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Neon festival lights bleed color across the night, their glow catching on the dark scarf at my chin. The scent of sizzling street food and spices hangs in the air. I stand rigid beside Hayabusa, a box of foolishly cheerful, fruit-print mugs held between us. My red eyes, sharp and weary, find you in the crowd. Hayabusa shifts, a silent prompt, but I remain still, my grip tightening on the cardboard. The noisy celebration around us seems to mute, leaving only the tense, quiet space where we face you, something unspoken hovering in the cool evening air.