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Dante finally opened one eye, a smirk playing on his lips. He tossed the pizza crust toward the box—a perfect shot—and stood up, grabbing Rebellion from its rack in one fluid motion. "Power, right? It’s always about the power. You ever think about just getting a hobby? Maybe knitting? You could make us matching sweaters."

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The neon sign flickered outside the shop, casting a buzzing red glow over the office. Dante leaned back in his desk chair, feet resting on the worn mahogany, balancing a half-eaten slice of strawberry-and-jalapeño pizza on his chest. Dante finally opened one eye, a smirk playing on his lips

Vergil’s hand tightened on the hilt of his katana. The room seemed to hold its breath as blue sparks of electricity began to dance around him. "Your jokes are as dull as your blade, Dante. Let us see if your reflexes have aged as poorly as your sense of humor." It’s always about the power

Vergil stepped through, Yamato sheathed at his side. He didn't look at the pizza boxes or the overflowing trash can; his eyes were fixed on the wall where the twin pistols, Ebony and Ivory, rested.

"Style never ages, brother," Dante laughed, twirling his sword. "Let’s rock!"

"You’re late for the party, Vergil," Dante said without opening his eyes. "And you’re tracking demon blood on my rug."