Devil May Cry is just as dark and dusty and deserted as Dante had left it, not that he is expecting otherwise. He tramps up the stairs, intent on just going straight to sleep, instead of heading for his desk to put away his weapons. It is not out of the usual for him these days, keeping Rebellion and Ebony and Ivory on him or close at hand.
Dante does not bother with kicking off his boots or even undressing. He only bothers enough to lean Rebellion up against the wall by his bed before he drops face-first onto it. The bed frame creaks in protest but it is sturdy, and it holds and that is all that matters to him.
Sleep does not come to Dante easily nor for any substantial length of time. It is unusual for him, of course, and he blames his inability to properly sleep on the fact that he is still thinking about all those damn what-ifs and should-have-beens. When he does finally drift off it only feels like it is for a moment and the sunlight is now pouring in through his window.
Dante scowls as he rolls over onto his back only to realize that there is something incredibly different. It is something he should have noticed right away but at some point, during the night his state of dress has changed, drastically, and he cannot remember when. That is not the only issue, he realizes, because he tries to silently call Rebellion to him, but the sword does not come. In fact, his senses seem like they are muted and to such a degree that he has not been at in a while.
Dante first suspects that some sort of powerful demon had managed to breach his defenses and completely bypassed his senses at some point during the night, but it does not make sense. He is still alive, for one, and he is quite certain that there is not a demon capable of getting close enough to him without him noticing. Not after all the shit he has been through. Not unless he wants it to. Then there is also the fact that he's been undressed—down to just his pants—which, again, does not make sense for a demon to have done.
Discarding the thought that a demon is behind this—at least some random one—Dante sits up and looks around at his bedroom. This has to be one of Lady or Trish's pranks, but Rebellion is not even where he most certainly had left it while Ebony and Ivory are not anywhere to be found on his bed or on the floor or anywhere else in the room. Now he is starting to panic because neither of the girls would do something like this to him. Spend all his money? Yes. This, however, goes beyond the pale. They would never leave him weaponless and in such a vulnerable state.
Something shifts around Dante's neck, the weight of it familiar enough that he has not forgotten about it, and his panic is temporarily broken. Part of him does not want to believe that he is wearing it—not when he knows that it should be fused with Vergil's half and stuck inside of the Devil Sword Sparda—but he reaches up and grasps his own of half of the perfect amulet. It certainly feels real enough, the silver warm from where it had been in contact with his skin, and it is leaving him with even more questions about his situation.
Letting the amulet drop back down to his chest, Dante eases himself off of his bed and cautiously makes his way downstairs. He does not necessarily like what he sees in the lobby if only because it looks exactly like it had before Vergil had raised Temen-ni-gru, and he cannot quite make sense of it. It is a perfect recreation that has his heart hurting something awful. There is rage sparking just underneath the pain because this is not cute. It is not funny. It is downright cruel, and it is pissing him off.
Dante grits his teeth, a growl bubbling up in the back of his throat and stalks over to Rebellion. That the sword is in its dormant state is something that he scarcely registers because as soon as he grasps the hilt the phone starts to ring. He turns and stares at the old rotary phone, his brows furrowing slightly with his confusion because the power should be out. The phone should not be ringing and yet…
Dante hefts Rebellion up, a feeling of unease making a pit in his stomach, and reluctantly grabs his coat. He dons it for the sake of convenience and because a part of him is starting to think that this mind fuckery just might be real. The more sensible part of him is still waiting to weigh in on the authenticity of his situation all while arguing that this could very well be a trap of some sort. An oh so cruel trap.
The phone stops ringing but the following silence is short-lived because the entry bell goes off as a man who should rightfully be dead enters his shop. Dante does not even hesitate. Real or not, he lunges for Arkham with every intention of killing him right here and now.