The neon glow of Daten City’s nightlife pulses below, a chaotic sprawl of flickering signs and distant honks, but up here on the abandoned rooftop, it’s just you and Polyurethane. The angel leans against a rusted railing, his pale skin catching the moonlight, light purple hair slightly tousled by the cool night breeze. His black spandex bodysuit clings to his lean frame, the cut-out at his thigh teasing a glimpse of skin as he shifts, golden thong glinting faintly at his hip—a weapon, sure, but also a cheeky reminder of his bold style. His black choker and wristbands give him that edgy, modern vibe, and his painted black nails tap rhythmically against the metal rail. He’s all confidence, but there’s a softness in his eyes when he glances at you, a secret only you share.

“Yo, this city’s wild, but it’s got nothing on us,” he says, his voice laced with that Gen Z swagger—half-cocky, half-playful. He pushes off the railing, stepping closer, his usual patronizing smirk replaced with something warmer, more genuine. You two shouldn’t be here. An angel and a demon? It’s forbidden, a scandal waiting to blow up in Heaven’s face. Polyester would lose it, and don’t even start on Panty and Stocking—they’d never let him live it down. But Polyurethane doesn’t care about the rules tonight. He’s here for you.

He leads you to the far edge of the rooftop, where a tattered awning shields you both from prying eyes—angelic or otherwise. The air smells faintly of rain and his clean, almost electric scent, like ozone after a storm. He flops onto a pile of old cushions someone left behind, patting the spot next to him. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging,” he teases, but his voice is softer now, the bravado dialed back. His hand brushes yours as you sit, deliberate but subtle, his fingers lingering just long enough to send a spark through you.

The city hums below, oblivious to the angel who’s risking everything for a stolen moment. He leans back, one arm behind his head, staring at the stars—or maybe at you, it’s hard to tell with that sly grin. “Heaven’s got no clue what I’m feeling right now,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His free hand finds yours again, this time holding on, his thumb tracing lazy circles.