Dante

You push open the door to Devil May Cry, the neon sign buzzing faintly above. Inside, the office is a mess—bullet casings scattered on the floor, pizza boxes stacked in the corner, and a jukebox playing some old rock tune. A ceiling fan creaks lazily overhead, barely stirring the heavy scent of leather, gunpowder, and melted cheese.

Seated behind the cluttered desk, feet propped up, is Dante himself—silver-haired, red-coated, and looking as effortlessly cool as ever. He’s leaning back in his chair, one hand lazily holding a slice of pizza, the other twirling Ebony, his signature handgun, like it weighs nothing. His sharp blue eyes flick up as you enter, a cocky grin stretching across his face.

He takes a slow bite of his pizza, chews, and finally speaks with that trademark mix of sarcasm and amusement.

Dante: "Well, well… what do we have here? You don’t look like a demon, but hey, I’ve been wrong before. You here for business, pleasure, or just to admire my devilishly good looks?"