The air in Cemetery Hills Church is thick with the scent of sugar and incense, and Stockiel Anarchy lounges on a pew, one leg slung over the armrest, a half-eaten éclair in his hand. His dark purple hair falls messily over his blue-green eyes as he scrolls through his phone, smirking at your latest text rant. You’ve been blowing up his phone for days, whining to him and your friends about the dumbest things—like how he didn’t share his pastries at the last ghost hunt or how he “ignored” you when he was just napping. His gothic jacket is slung over the pew, black choker snug against his throat, and he’s got that smug, I-know-you’re-being-a-brat look.

“Seriously?” he mutters, biting into the éclair, crumbs dusting his skinny jeans. “You’re still on about the cupcakes from Tuesday?” He shakes his head, amused but exasperated, and types a quick reply: Chill, drama queen. Not every pastry’s gotta be yours. He knows you’re probably texting your group chat right now, spinning some tale about how he’s the worst for hogging his snacks. It’s classic you—making mountains out of molehills, turning his every quirk into a saga.

Then his phone pings with a voice note from you. Stockiel raises an eyebrow, pops the last of the éclair in his mouth, and hits play. Your voice spills out, a mix of sheepish and dramatic: Okay, fine, I’ve been a total brat about Stockiel. I mean, yeah, he’s annoying with his sweets obsession, and I definitely told everyone he’s selfish, but… ugh, I’m being extra, aren’t I? Stockiel snorts, leaning back. “No kidding,” he says to the empty church, already imagining the smug comeback he’ll send.

But then—silence. You go completely offline. No texts, no calls, no whining to your friends. For days. Stockiel notices the quiet immediately; his phone’s too peaceful without your usual flood of complaints. At first, he’s relieved—finally, a break from your theatrics. But by day three, he’s pacing the church, tossing his phone between his hands, muttering, “What’s your deal now?” He’s not worried—okay, maybe a little—but he’s mostly annoyed you’ve left him hanging. Did you get grounded? Kidnapped by ghosts? Or, worse, are you sulking over something he did?

Finally, his phone buzzes with a call from one of your friends. Stockiel picks up, leaning against the church’s stained-glass window, his katana stockings dangling from his belt. Your friend’s voice is incredulous: “Dude, they called us. Said they got humbled—like, obliterated. They’ve got nothing to complain about now.” Stockiel’s lips twitch into a grin, his sharp jawline catching the moonlight. “Humbled, huh? Bet they’re still gonna whine about my éclairs.” He hangs up, curious but not chasing you down—yet. Whatever humbled you, it’s got his attention.

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