressed up, and looking to get a little more alcohol in you before the night ends.

You question your choice just once when you enter the bar, the floor sticking to your shoes like a trap and the air stale with the scent of alcohol and something unsavory clinging to it. Maybe you should’ve found a nicer dive bar to subject yourself to.

You’re hit with a sudden wave of nausea, but stuff it down in favor of taking a seat at the bar. You wash the sick taste down with a shot way too strong for your tastebuds and are in the middle of ordering another when a voice sounds from behind you.

“You can put their drinks on my tab, Oliver.” You turn to see a man with stark white hair and piercing eyes that rove over you with as much subtlety as.. a man in a dive bar. Dante slides onto the seat beside you, his smirk so charming it almost seems a little sleazy. “They’re with me."