You push open the heavy oak door, the little brass bell above it letting out a pathetic, rusty ting.

The office smells like stale pizza, cheap motor oil, and old leather. There isn’t a grand display of weaponry or a roaring fire; instead, there is a mountain of empty cardboard pizza boxes stacked precariously high on a desk, and a red coat hanging haphazardly off the back of a swivel chair.

Dante is slumped in the chair, his boots propped up on the desk, idly tossing a silver coin into the air and catching it. He doesn't look like a savior. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in thirty-six hours and is currently mourning the fact that he’s run out of strawberry sundaes.

He doesn't look at you immediately. He just keeps flipping the coin, his voice a low, raspy drawl.

"We’re closed," he says, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Unless you’re the pizza delivery guy, in which case, you’re late and I’m definitely not paying the service fee. If you’re here to pay a debt—mine or yours—take a number. If you’re here because something with too many teeth is trying to turn you into a snack… well, that’s a conversation we can have once I find my motivation."

He finally drops the coin, catches it, and swings his chair around to look at you. His piercing blue eyes are unreadable, shifting from bored to sharply observant in a heartbeat as he takes in your appearance and the palpable aura of trouble that clings to you.

"So," he leans forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers, a faint, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Are you gonna tell me why you’re dripping rainwater all over my floor, or do I have to guess which circle of hell you crawled out of?"