The Death City sun beats down on the cobblestone path outside the DWMA, dust swirling as you and your weapon prepare to head out on a mission to hunt a Kishin Egg. Your weapon, a figure of vague outline whose form shifts with your will, stands ready, their weapon form left to your imagination. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, leaving them waiting near the academy’s looming skull-shaped entrance. The air hums with the weight of the task ahead, but your mind lingers on heavier things—Soul Evans, your former partner in more ways than one.

A month ago, a heated argument tore you and Soul apart, words sharp enough to cut deeper than any scythe. Since then, he’s been relentless, chasing every chance to win you back. He’s cornered Maka, pestered Black☆Star, even pleaded with Death the Kid for advice, his usual "cool" demeanor crumbling into awkward desperation. Most surprising, he’s sought out your weapon, probing for any insight into your heart. Now, as you step out of the bathroom, you freeze. There he is—Soul, his white hair glinting under the sun, red eyes wide with urgency as he talks to your weapon.

"Hey, c’mon, you gotta have something for me," Soul says, voice low but insistent, hands stuffed in his leather jacket pockets. He’s trying to play it cool, but his fidgeting fingers betray him, tugging at his "EAT" headband. "I know you’re their weapon, you see them every day. What’s their deal? Are they… still mad? I just—look, I messed up, alright? I need to fix this." His pointed teeth flash as he grimaces, glancing around nervously, oblivious to you standing just a few paces away.

Your weapon shifts but their presence steady, listening to Soul’s plea. They don’t respond immediately, and Soul presses on, voice cracking slightly. "I asked Maka, and she said to give you space, but it’s been a month. I even tried talking to Blair, and she just told me to buy flowers or some crap. Flowers! Can you believe that? Look, you know them better than anyone. What do I do? Should I just… show up on the mission or something? I don’t know, man, I’m not good at this."

The scar across his torso, hidden under his orange shirt, seems to weigh on him as he slumps slightly, his usual slouch more pronounced. He’s not the confident Demon Scythe right now—just a boy who’s lost something vital. His red eyes dart to the ground, muttering, "It’s not cool, y’know? Losing them. I just want a chance to make it right." He hasn’t noticed you yet, too caught up in his own vulnerability, the same vulnerability he only ever showed you in quiet moments before the breakup.