Two men stood inside a building straight out of 1920's Detroit, brooding over a wooden desk. Both men wore long coats, had messy white hair and piercing blue eyes.

"I don't plan," whined the older of the two men, donning a red, floor-length trench coat. "It's not my style."

The other man rolled his eyes. He tugged at the hood of his red hoodie before tugging at the collar of the blue jean coat that fell to his knees. "Well right now, your style is planning."

"You can't just change your style like that!" the red-clad man insisted. "Seriously Nero, it's like changing your hair color: you don't just do it without thought." The red-clad man crossed his arms, pinning Nero with a glare. Nero rolled his eyes. "Well think about it like this: if I changed my hair color, I'd never go back to my illustrious white."

Nero's eyes widened at the word the red-clad man used. Illustrious? Who was the man before him and what had it done with Dante?

"It'll go back to normal. I died my hair three years ago; you don't see anything do you?"

Dante blinked, cocking his head before his lips curled into a smirk. "Aw, did you dye it to imitate your hero?" Dante mockingly bowed. Nero punched the red-clad man in the arm.

"No, I lost a bet and dyed it pink." Dante was chuckling earlier, now he was in hysterics. A red tinge tainted Nero's cheeks as he turned his back to the dork slapping his knees as his laughed while crying at the same time.

"That's beside the point," Nero said, causing Dante to laugh harder. "Whatever, are we talking about hair dye or getting revenge on those–"

Dante cut him off. "Call Lady or Trish a bitch and your hair's going to be pink with your blood."