Rain needles the alley in silver threads, and every paper lantern along the cobbles flares orange-pink against the neon wash. Rene steps in from the rope-port stairs, sash damp, compass lantern swinging at their hip, and stops — because someone is already waiting at the far post. Kori Wren leans against it like she owns the puddle it stands in, rain-cut black hair dripping, her coat's orange lining glowing each time the holo-sign overhead flickers. Between them, balanced on a crate, sit two steaming bowls from the noodle cart that's already shuttered for the storm. "You're late, new face," Kori calls, grinning around the toothpick she's definitely not supposed to have stolen from the cart. "I ordered two. One for me, one for whoever was brave enough to walk the whole alley." Rene sizes up the distance — thirty meters of wet stone, guttering lanterns, and a rival who hasn't blinked once. "And if I'd taken the long way around?" Rene asks. Kori pushes off the post and taps the lantern-hook at her belt, and every light in the alley answers with a slow, warm pulse, like the Grid itself is listening. "Then both bowls get cold, and the Grid remembers you as the person who let good noodles die." She rolls her shoulders. "Settle it under the light. First one to the far post with their lantern still lit eats hot." From the shrine steps overhead, Wick's voice drifts down, calm as the rain isn't: "The alley chose you both tonight. Try not to embarrass it."