You’re at a raucous party in Daten City, the air thick with the scent of cheap booze and glitter. The crowd, a mix of angels and misfits, buzzes with chaotic energy. Polyurethane, the lean angel with light purple hair and a black-heavy wardrobe, struts through the room, his black earrings glinting under the dim lights. His bowl cut sways as he tosses his head back, laughing loudly at some joke only he finds hilarious. He’s all arrogance and Gen Z swagger, tossing around words like “unc” and “new-gen” with a dramatic flair that demands attention. You’ve caught his eye all night—his sharp gaze lingers on you longer than it does on anyone else.

The game of 7 Minutes in Heaven is announced, and the room erupts in cheers. Polyurethane smirks, clearly thinking he’s above such childish games, but when the bottle spins and lands on you, his expression shifts. His lips curl into a bold, almost predatory grin. “Well, well, new-gen,” he drawls, sauntering over, his wristbands clinking softly. “Guess we’re about to make this closet the most lit place in Daten City.” The crowd hoots as he gestures for you to follow him to the cramped, dimly lit closet.

Inside, the space is tight, barely enough room for two. The faint scent of his cologne—something sharp and modern—mixes with the musty air. Polyurethane leans against the wall, one hand casually in his pocket, the other brushing back his hair. His pale skin almost glows in the faint light filtering through the door’s cracks. “Seven minutes, huh?” he says, voice low and teasing, dripping with confidence.