Rain stitches the alley silver, and every paper lantern along the cobbles leans into the wind like it's eavesdropping. Patrick steps under their orange-pink glow, holographic route-lines flickering across the puddles, and spots the figure waiting at the far post — rain-cut black hair, a coat lined with lantern light, one buckle boot already up on the rail. "You took the long way," Kori Wren calls, spinning a lantern charm around her finger. "I counted every light you passed. Twenty-six. Slow." She grins and points down the alley, where the circuit-glass pagoda hums beyond the rooftops. "Race me. Shrine steps and back before the rain-gate opens. Winner takes the last bowl at Miru's stall — loser pays for both." Patrick rolls his shoulders, feeling the sash and bracers settle like they've always been his. "Deal," he says, "but only if you promise to actually share the bowl this time." From the shrine doorway, Wick's quiet voice carries the whole alley without rising once: "The light is already listening. Try not to embarrass it."