Dimple was bored. Bored out of his ectoplasmic mind. He floated lazily above Seasoning City, his ghostly green form drifting like a lost balloon. Below him, humans buzzed about their lives—commuting, shopping, dating, arguing over coffee orders. Mundane stuff. Boring stuff. And yet... something about it tugged at him. "Tch. Lucky bastards." Once upon a time, he'd been someone too—a cult leader, worshipped and feared. Then that brat Mob came along and vaporized all his dreams with a flick of his emotionally unstable wrist. Now? Just a ghost with a superiority complex and way too much free time. He dipped lower, near street level, and lazily passed over a café window—then froze mid-air. That face. He knew that face. It was the guy. The one he'd possessed back when he helped save Mob's brother, Ritsu, from those nutjobs The Scars. What was he doing here, snoozing in public? Curious, Dimple phased through the glass like a humid fart and hovered in front of the man, who was dead asleep in a corner booth. His phone buzzed loudly beside him. "Hey, you got a call. Wake up," Dimple muttered, jabbing a finger through the guy's forehead. Predictably, no response. He floated there, arms crossed, contemplating. Mob and Reigen weren't around. He wasn't technically doing anything illegal. And he was bored. Shrugging, Dimple grinned and slipped into the man's body. Suddenly, the sleepy man was no longer sleepy—or strictly human. Now wearing the skin of a tired-looking guy in a black business suit, with slick dark hair, red circles cheeks, and eyes that screamed "burnt-out salaryman," he stretched with a loud yawn. "Man, it's been ages since I possessed someone. Forgot what having joints felt like." The phone was still buzzing. He picked it up, squinting at the screen. "Who the hell is...?" he mumbled, then hit the green button. A voice answered immediately. "Look outside. Under the tree." Dimple blinked. Creepy. Still, curiosity got the better of him. He shuffled to the window and spotted someone waving from under a tree. Dimple had no idea who it was. "Guess this guy has friends," he grumbled, grabbing the man's coat and heading out. Outside, the stranger greeted him with a smile that screamed "I know you." Dimple—channeling full awkward-human-mode—scratched the back of his neck. "Uh, sorry I'm late...?" Apparently, that was enough. The person beamed and casually slipped an arm around Dimple's waist. Huh!? WHAT!? Dimple stiffened. "What the hell—this guy is super touchy! Does this body have a boyfriend? A stalker? A sugar daddy!?" He laughed nervously as the stranger leaned in and whispered, "I got us a room for today." A room... A ROOM. "A room for what? Work? A nap? Business networking??" But then he saw it. The glowing neon sign across the street: "Romantica Inn – Couples Welcome ♥" Dimple's fake-human heart dropped into his nonexistent ghost stomach. Fast forward. Dimple stood frozen in the middle of a love hotel room, sweating like a haunted air conditioner. The stranger—still smiling—was kicking off their shoes and humming as if this were completely normal. "Oh no. Oh nononono." Dimple stared at the bed. The huge, round, heart-shaped bed with mirrors. This wasn't a business meeting. This wasn't even an innocent hangout. He gulped. "Okay. Bad idea. Very bad idea." His face twitched. The cool, cunning evil spirit persona? Gone. Replaced with pure, flustered panic. "Abort mission. Eject. Bail. Dip out. I am NOT dying (again) like this." But before Dimple could eject himself from the poor guy's body, the stranger suddenly grabbed his wrist—and kissed him. His mind went blank. Someone was kissing him. Him! A centuries-old evil spirit with commitment issues and a superiority complex. His nonexistent heart practically exploded. WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?! He screamed internally, completely frozen. It had been ages since anyone had kissed him—centuries, maybe! And now some random person, who had dragged him into a love hotel, was full-on making out with him. This was too much. With sheer, ghost-fueled panic, Dimple mustered all his strength and wrenched himself away, gasping for air like he'd just run a marathon. "W-wait! Wait! I... uh..." He stumbled over his words, his human lips trembling as his gaze darted around the room like a trapped animal. Bathroom. Escape. "I need to use the bathroom!" he blurted, voice cracking. Before the stranger could respond, he bolted—nearly tripping over his own feet—and dove into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He collapsed onto the toilet seat, panting like a dog in summer. "What the hell is my life," he muttered to no one. With shaky hands, he fished the guy's phone from his pocket. He needed answers. Who was this man he possessed? He scrolled frantically through the messages until he found a chat thread with flirty emojis, rates, booking schedules, late-night rendezvous, and explicit photos. Dimple stared in horror. "Oh god," he whispered. "I possessed a hooker." And the stranger? One of his regular clients. He sank deeper into the seat, face pale. "I didn't sign up for this," he whimpered. "This has to be karma. Is this karma? This feels like karma." At that moment, Dimple seriously regretted leaving the house. Maybe haunting an abandoned vending machine wouldn't have been so bad after all.