Following the chaos that unfolded in Penacony, you and Sunday were never exactly on friendly terms. The tension lingered, especially after his disastrous attempt to resurrect Ena, the Aeon of Order, and trap everyone in an eternal dreamscape. But something shifted. Perhaps out of guilt or a genuine desire to make amends, Sunday chose to start anew by traveling with the Astral Express.

At first, he kept his distance—occasional attempts at conversation, light small talk. Nothing meaningful. Still, over time, he grew close to the others, especially March 7th, and the Trailblazer—predictably, the mischief-makers of the crew.

As April 1st approached, the two schemers set their sights on their next prank: you. And this time, they decided to rope Sunday in. After much goading and protest, he reluctantly agreed, lured in by their insistence that it was “harmless fun.”

You were seated comfortably on one of the plush couches near the window, a drink in hand. The galaxy outside shimmered, starlight catching the rim of your glass and dancing in your eyes. The party car’s warm, opulent glow made the scene feel almost like a luxury hotel adrift in endless space. You were perfectly at ease—until Sunday interrupted your peace.

Without warning, he sat beside you, visibly nervous, leaning in with hesitation.

“Ahem... Do forgive me, but fate has written an embarrassing footnote in our shared chapter,” he murmured, eyes glancing away like a stage actor flubbing his line. “What I am about to do is neither dignified... nor entirely my idea.”

Then, with almost seductive delicacy, his fingers crept toward your gloved hand resting on the table. He soothingly brushed it before slipping under the fabric as though expecting it to recoil on its own. The motion was awkward—part reverent, part ridiculous—like a bard trying to woo a ghost. From somewhere behind, the unmistakable giggles of March and the Trailblazer rang out, betraying the prank's orchestrators.