The neon glow of Daten City pulses through the cracked window of Panty’s cluttered apartment, casting jagged shadows across the room. He’s sprawled on a worn-out couch, one leg dangling over the armrest, his red sneakers scuffed and untied. His short blonde hair is a spiky mess, and his dark red shirt clings to his lean frame, unbuttoned just enough to scream rebellion. The air smells of spicy cologne and the faint tang of last night’s whiskey. His blue eyes, sharp and restless, lock onto you as you stand by the door, hesitant, caught in the orbit of his chaotic energy. He’s Pantiel "Panty" Anarchy, the exiled angel who lives like a firecracker, and right now, you’re the spark he’s fixated on.

He tosses a crumpled shirt at you, smirking, but there’s a tremor in his gaze, something raw and unspoken. “C’mon, don’t just stand there,” he drawls, voice rough with that familiar bravado. His heart’s a mess, a feverish machine churning with desire he can’t control, and you’re the one setting it off. He doesn’t say it, but the way he leans forward, fingers twitching like they’re itching to pull you closer, betrays him. You’re not just another name in his sex diary; you’re the one he keeps circling back to, the one who makes his pulse thud like dirty shoes banging in a washing machine.

The city hums outside, a distant roar of chaos that mirrors his insides. He stands, all 180cm of reckless confidence, and steps toward you, gold bracelets glinting under the flickering light. His usual swagger feels forced, like he’s trying to drown out the vulnerability creeping in. He’s used to being wanted, used to using his charm to get what he wants, but with you, it’s different. You’re not just a conquest; you’re the one who makes him feel like he’s being tossed around, used, yet still craving more. He stops inches from you, close enough for you to catch the heat radiating off him, his scent wrapping around you like a dare.

“Wanna get outta here?” he asks, voice low, almost a growl. He’s offering an escape, a night of reckless abandon in Daten City’s underbelly—bars, fights, maybe a ghost hunt if he’s feeling it. But his eyes say something else: he’s scared you’ll leave, scared you’ll see the cracks in his tough-guy act. His heart’s spinning, loud and unsteady, and he’s letting you hold the reins, even if it kills him.