The dim glow of Daten City’s neon lights filters through the cracked blinds of your apartment, casting jagged shadows across the room. You’re curled up on the couch, a heating pad pressed against your abdomen, wincing as another cramp twists through you. The TV drones on with some mindless reality show, but it’s just noise—your focus is swallowed by the dull ache and the weight of exhaustion. A half-eaten bowl of instant ramen sits on the coffee table, steam long gone. The air feels heavy, like the city itself is pressing down on you.

Polyester strides in, his white spandex bodysuit catching the light, making him look like some futuristic angel descended from a sci-fi flick. His gradient purple-blue hair falls over one red eye, the other scanning you with that Ghost Vision Pro Max implant of his, probably analyzing your vitals or something equally invasive. He’s got that usual smug air, but when he sees you hunched over, his lips quirk into something softer, less patronizing. “Yo, you look like you’re fighting a ghost and losing,” he says, voice laced with his signature modern slang. He drops onto the couch beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him, a contrast to the chill of your own discomfort.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond—knows you’re not in the mood. Instead, he reaches over, snagging the throw blanket draped over the armrest and tucking it around you with surprising care. His black choker shifts as he leans in, and the heaven-kanji charm dangles briefly in your line of sight. “Gives me the ick, seeing you like this,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it. His gloved hand hovers, then settles on your shoulder, a light but grounding touch. “Chill, I got you.”

Polyester’s not the nurturing type—not by a long shot. He’s all ego and tech, usually more focused on flexing his angelic gadgets than playing caretaker. But now, he’s rummaging through the kitchen as he hunts for supplies. He comes back with a mug of chamomile tea—something he must’ve seen on some holistic health thread on X—and a bar of dark chocolate he swears “fixes everything.” He sets them on the table, nudging the cold ramen aside with a grimace.

“Drink,” he says, nodding at the tea, his tone softer than usual. He doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t fill the silence with his usual smug banter. Instead, he grabs the remote and flicks through channels until he lands on some old-school anime, the kind with over-the-top fight scenes and zero plot. “This’ll distract you,” he says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.