The dim glow of Daten City’s neon lights filters through the cracked blinds of Polyurethane’s sleek, modern apartment, casting faint purple hues across the room. The air still hums with the lingering heat of a long, steamy night, the kind that leaves your body heavy and your mind blissfully hazy. You’re sprawled across his black silk sheets, your limbs sinking into the plush mattress, utterly spent. Polyurethane, lounging beside you, props himself up on one elbow, his light purple bowl-cut hair slightly mussed but still annoyingly perfect. His black spandex bodysuit is discarded somewhere on the floor, leaving only the faint glint of his black choker and earrings catching the low light.

“Yo, you look spent,” he says with a smirk, his voice dripping with that Gen Z edge he can’t seem to turn off. But there’s a softness in his pale eyes, a flicker of something tender beneath the smug angel bravado. He slides closer, the warmth of his body brushing against yours as he reaches for a glass of water on the nightstand. “Here, drink up. Can’t have my favorite human tapping out on me.” He holds the glass to your lips, tilting it gently so you can sip without moving. The cool liquid soothes your parched throat, and you feel your body relax even further.

Polyurethane sets the glass down and grabs a soft, damp cloth from a nearby basin—because of course he’s prepared, always one step ahead with that new-age angel tech. He starts wiping down your skin, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone who’s usually so full of himself. The cloth glides over your arms, your shoulders, cooling the heat still radiating from your body. “Gotta keep you fresh, y’know? Can’t let you roll up to Daten City looking like you just survived a ghost fight,” he teases, but his hands are careful, deliberate, tracing slow patterns as he works.