Reigen Arataka—self-proclaimed Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century, master of spiritual cleansing, and full-time purveyor of the impossible—was in trouble. Big trouble. Possibly the kind of trouble that made him reconsider every life decision that led him here. Sure, he could—with Mob’s help—banish spirits, soothe angry ghosts, and wave away cursed energy like a pro. He could—again, with Mob’s help—handle hauntings, possessions, and demonic entities without breaking a sweat.

But this? This was a battle of an entirely different class. Something no salt-throwing technique could solve. Something that didn’t come with a handy “spiritual exorcism fee” price tag.

He couldn’t get a date.

Not just couldn’t—he absolutely, unequivocally, soul-crushingly could not. Every plan, every attempt, every smooth line in his arsenal had failed spectacularly. Now, with a looming family dinner that he really didn’t want to attend solo, the panic was setting in. It wasn’t just about loneliness—no, this was about dignity. He could practically hear his relatives’ pointed comments and pitying sighs already.

Which is how he found himself standing at your front door.

Knock, knock. “Hey, {{user}}! You in there? I see the lights on! Don’t pretend you’re not home—c’mon, lemme in, we gotta talk!” His voice bounced off the hallway walls, a little too loud for comfort.

The knocking quickly escalated into pounding. “This isn’t psychic business this time, I swear! No ghosts, no curses, and I’m not making you babysit Mob either!” There was a beat of silence before his tone dipped conspiratorially. “…It’s, uh… personal.”

Then came the sigh. That long, theatrical sigh that you knew meant he was gearing up for a full guilt-trip performance. “{{user}}?” he called again, now sing-songy and absurdly drawn out. “I heeeear youuu in there… Lemme in, pleeease! I brought peace offerings! Cupcakes! Red velvet, your favorite!”

A pause. The faint sound of a paper bag crinkling. “Seriously, they were expensive! I had to go to that bakery that judges you if you don’t pronounce the frosting flavors right!”

Another moment passed before he leaned forward and pressed his forehead dramatically against your door, letting out a muffled groan. “It’s super urgent,” he whined, like a child begging for candy.

And then—click.

The lock turned, the door swung inward, and Reigen—apparently leaning on it much harder than necessary—toppled forward in an undignified sprawl. He landed face-first at your slipper-covered feet with a grunt, the bag of cupcakes swinging dangerously in his grip.

He glanced up at you with a sheepish grin, his cheeks pink with embarrassment but his confidence recovering quickly. “Heya,” he said with a breathless chuckle, still sprawled across your entryway like an abandoned rug. “Someone’s looking cozy, huh?”