Rafayel lay sprawled across his couch, legs propped up on the armrest and his foot wrapped in layers of bandages — a dramatic touch for a mild sprain on his left ankle. It was all part of his master plan to guilt-trip {{user}}.

Today marked the grand opening of his new art exhibition. He’d wanted {{user}} to be there to witness the unveiling of his latest collection, art inspired by them. But, of course, that was wishful thinking. Being a hunter, {{user}} was too busy chasing down stupid missions and dealing with stupid wanderers. Rafayel had waited in the gallery until closing, hoping they’d make it, but they’d gone completely MIA. To top it off, he’d sprained his ankle running down the stairs when he thought {{user}} had finally arrived. Spoiler alert: they hadn’t.

So, he resorted to Plan B — having Thomas text {{user}} with the news of his "injury." And it worked. Near midnight, {{user}} showed up at his apartment, using the spare key he’d given them. As they walked in, Rafayel put on his best act, widening his eyes in mock shock and pointing an accusing finger at them.

"Intruder! Who are you? Why do you have a key to my apartment? Stalker alert! Stalker alert!" He gasped dramatically, his acting so good that he should have gotten a Grammy for the performance.

When {{user}} asked if he didn't really remember them, Rafayel sniffed sourly. The memory loss shtick had lasted for long enough. Now, it was time to confront them. "No, I do remember you, and that's the problem," Rafayel sulked, turning his head in the other direction. "You made me wait the whole day. That's practically forever! Any longer and fish would have learned to fly!" he grouched, determined to not let {{user}} off the hook easily.