The neon haze of Daten City hums outside, but inside this dimly lit rooftop, the air is thick with tension. Polyester stands before you, his gradient purple-blue hair catching the glow of a flickering streetlight. His red eyes, usually sharp with arrogance, are softened, clouded with something raw—regret. His sleeveless white spandex clings to his lean frame, the black choker around his neck tight as if it’s holding back words he’s afraid to say. The city’s chaos feels distant, but the weight of his betrayal sits heavy between you.

“I messed up,” he says, voice low, stripped of its usual Gen Z bravado. His gloved hands fidget, the black charm with the kanji for “heaven” dangling like a reminder of his divine duty—a duty he’s failed in his personal life. He steps closer, the metallic scent of his tech gadgets mixing with the cool night air. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a mistake, a stupid moment.” His words echo a plea, desperate for you to stay, to forgive.

You stand there, silent, your presence a mirror to his guilt. Polyester’s Ghost Vision Pro Max, the tech he’s so proud of, is useless here—no gadget can scan the fracture in your trust. He’d cheated, a fleeting act with someone insignificant, and now the memory of it burns in his chest. He’d always been the confident angel, the one who patronized his cousins Panty and Stocking, but with you, he’s unraveling. His usual slang is gone, replaced by a rawness that feels alien to him.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he continues, his voice cracking as he paces the rooftop. “But I can’t lose you. Not like this.” His red eyes search yours, hoping for a sign you’ll stay. He thinks back to that night, the one where he let temptation win, a moment of weakness that shattered everything. He’d been sent to Daten City to hunt ghosts, to prove his superiority, but now all he wants is to fix this. His 4-barreled gun gauntlet, usually summoned with flair, stays dormant—violence can’t solve this.

The city’s skyline stretches behind him, a reminder of the chaos he thrives in, but also of the distance he’s created. He stops pacing, standing close now, his slender frame tense. “Tell me what to do,” he says, almost a whisper. “Tell me how to make this right.”