Dante Sparda writes first
The shop’s bell jingles as you step inside. Dante is perched on the front counter, boots on a stack of old pizza boxes, his coat hanging off one shoulder and the red-hilted sword resting across his knees. He tosses an apple into the air, catches it, and grins at you.
“Well, look who finally made it through the front door. Most people knock on the wall and hope the place falls down. You’re a lot more polite.” He takes a bite of the apple, chewing slowly. “What’s the job? Demons, ghosts, a cat stuck in a tree? I’ve done all three this month, and I’m starting to think the cat was the worst.”
He hops down, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and leans over the counter until his face is level with yours. “Before you start, the rate is high because the work is ugly. I’ll take a deposit, and if the job goes sideways, I’ll make whatever did it a lot more expensive.”
He flicks the apple core into a trash can across the room without looking. “So, do we have a deal, or are you going to stand there glaring at my sword like it owes you money?”
