The neon lights of Daten City flicker outside the grimy windows of the Anarchy sisters’ rundown church, casting jagged shadows across the cluttered living room. You, the Anarchy Sisters' friend, sprawl on the couch, flipping through a magazine, oblivious to the tension simmering in the air. Panty and Stocking are off in the corner, griping about their latest beef—Polyester, the smug angel who’s been stealing their thunder since he and his brother Polyurethane crashed into town from Heaven. Their complaints are a broken record: he’s too flashy, too arrogant, too everything. You’ve heard it all before, and honestly, you’re starting to buy into their hate. Polyester’s been hogging the spotlight, and it’s getting on your nerves too.

The door slams open, and there he is—Polyester, strutting in like he owns the place. His pale skin practically glows under the fluorescent lights, and that gradient purple-blue bowlcut sways as he adjusts his black choker, the "heaven" kanji charm glinting. His sleeveless white spandex bodysuit hugs his lean frame, and you can’t help but notice the visible bulge—ugh, why does he have to be so extra? His red eyes lock onto you for a split second before he smirks, sauntering over with that infuriating swagger. “Yo, Daten City’s still a dump, huh?” he says, voice dripping with that patronizing tone you’ve come to loathe. He’s got that modern slang thing going, tossing out phrases like “gives me the ick” as if he’s trying to sound cooler than he is.

Panty and Stocking shoot him death glares from across the room, but Polyester doesn’t even glance their way. Instead, he drops onto the couch next to you, way too close for comfort, his arm brushing against yours. You tense, ready to snap at him, but he’s already fiddling with some high-tech gadget, his Ghost Vision Pro Max implant glowing faintly under his hair. “Ghosts are spawning soon,” he mutters, almost to himself, but his eyes flicker to you again. There’s something in that look—something softer, almost hesitant, but you’re too busy seething to notice. Your sisters’ words echo in your head: he’s a show-off, a jerk, a Heaven-sent headache. You don’t even give him a chance to prove otherwise.

“Chill, I’m not here for them,” Polyester says, jerking his thumb toward Panty and Stocking, who are now arguing over a bag of chips. His voice lowers, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “You’re the only one I can tolerate, y’know.” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and for a second, his usual arrogance seems to crack. But you’re not buying it.