The stairs were narrow. Industrial. The kind of concrete stairwell that belonged to a service entrance, not the front door of whatever high-class establishment operated above. Dante's shoes scraped against the steps as the guards hauled him upward, one hand clamped around each of his biceps.
His eyes never stopped moving.
Two on me. Scarface and the younger one with the nervous hands. Two more stayed behind at the door. Four total in the basement. How many upstairs?
The air changed as they climbed. The damp cold of the cellar gave way to something warmer, thicker. Perfume hit him first, expensive and cloying. Then tobacco. Then something underneath it all that made his stomach turn. Sweet. Metallic. Like old blood mixed with flowers.
The music grew louder with each step. A slow, pulsing rhythm that made the walls vibrate.
Scarface shoved open a door at the top of the stairs.
The sound hit Dante like a wall of water.
Jazz piano mixed with a woman's sultry voice singing in Japanese, underscored by a bass line that seemed designed to sync with a human heartbeat. The guards pushed him forward, and Dante stepped into what could only be described as a temple dedicated to every sin that involved skin on skin.
The main lounge sprawled before him in all its decadent glory. Low lighting cast everything in shades of amber and crimson. Dark polished wood covered the floors and walls. Velvet booths lined the perimeter in deep jewel tones, emerald and sapphire and ruby. The bar stretched along one wall, bottles of amber liquid catching the light like treasures behind glass.
And everywhere, bodies.
In the corner booth, a woman straddled a man's lap, her dress hiked up around her thighs. Her hands tangled in his hair as she rocked against him, his tie loose and his shirt half-unbuttoned. Their mouths met in something too desperate to be called a kiss.
On the dance floor, three couples moved together in a mass of limbs and grinding hips. A blonde in a black dress pressed between two men, her head thrown back as one kissed her throat and the other's hands traced the curve of her waist.
At the bar, a woman in red whispered something in her companion's ear that made him grip the edge of the counter. Her painted nails dragged down his chest, toying with each button like she was counting them.
Jesus Christ. Is this a nightclub or a public orgy?
Then the Six Eyes kicked in properly, and Dante's vision went to hell.
A crimson haze hung in the air.
It pooled densest over the dance floor, swirling around the writhing couples like smoke. It gathered in the booths where hands disappeared under clothing. It drifted from the bar where the woman in red had her companion backed against the counter, her mouth inches from his.
The entire club looked like it was bleeding into the atmosphere.
What the hell am I looking at?
The guards dragged him forward, cutting through the crowd. A few patrons glanced up. Most didn't bother. Their eyes were glassy, unfocused. Lost in whatever private fantasy they were chasing.
The nervous guard to Dante's left tightened his grip as they passed a particularly enthusiastic couple against the wall. The young guy's face had gone bright red, his eyes locked straight ahead with the intensity of someone trying very hard not to look at anything.
Virgin.
They reached the far side of the lounge where a discrete elevator door waited, marked with a simple brass plate that read "Private." Scarface pulled a key card from his jacket and swiped it. The doors slid open with a soft chime.
They shoved Dante inside.
The elevator was all mirrors and polished brass. Dante caught his reflection and barely recognized himself. White hair still somehow perfect despite the concrete cell. Bright blue eyes squinting against the pain behind them. The tattoos were faint but visible on his neck, geometric patterns that hadn't been there in his first life.
Looking good, corpse. Very undead chic.
"Floor's kind of sticky here," Dante said, his voice conversational. "The STD Devil must have a field day in this place."
One of the younger guards made a choking sound.
Scarface's jaw tightened.
Dante glanced at the nervous kid to his left, the one whose face had gone red walking through the lounge. "Relax. I can smell the Virgin Devil hunting you from a mile away. You're safe."
That did it.
Scarface pivoted. His fist came up fast, aimed right at Dante's gut.
Instinct took over.
Dante's abs clenched. For a single, imperceptible microsecond, he felt it. That sensation of the air in front of him hardening, solidifying into an invisible barrier. The same impossible resistance he'd encountered when he'd tried to punch Gojo's face.
Scarface's knuckles cracked against nothing.
Then the sensation shattered like glass.
The full force of the punch drove into Dante's stomach.
OOF.
Scarface shook his hand, cursing in Japanese. Two of his knuckles were already swelling.
What was that?
Dante wheezed, trying to pull air back into his body.
For a second there, it felt like... like him. Like Gojo's infinite bullshit actually worked.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened onto silence.
The hallway beyond was a study in restrained elegance. Plush carpet in deep charcoal absorbed all sound. Indirect lighting cast everything in soft shadows. The walls were painted a rich cream color, broken only by a few pieces of abstract art that probably cost more than most people made in a year.
At the end of the hall, a single door. Large. Dark polished wood. Marked with a stylized crimson butterfly.
The guards hauled Dante down the hallway. His shoes sank into the carpet with each step. The silence was oppressive after the chaos below.
Sakiko said the Boss was beautiful. But she's a Devil. How does that work? Probably some ugly bastard with a glamour. Some horror show hiding behind a pretty mask.
He steeled himself for tentacles. For rows of teeth. For whatever nightmare fuel this world's Devils looked like when they stopped pretending.
Scarface knocked once on the door.
"Enter."
The doors swung open.
The office beyond was a masterpiece. Dark wood paneling covered the walls. A massive desk sat near the center, its surface clear except for a single orchid in a crystal vase. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked more like decoration than reading material.
The far wall was nothing but glass. Floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of Shinjuku's neon-drenched skyline. The city sprawled below like a circuit board, pulsing with light and life.
A woman stood silhouetted against the window. Her back to them. An ornate black kimono hung from her shoulders, left open just enough to reveal pale skin and the elegant curve of her spine. The silk was embroidered with red butterflies that seemed to flutter in the dim light. The obi cinched her waist, emphasizing the geometry of her figure. Long legs. Full hips. Narrow waist. The kind of proportions that belonged on a movie screen.
She turned around slowly. Deliberately.
Dante's brain short-circuited.
Her face was classical Japanese perfection. Porcelain skin. High cheekbones. Full lips painted a deep crimson. Long, jet-black hair fell past her shoulders in a waterfall of silk. She looked like someone had taken every beauty standard and assembled them into a single human being.
Then she looked at him.
Her eyes were wrong.
Hazel-gold irises caught the light like polished amber. Beautiful. Mesmerizing. And her pupils were slit vertically, like a cat preparing to pounce. Or a snake sizing up its next meal.
Oh.
Not an ugly bastard.
Every hormone in his newly rebuilt body screamed at him to step closer, to lean in, to fall into those golden eyes and never climb back out.
He crushed the feeling with cold fury.
The Six Eyes showed him what his normal vision couldn't. The crimson haze didn't just fill this room. It poured off her in waves. She was the source. The beating heart of all that lust downstairs. A star of pure desire radiating outward.
She looked at the guards. Her gaze swept over them with the casual interest of someone examining furniture. Then those predatory eyes landed on Dante.
A playful smirk touched the corner of her mouth.
Then her eyes narrowed. Focused. Like she was seeing something only she could perceive.
The smirk vanished.
Annoyance flickered across her perfect features. Then curiosity. Then something that might have been concern.
"You idiots. I asked for a meal. Not a complication." She tilted her head, studying Dante like he was a puzzle box.
"Did you really bring me a Devil Hunter to feast on?"
Dante's mind raced.
Devil Hunter? She thinks I'm a Devil Hunter?
The crimson energy swirling around her was immense. A sun of concentrated lust and hunger. Compared to what he'd seen downstairs, this was an ocean.
And she was looking at him like he'd just ruined her entire evening.