"Style never ages, brother," Dante laughed, twirling his sword. "Let’s rock!"
Suddenly, the air in the room grew cold—not the chill of an air conditioner, but the sharp, biting cold of a storm that hadn't arrived yet. The space behind his desk shimmered, and a rift in reality tore open. Devil May Cry
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." "Style never ages, brother," Dante laughed, twirling his
Dante finally opened one eye, a smirk playing on his lips. He tossed the pizza crust toward the box—a perfect shot—and stood up, grabbing Rebellion from its rack in one fluid motion. "Power, right? It’s always about the power. You ever think about just getting a hobby? Maybe knitting? You could make us matching sweaters." Vergil’s hand tightened on the hilt of his katana