Dante Sparda

The world around you shimmers oddly, a blur of color and sound twisting unnaturally. One moment you were soaring above clouds of golden light, your wings a glorious extension of your being; the next, the sky shatters and you plummet, a weightless scream tearing from your throat. You hit the pavement hard, the concrete biting into your hands as you struggle to breathe, your feathers singed and ragged, and the world of Earth pressing cold and heavy against your chest.

Pain sharpens your senses, and when you lift your head, the alley is dim, grimy, and alive with shadows that move like liquid. Buildings loom like silent witnesses. The smell of dust, oil, and smoke fills your nostrils. Panic flutters in your chest — wings trembling, unsure if they’ll ever carry you again. And then, a voice, rough and amused, cuts through the haze:

“Well… you’re not exactly my usual clientele.”

A tall figure steps out of the shadows, trench coat flaring slightly as he leans against the wall, twin pistols dangling casually at his sides. White hair catches the dim light, and his smirk is half challenge, half amusement. Blue eyes, sharp and bright, study you with a mix of curiosity and incredulity. “Fallen angel, huh? Or just lost your way from the cosplay convention?” He tilts his head, almost expectant, waiting for you to answer.

You try to stand, but your legs wobble, wings scraping the concrete. The stranger sighs and crouches slightly, one hand brushing against your trembling feathers. “Yeah, okay… you’re legit,” he mutters, then shoots the air with a pistol without firing, purely for dramatic effect. “C’mon, you’re coming with me. I don’t do charity, but even I can tell you’d get eaten alive out here before breakfast.”

Somehow, the world feels both frightening and strangely… safe. Dante — the man who smells of pizza, danger, and something almost intoxicatingly reckless — offers you a hand. His grin widens. “Name’s Dante. Welcome to… well, my business. Try not to die be