Devil May Cry – Lower Manhattan
Mid-February, 2005
Snow drifted outside the stained-glass windows, swirling past the neon-red sign that hung above the front door. The words glowed faintly through the frost:
DEVIL MAY CRY.
Technically, they weren't open yet.
The sign was more promise than business hours — a warning to Hell and an invitation to trouble.
Inside, the new office looked like it had been pulled straight out of the eighties and left to smolder in nostalgia. A jukebox hummed softly in the corner, cycling through old rock riffs. A scratched pool table leaned against one wall, a pinball machine flickered near the window, and the faint smell of gun oil, dust, burnt coffee, and day-old pizza hung in the air.
Dante sat behind the large mahogany desk, feet kicked up, a magazine open in his hands. The cover headline read: "Supernatural Sightings Surge — Authorities Baffled."
He flipped a page, unimpressed. "Huh. Guess we made the papers again. Must be a slow news week."
Elsa sat a few feet away at a workbench beneath a warm lamp, cleaning her shotgun with surgical precision. The Bloodgem glowed faintly against her collarbone, pulsing in rhythm with her movements.
"You'd think you'd want to advertise," she said dryly. "You know, to pay for all this décor from the haunted eighties."
Dante smirked. "Relax, Red. Clients'll find us soon enough. Demons never stay quiet for long."
"That's comforting," she muttered, clicking the chamber shut.
On the couch near the jukebox, Felicia lay sprawled across the cushions, scrolling lazily through her StarkPhone. Her boots hung off the armrest, a half-finished coffee on the floor beside her.
"You know," she said, "for a demon-hunting business, this place is weirdly peaceful. I expected fireballs or at least screaming."
"Give it time," Dante said without looking up.
Felicia grinned. "So, Elsa," she said, turning her head with mock innocence, "what brings you here? Couldn't stay away from our favorite pretty boy?"
Elsa didn't even glance up. "What are you doing here, you thieving cat? Don't you have a jewelry store to rob or a rooftop to sunbathe on?"
Felicia gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Ouch. Jealousy doesn't suit you, Red."
"I'm not jealous," Elsa said flatly, setting down the shotgun.
Felicia smirked. "Good. Because I just came to hang out with my favorite devil hunter."
Dante's magazine lowered slightly.Elsa blinked. "Your what?"
"My favorite devil hunter," Felicia said, her grin widening. "He's the one keeping the lights on, isn't he?"
Elsa's expression soured. "You're insufferable."
Felicia stretched out on the couch, clearly enjoying herself. "And yet, you keep showing up."
Dante quietly turned another page of his magazine, pretending to read.
"Not getting involved," he muttered under his breath.
Elsa shot him a look. "You could at least say something."
He flipped the page again. "Nope. Staying out of this one."
Felicia grinned. "Smart man. See, that's why I like him."
Elsa groaned. "Unbelievable."
Dante smirked behind the magazine. "You two done, or should I grab popcorn?"
Felicia twirled a strand of silver hair around her finger. "Depends. You got any?"
Then came a knock on the double doors.
Dante closed the magazine, his grin shifting from lazy to sharp. "Guess we're open for business after all."
He grabbed his red coat from the back of the chair and, on the way to the door, picked up a slice of pizza from the box on his desk — only to notice the toppings.
He squinted. "Elsa, you do know I hate black olives on my pizza?"
She gave a sly smirk without looking up. "That's the point, darling — so you don't eat pizza all the time."
Dante sighed, taking a reluctant bite anyway. "You're cruel, you know that?"
"Discipline builds character," Elsa said smoothly, loading shells into her weapon.
Felicia chuckled from the couch. "Or maybe she just wants you to eat a salad for once."
Dante rolled his eyes, mouth half full. "This team's gonna kill me faster than any demon."
The knock came again — steady, polite, and way too calm for this neighborhood.
Dante sighed, set the pizza slice down, and ambled to the door. He cracked it open, half-expecting another con artist or bill collector.
Instead, a man in a charcoal-gray suit stood in the snow, his shoes too clean for a New York winter. He carried himself like someone used to bad news and expensive secrets.
"Mr. Sparda?" the man asked in an even, practiced tone.
"That depends," Dante said, leaning against the doorframe. "You selling salvation or damnation?"
A small, polite smile tugged at the man's mouth. "Neither. Just looking for some help."
He pulled out an ID wallet and flipped it open: Philip Coulson — Federal Bureau of Investigation. The badge gleamed faintly under the streetlight.
Dante eyed it. "FBI, huh? Must've taken a wrong turn if you ended up here."
"I prefer to think of it as expanding my options," Coulson replied calmly. "Mind if I come in?"
Dante shrugged, opening the door wider. "Sure. But don't touch the jukebox — she bites."
Coulson stepped inside, brushing the snow from his coat. He took in the room — the eighties décor, the smell of gun oil, the redhead with a shotgun on the table, and the silver-haired woman lounging on the couch with a StarkPhone.
"Interesting setup," he said mildly. "Didn't realize there was enough demand for a demon-hunting agency to keep the lights on."
Elsa didn't look up. "You'd be surprised."
Felicia stayed quiet this time but glanced over the top of her phone, her silver eyes sharp — listening, assessing.
Coulson turned to Dante. "I'm here off the record. Officially, this is a missing persons inquiry. Unofficially…" He paused. "Let's just say the Bureau isn't equipped to handle what we think's behind it."
Dante's expression sharpened slightly. "You're saying it's not human."
Coulson met his gaze evenly. "I'm saying it's not normal."
He pulled a thin folder from his coat and slid it across the desk. Black-and-white photos spilled out — blurry night shots, government timestamps, strange burn patterns scorched into concrete.
But mixed among them were other images — color photographs this time, grainy but clear enough to make the room go still.
One showed a twisted humanoid shape half-submerged in a containment pod, its spine lined with metal tubing. Another displayed a morgue table — something that looked human, until Dante saw the horns growing beneath its skin.
Then came the last few pictures — young bodies on lab slabs, faint energy readings etched in red ink across the margins. Some weren't entirely human. Veins glowed faintly blue; bone structure spiked unnaturally. Mutant identifiers were scribbled in shorthand at the corners.
Dante's hand froze mid-turn. "These… the same ones I fought in Red Hook…"
He closed the file, his gaze narrowing on Coulson. "Why hire me? I don't see the government type reaching out to some guy running a sketchy agency."
Coulson's expression didn't change. "No… we don't normally hire civilians. But the name Sparda caught our attention. Either your parents had a sense of humor… or they knew exactly what they were doing."
The room went silent.
In an instant, Dante's sword materialized in his hands, the blade of Rebellion pressed to Coulson's throat.
Elsa dropped her shotgun, drawing her pistol instead — steady aim, sharp focus.
On the couch, Felicia lowered her phone and quietly flexed her hands; faint embers of hellfire crawled along her claws.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
The only sounds were the faint hum of the jukebox and the steady tick of the wall clock.
Coulson didn't flinch. His pulse didn't even rise. The edge of Rebellion hovered just beneath his chin, its demonic glow reflecting off his tie.
"Easy," he said quietly. "No need to redecorate. The walls look fine without my blood on them."
Dante's grip tightened. "You said my name like you know who I'm related to. How?"
Coulson's tone stayed level. "Because the name Sparda doesn't come up often, Mr. Dante. And when it does, it usually leaves a body count."
"That's not an answer," Dante said, his voice dropping lower.
Coulson met his eyes calmly. "You're right. Here's the answer — we don't know everything. The Bureau, certain agencies, even a few black-ops archives… they've been piecing together fragments for years. Old Vatican transcripts. Demonology reports. Ancient battle records."
He nodded faintly toward the glowing edge of the blade.
"All of them tell the same story — a dark knight named Sparda sealed Hell off from the human world."
He paused, watching Dante closely.
"Then, on October 23rd, 2004, a huge tower erupted in the middle of New York — made the whole city feel like Hell came back to play. There were whispers too. Repeating the same name: Son of Sparda. You can imagine how that got our attention."
Dante didn't budge, silently assessing him.
Coulson went on, voice steady but low. "We connected a few dots. Plus, you weren't exactly subtle about throwing your name, Dante Sparda, around when you go around fighting demons."
Elsa's lips curved slightly. "He's not wrong. You do like to show off, you know."
Felicia finally relaxed, crossing one leg over the other with a smirk. "You hit the mark there, babe. Dante really needs to work on being discreet about that name of his."
Dante shot her a look — half annoyed, half amused.
"Yeah, yeah. Guilty as charged," he said with a shrug. "What can I say? Subtlety's overrated."
Elsa arched an eyebrow. "You don't say."
Dante smirked. "Hey, at least people remember the name. Beats 'mysterious guy number seven who saved the day and vanished.'"
Felicia grinned. "See? He admits it. Our boy just loves the spotlight."
Elsa sighed, shaking her head. "Remind me again why we work with him?"
"Because I'm irresistible," Dante said, flashing a grin.
Felicia leaned back on the couch, eyes glinting. She smiled slyly. "You are handsome. Don't let Red tell you otherwise."
Elsa groaned. "Oh, for heaven's sake…"
Dante lowered his sword and headed back to the desk. He propped his feet up, grabbing another slice of pizza — only to realize there were still black olives on it. He started picking them off while continuing the conversation.
"So where are these experiments happening right now?" he asked, focused on flicking olives aside.
Coulson straightened his jacket and nodded toward the file still on Dante's desk. "You've seen what's inside. People are vanishing near North Salem, New York."
"So… are you in, Dante Sparda?"
Dante shrugged, half-focused on his pizza. "Why not? You're technically our first customer. Just make sure the check clears — I've got bills to pay."
Coulson turned and started toward the exit, stopping at the door. "Also… try not to burn the city down again."
Dante's grin widened. "No promises. Demons don't exactly come with fire extinguishers."
Coulson sighed, shaking his head before stepping out into the cold. The door closed softly behind him.
Elsa looked over at Dante, who was finally eating his pizza — olives free. "Well," she said dryly, "that was interesting."
Felicia grinned. "Interesting? Babe, that was practically foreplay for government types."
Elsa groaned. "Babe? We are not that close, you thieving cat."
"Oh, come on, babe," Felicia teased, stretching. "You know I said we could share Dante. Besides, there's no way you could keep up with his brand of crazy."
Dante grabbed his guns and holstered them. "Alright, ladies — enough banter. Pack your bags. We're heading to Salem."
The jukebox clicked, switching to a slow blues riff as the red neon glow of the Devil May Cry sign flickered through the falling snow.