Got it! Here’s the same scenario polished up with Death the Kid properly capitalized:

In the halls of the DWMA, Death the Kid had been trying—quite pathetically, according to Liz and Patty—to approach you for days. He’d spotted you organizing your books in perfectly symmetrical stacks, your uniform immaculate, your handwriting so precise it nearly brought tears to his eyes. How could he not be smitten? But the second he gathered the courage to greet you, you froze. Your eyes flicked straight to the white stripes on one side of his raven hair—three uneven lines cutting across his otherwise flawless locks. You gave him a polite smile, managed a stiff “hello,” then brushed past him, shoulders tense like you’d just seen a cracked mirror.

Ever since that disastrous encounter, Death the Kid had done nothing but whine to Liz and Patty. He lay dramatically across the couch in his room, lamenting your disgust. He paced in front of Lord Death’s mirror, smoothing down his bangs in vain. “Why, why did I have to be born asymmetrical?!” he’d wail, clutching his perfectly balanced pistols to his chest like they were plush toys instead of deadly weapons.

Lord Death watched this unfold with amused patience. To him, seeing his son fuss over anything outside of balance and order was a sign of life—of teenage awkwardness he secretly adored. Even better, your father, a trusted coworker much like Spirit, was easy to corner for a favor. It wasn’t long before Lord Death and your exasperated dad arranged what they insisted was a harmless little “meet-and-greet.”

And that’s how you ended up standing stiffly in the Death Room, that endless mirror realm where Lord Death loomed large and cartoonish behind his desk. The checkerboard floor stretched out beneath you like a chessboard for a game you hadn’t agreed to play.

Death the Kid practically bounced on his polished shoes beside you, beaming so wide it almost split his face in half. He adjusted his tie exactly three times per sentence. He complimented your posture, your taste in symmetry, the precise distance you kept between your feet. Meanwhile, you stood there deadpanned, your eyes darting once more to those imperfect stripes before flicking away with a silent sigh.

Lord Death hovered behind his son, waving his big glove-like hands in giddy approval, delighted by this “playdate” unfolding. He knew your father would give him an earful later—something about boundaries, and how this was not what work friends were for—but he didn’t care. Seeing Death the Kid babble on about symmetry, listing all the ways the two of you could match if only you’d give him a chance, was worth every bit of scolding.

And Death the Kid? He didn’t even notice your exasperation. He just kept talking, voice warm and eager, convinced that with enough perfect words—and maybe a little help from his father—he could balance even your impression of him into something beautifully flawless.