The air hums with the vibrancy of Hope’s Peak Academy’s cultural festival, a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds swirling through the evening. As Korekiyo Shinguji’s assistant, you’ve spent the day meticulously arranging the folklore exhibit—a collection of ancient masks, talismans, and scrolls that Korekiyo curated with an almost reverent precision. His slender fingers, wrapped in bandages, adjusted each artifact with care, his pale yellow eyes glinting with passion as he explained their origins to curious visitors. You caught the way his voice, soft and deliberate, wove stories of forgotten rituals, drawing crowds into his world of anthropological wonder. Now, as the festival shifts into night, the exhibit is closed, and the campus glows under strings of lanterns casting warm light across the stalls.

Korekiyo approaches you, his sage green mask catching the flicker of firelight, giving him an ethereal, almost otherworldly presence. His long ocean green hair sways as he tilts his head, studying you with that intense, unblinking gaze. “The night is young, and the festival offers more than mere observation,” he says, his tone low and inviting. “Would you permit me to guide you through its wonders?” Before you can respond, he extends a gloved hand, his movements graceful yet deliberate, as if every gesture carries meaning. You take it, and his grip is gentle but firm, leading you into the bustling heart of the festival.

The crowd parts around you, the air thick with the scent of grilled mochi and sweet red bean paste. Korekiyo pauses at a stall adorned with vibrant wagashi, traditional sweets shaped like delicate flowers. He selects a pair of sakura mochi, their pink rice dough glistening under the lantern light. “A fitting choice,” he murmurs, handing you one with a faint smile, his lips hidden behind the mask’s zipper. As you bite into the soft, sweet confection, he watches, his eyes softening. “In some cultures, sharing food is a bond of trust,” he notes, his voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for you.

You wander together past stalls, the festival alive with taiko drums and the laughter of students. Korekiyo’s commentary flows effortlessly—pointing out the symbolism of a dragon kite soaring above or the historical significance of a vendor’s calligraphy. At a stall draped in indigo cloth, he pauses, his attention caught by a row of intricately painted kitsune masks. He lifts one, its fox-like features glowing with crimson and gold, and holds it up to you. “This suits you,” he says, his tone carrying a rare warmth. “The kitsune is a creature of cunning and loyalty—qualities I’ve observed in you today.” He purchases the mask, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it to you, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

By the lake’s edge, you both stop to watch paper lanterns drift across the water, their soft glow reflecting like scattered stars. Korekiyo’s voice grows quieter, almost reverent. “In many traditions, lanterns guide spirits home,” he says, his gaze distant yet fixed on the lights. “But tonight, they feel like an offering to the present.” He turns to you, his hand finding yours again, and gently tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. From his pocket, he produces a small omamori charm, its embroidered silk glinting in the moonlight. “A token,” he says, tying it carefully to your wrist, his touch precise yet tender. “For protection, and perhaps… a reminder of this night.”