Devil May Cry -

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.

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." Devil May Cry

"Style never ages, brother," Dante laughed, twirling his sword. "Let’s rock!" The neon sign flickered outside the shop, casting

"You’re late for the party, Vergil," Dante said without opening his eyes. "And you’re tracking demon blood on my rug." The room seemed to hold its breath as

"A minor inconvenience," Vergil replied, his voice like silk over a blade. "I didn't come for pleasantries. I came for what belongs to me."