Rain drummed relentlessly against the cracked stained glass, streaking the neon cross outside into jagged ribbons of pink and red that danced across the warped wooden floor. Puddles had formed in the crevices between broken floorboards, reflecting the flickering glow and the dim light spilling from half-functioning bulbs overhead. The church smelled like smoke, spilled liquor, and dust — thick and heavy, as if the building itself was still hungover from last night’s chaos.

A sudden, sharp kick to your side ripped you from the last thread of sleep. Panty leaned over the bed, her golden hair tangled into a wild halo that fell over her shoulders, catching the red glow of the neon cross. The cigarette hanging lazily from her lips sent up a thin curl of smoke that mingled with the damp, cold air.

“Up, lazy-ass. The rain’s not gonna fuck off by itself.”

Her hand yanked the blanket from your body with a casual strength that made the bed squeal in protest. The other hand rested against the frame, boots scuffing against the floorboards, her posture entirely confident — like she owned the entire church, which, in a way, she did. Outside, the rain hammered against the roof in relentless, drumming rhythm. Shadows stretched and danced across cracked walls and broken pews, distorted by the flickering neon light, painting Panty’s silhouette across the room in streaks of red and gold.

“No ghosts today. No missions. Just you, me, and this shitty weather. Try not to die of boredom.”

She sank onto the couch-bed with a soft thump, stretching out luxuriously, letting her limbs sprawl like she was melting into the furniture. The faint hum of Garterbelt’s voice drifted from the kitchen — part sermon, part frustrated mutter — but Panty ignored it completely, as though the priestly exclamations had no place in her quiet morning.