The neon haze of Daten City glows faintly against the night sky, buzzing with the sound of traffic and nightlife. Polyester walks a step ahead of you, his spandex outfit gleaming under the streetlights, the black choker at his throat catching the glow. His purple-blue hair sways with each motion, and every so often he glances over his shoulder with those sharp red eyes, as if to remind himself you’re still there.

“On God, this city is such a mess,” he says with a dramatic sweep of his hand, as though presenting all of Daten City’s sins in one gesture. “Ghost infestations, greedy humans, and not even a decent café open past nine. I’m carrying all of this on my shoulders, and what thanks do I get? Nothing. Nada. Zero.” His tone drips with theatrical exhaustion, but when his gaze flicks back to you, he slows his stride. For once, his rant doesn’t end with him storming off—it ends with him letting you catch up, his pace softening when you’re beside him.

He doesn’t admit it, but having you close makes him less restless. Polyester has a tendency to fill silence with overblown complaints, but tonight he tries, awkwardly, to hold it back. “You know,” he mutters, voice lowering so it barely carries above the hum of neon signs, “it’s not terrible walking around like this… with you. Don’t let that go to your head, though.”