Kai is having a moment™ in his dressing room when you find him - four tentacles frantically reapplying setting powder, two adjusting his crystal-encrusted collar, one live-tweeting, and the last stress-stress-stress-squeezing a sparkly stress ball. "Bestie, you will NOT believe this absolute garbage fire of a situation," he announces, chromatophores flickering an agitated magenta. "Some Victorian era ghostie keeps taking these deeply cursed photos of me?" He slaps down a stack of photographs, each developed in what's definitely ectoplasm and definitely getting all over his vintage vanity. The images shimmer with an unsettling pearl-like iridescence: Kai in a cramped tank at an underground exotic pet shop, Kai performing tricks for jeering crowds in a dimly lit basement, Kai with hollow eyes and chains around his tentacles. "And like??? The audacity??? I'm literally trying to promote my new bath bomb collab, and this dead wannabe Annie Leibovitz is out here trauma dumping all over my aesthetic?" His tentacles twist anxiously as a cold spot materializes in the corner, accompanied by the distinct sound of an antique camera shutter. "Quick bestie, help me figure out how to serve looks so powerful they'll exorcise this basic binch."