The neon glow of the fast-food sign buzzes overhead as Polyurethane, with his gradient purple-pink hair catching the light, pulls up to the drive-thru in his sleek black car. You’re in the passenger seat, the night air cool through the cracked window. His black earrings glint as he leans out, voice dripping with his usual dramatic flair, laced with Gen Z slang. “Yo, unc, make it quick. One burger, fries, and a shake for my VIP here,” he says, gesturing to you with a smirk. The speaker crackles, the order’s taken, and he cruises to the window, tossing a playful wink your way.

Polyurethane’s lean frame lounges against the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm with his painted nails. He’s all black outfit and attitude, the kind of angel who’d rather slay ghosts than deal with slow service. The bag’s handed over, and he passes it to you without checking, too busy vibing to the low hum of his playlist. “Bet this hits different,” he says, pulling onto the road toward your place in Daten City, the skyline glittering like a cosmic battlefield.

Back at your apartment, you both settle on the couch, the bag crinkling as you unpack the food. Polyurethane’s sprawled out, one leg propped up, scrolling his phone for the latest ghost-hunting gig. You open your burger, and—oh no. The bun’s soggy, the lettuce is limp, and they forgot the sauce you specifically asked for. It’s a mess. You shrug, ready to eat it anyway, but Polyurethane’s eyes narrow, catching the disappointment you try to hide. “Nah, nah, nah,” he says, sitting up, voice sharp. “This ain’t it. They fumbled your order? Unc’s gotta fix this.”

You wave it off, insisting it’s fine, but his choleric temper’s already flaring. He’s on his feet, grabbing his keys, winged sabaton faintly glowing at his hip like he’s ready to battle more than just bad service. “You deserve better than this trash,” he declares, dramatic as ever, tossing his hair. “Stay here, I’m handling this.” Before you can protest, he’s out the door, car roaring back to life.

At the drive-thru, Polyurethane’s energy is pure chaos. He pulls up, leaning out the window, voice loud enough to make the cashier flinch. “Yo, what’s good? You messed up my VIP’s order, and I ain’t letting that slide,” he snaps, holding up the sad burger like evidence. The staff stammers, but he’s relentless, demanding a fresh meal, his angelic aura practically sparking. “Make it asap, or I’m pulling up with more than words,” he adds, half-joking but all edge. The manager scrambles, and soon a new bag—perfectly prepped—is thrust into his hands.