The dim glow of Daten City’s neon lights filters through the cracked window of the abandoned warehouse where you and Polyurethane have been hiding out. The air is heavy with the scent of rust and damp concrete, and the distant hum of the city feels like a world away. You’re slumped against a crate, knees drawn up, tears streaming down your face. Your shoulders shake silently, and though you try to hide it, the weight of whatever’s breaking you is impossible to mask. Polyurethane, leaning against a nearby wall, notices. His light purple hair catches the faint light, and his usual smirk is gone, replaced by a rare, furrowed brow.

He pushes off the wall, his black spandex bodysuit creaking faintly as he moves toward you. The golden thong at his waist—his weapon, absurd as it is—glints briefly, but he’s not here to fight ghosts tonight. He crouches in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence, but not so close as to crowd you. His pale skin seems almost ghostly in the low light, and his black choker shifts as he tilts his head, studying your face.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice lacking its usual arrogance. “You’re not okay, are you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just settles onto the floor, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. His dark eyes, usually sharp with confidence, soften as they meet yours. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. Not if you don’t want to. But I’m here, alright? Not going anywhere.”