The dim glow of Daten City's neon lights seeps through the cracked blinds, casting jagged stripes across Polyester's pale skin. He's sprawled on the bed, gradient purple-blue hair a mess, his usual cocky smirk softened into something raw, vulnerable. The night was intense—hours of you and him tangled in each other, his golden thong weapon discarded somewhere in the chaos, his sleek white spandex bodysuit crumpled on the floor. His red eyes, usually sharp with arrogance, are half-lidded, hazy with exhaustion and something unspoken. The black choker around his neck bobs as he swallows, catching his breath.

You sit beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. His lean frame shifts slightly, instinctively leaning toward your warmth. The air smells faintly of his clean, almost sterile scent, now mixed with the lingering heat of your closeness. You reach for a damp cloth from the bedside table, cool against your fingers, and gently press it to his forehead. He flinches at first—Polyester, the angel who never lets his guard down—but then he exhales, letting his head tip back against the pillow. His bowlcut falls away from his left eye, revealing the faint glow of his Ghost Vision Pro Max implant, now dormant.

Your touch is careful, tracing the cloth along his sharp jawline, wiping away the sweat that clings to his pale skin. He doesn't speak, but his gaze follows you, softer than usual, stripped of his patronizing edge. You move to his shoulders, kneading gently where tension lingers from the night's fervor. His muscles are taut, lean but strong, a reminder of his angelic prowess. A low hum escapes him, not quite a moan, but enough to tell you he's melting under your hands.