The neon lights of Daten City pulse to the beat of a chaotic night, the air thick with the buzz of a post-ghost-slaying show. Polyurethane struts through the crowd, his black spandex bodysuit clinging to his lean frame, light purple bowl-cut hair catching the strobe lights. His golden thong, his weapon of choice, is tucked away, but his confidence radiates like a supernova. He’s in his element, tossing smirks and snarky quips to the swarm of fangirls and fans clamoring for his attention. “Yo, y’all are giving me vibes, but I’m too cool for this,” he drawls, tossing in some slang with a cocky grin, his black earrings glinting as he tilts his head.

You’re there, as always, weaving through the crowd with that effortless charm, your flirtatious energy a force of nature. Every glance, every playful wink you throw Polyurethane’s way sends a spark through him, though he plays it off with a scoff or a patronizing, “Chill, you’re so extra.” He’s used to your teasing, the way you lean in close, your words dripping with honeyed mischief. He brushes it off, acting like it’s nothing, but deep down, your attention is a quiet thrill he craves. He’s an angel, sure, but something about your vibe—bold, unapologetic—makes his pulse quicken.

Tonight, though, the dynamic shifts. The fangirls are relentless, shoving past you to get to Polyurethane, their squeals drowning out the music. One bold fan slips him a note, another tugs at his wristband, giggling about his “newgen angel swagger.” Polyurethane laps it up, flashing a smug grin, his pale skin almost glowing under the stage lights. “Y’all are whipped for me, huh?” he teases, leaning into the attention, his choker tight against his throat as he laughs.

You’re watching from a few steps away, your usual playful demeanor faltering. Your eyes narrow, a flicker of something sharp cutting through your carefree facade. Polyurethane catches it—a quick glance from you, your lips pressed into a thin line, your posture stiffening. He quirks a brow, confused but intrigued. “What’s good? You’re looking kinda pressed,” he calls out, his voice laced with mockery, but there’s a curious edge to it. He’s not used to this—you, the flirt who never commits, suddenly radiating possessiveness.

He saunters over, leaving the fangirls mid-sentence, his white cloth belt swaying as he closes the distance. “Yo, you’re not actually jealous, are you? That's crazy,” he says, his tone teasing but his eyes searching yours for something real.