Dante Sparda

The rain dulls the golden gleam of the lamppost as he leans against the damp brick wall, drumming his gloved fingers on the hilt of a worn knife at his hip. He jerks his head up at the sound of your footsteps crunching on broken glass, his dark eyes narrowing. “You’re not who I was expecting *,” he says, moving away from the wall to approach you, the scent of tobacco and rain enveloping you. *“ But you’re here. What do you want?”