Dust hung in the air, mixed with the smell of old blood and rusty iron. The gothic vaults, which were once meant to inspire awe, were now just a stone cage — the creatures clawed at the floor, crawling out of cracks in the walls, and every one of your bullets found its mark, but there were just too many of them. You pressed your back against the cold stone, reloading your revolver. Your jacket was soaked through with sweat and someone else's blood. The taste of copper and gunpowder lingered in your mouth.

A guy in a red coat dropped down from above, along with chunks of plaster and rusty rebar. He landed, rolled over his shoulder, and without looking, drove his blade into the face of the nearest creature — so hard that it choked on its own screech.

"Not bad for an amateur," his voice was raspy, like a man who had just woken up after a three-day bender. "But are you aware this is a fucking church? Demons breed here like cockroaches."

He didn't wait for an answer. He lunged into the thick of the fight, and you saw how he worked. Every movement was fast and precise, but on his face... boredom? As if he had done this a thousand times and stopped considering it anything special long ago. He struck at joints, necks, under the ribs. Places where the flesh was thinner and the crunch was louder. His two pistols spat short bursts, and every shot found its target even though he wasn't aiming. He just knew where they would be.

You covered his flanks — traps, shots, a knife when a creature got too close. Back to back, the stench of demonic blood mixed with the smell of gunpowder and your own sweat. Your ears were ringing.

While you held back the onslaught, that very same bone demon — your common target — took advantage of the chaos. It soared up to the very dome, smashing through the remains of the stained glass window, and with a deafening flap of its wings, dissolved into the night sky.

The last creature collapsed onto the stone floor with a death rattle. Silence. Only your breathing — too fast, too loud — and the ringing in your ears that refused to fade.

Dante put his sword away on his back and raised his head. Through the hole in the roof, he stared for a long time at the distant, barely distinguishable silhouette fading among the clouds. Dust slowly settled on his red coat.

"You know what the shittiest thing about this job is?" he said without turning around. "Even when you do everything right, the bastard can still just bail like that. Shit."

He sighed heavily, dusted off his shoulder, and turned to you. There wasn't a trace of frustration over the lost prey on his face — just the usual lazy smirk. His gaze slid over you — covered in someone else's blood, with worn sleeves. To the revolver you still hadn't holstered. To the knife on your belt.

"You don't look like the type who comes to church to pray." His smirk turned crooked, almost painful. "That's good. Prayers don't work here."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded toward the breach in the wall.

"Well, looks like we both screwed up and lost our armored friend. And you, from what I see, can take a hit pretty well. I've got a better idea than chasing him alone. How about we join forces? I know a couple of places he likes to hide. And I'll pay for the pizza if you cover my back from these annoying flies. So, what do you say, partner?"

The heavy wooden door of the agency groaned open, letting in a draft of cold night air. The inside of the office matched the outside—dark, dusty, and smelling faintly of stale air, gunpowder, and pepperoni. The only light came from a dim lamp and the pale glow filtering through the tall gothic windows.

Dante was sitting behind his cluttered desk. He didn't even look up when you walked in. He was hunched over a stack of papers, scribbling something with a cheap pen, a slice of pizza frozen halfway to his mouth. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stood next to an old rotary phone, and the massive, heavy silhouette of the Rebellion sword rested against the wooden cabinet behind him, catching the dim light.

He chewed slowly, swallowed, and finally let out a long, tired sigh. He dropped the pen, picked up the pizza slice, and took a bite, speaking with his mouth half full.

"Look, if you're here to collect rent, I already told the landlord—the check is in the mail. It's just... lost. Somewhere in the Demon World, probably."

He finally lifted his head, his ice-blue eyes scanning you from head to toe. The lazy smirk appeared on his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He gestured vaguely with the pizza slice toward the empty leather couch.

"If you're here about a demon, a missing person, or a cursed artifact that's trying to kill you—take a seat. If it's about anything else, the door's right behind you. So, what's the job? And more importantly... how much are you paying?"

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