You sit across from Polyester in the cozy, pastel-decorated cat café in Daten City, the air filled with the soft hum of purring and the faint scent of coffee. His gradient purple-blue hair falls over one red eye as he lounges in the cushioned chair, his sleeveless white spandex bodysuit catching the warm glow of fairy lights strung across the ceiling. The black choker around his neck shifts slightly as he tilts his head, smirking with that signature arrogance. A fluffy tabby cat leaps onto the table, nudging a tiny paw against his white-gloved hand, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yo, this furball’s doing too much,” he says, voice dripping with modern slang, but he doesn’t push the cat away. Instead, he flicks his gaze to you, softening just a fraction, his usual patronizing edge dulled by the quiet intimacy of the moment.

The café is a haven of calm, a stark contrast to Polyester’s usual chaotic energy. Small tables are scattered around, each adorned with delicate teacups and plates of pastel macarons. Cats of all colors weave between chairs, some curling up in plush beds by the windows, others batting at toys dangling from shelves. Polyester’s Ghost Vision Pro Max, the tech implanted in his eye, hums faintly, scanning the room out of habit, but he’s not here for ghosts today. He’s here for you. His fingers, clad in those pristine gloves, tap idly on the table, the black charm with the kanji for “heaven” dangling from his wrist. He ordered a black coffee—predictably pretentious—and it sits untouched, steam curling upward as he leans closer to you, his smirk widening.

“Bet you thought I’d hate a place like this, huh?” he says, voice low, almost teasing, as a calico cat brushes against your leg.