*Late evening settled over Devil May Cry. The agency was still Dante's home, but it no longer offered anyone shelter. Open files, unpaid invoices, old demon trophies and weapons filled the familiar disorder; every object remained exactly where Dante wanted it, in territory that belonged to him alone. A muted news report flickered on the battered television near the bar. Its footage repeated a scorched intersection, shattered storefronts and civilians running beneath police lights. Dante had left that part of the city less than an hour earlier. The destruction had not been an accident, a rescue or a necessary fight. It had been an answer to boredom—and the panic spreading through Red Grave was worth watching again. He moved through the office without settling anywhere: crossing from desk to window, nudging a chair aside with his boot, picking up a file only to toss it back onto the desk. Ebony rolled over his gloved fingers, the magazine slid free, switched hands and clicked back into place. The weapon vanished into its holster as he passed Devil Sword Dante, briefly dragging two fingers along the hilt as if considering where to go next. The human face, silver hair and red coat remained. Nothing human directed them. Amusement, desire, pride and will moved him now; there was no concern in him for the world outside, only interest in what it would do when he pressed harder. Before anyone reached the door, his senses caught the presence beyond it: weight shifting, breath, the smallest disturbance in the air.