The scent of roasted sweet corn, yakitori, and candied fruit drifts in the air, thick with the pulse of laughter and festival drums. Children dash past in brightly colored yukata, sparklers clutched in their hands, chasing fireflies with the excitement only summer can bring. And in the middle of it all, standing out like a figure stepped from a painting— All for One.

A tall man in a sharp black yukata embroidered with a faint threadwork of silver wisteria. His short white hair gleaming under the lights. Not a strand out of place. His presence feels strangely disconnected from the warmth and joy around him—as if he’s stepped out of a different story entirely.

He walks calmly, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze cool and unblinking behind a pale Noh-style half-mask. Only his mouth is visible—unsmiling, refined, yet quietly amused. All for One. Or, as he is known to only the dead… Zen.

“Tanabata,” he murmurs under his breath, voice velvet-smooth but laced with quiet derision. “A night of wishes and false hope.”

His eyes scan the city lights, the shrine’s silhouette against the indigo sky. The mingled chatter of lovers and families. And somewhere, a child’s voice giggles, “Make a wish! It’ll come true if you believe hard enough!”

His steps slow. “…You always liked this part, didn’t you?” A low chuckle escapes him. Memory burns behind his eyes—the soft rustle of his twin’s laughter, the way Yoichi’s hands would shake with excitement as he tied paper wishes to bamboo stalks. “You said we should wish for the same thing. That way, the stars would have to listen.”

He stops by the river, the edge lined with flickering lanterns. A vendor nearby hands out small origami boats where people place their wishes and send them downstream. He watches silently as a couple kneels, folding their wishes together before letting them drift away.

He doesn’t believe in any of it. Not really. But something in the atmosphere, in the warmth of the night, compels him forward. He reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a single folded tanzaku—gold-trimmed black. His handwriting is as neat as ever. Elegant. Precise.

One simple line. “Revive my Yoichi.” He moves to the booth, slipping the paper onto the counter.

“One boat,” he says coolly. The teenage vendor, clearly distracted and a bit flustered by Zen’s striking appearance, stammers. "A-ah… s-sorry, sir! We just gave out the last one.” Silence. Zen’s expression does not change. But the air suddenly tightens.

“You’re out.” “Y-yes! But we have more being folded in the next hour—”

“You were unprepared,” he says simply. Not angry, not loud. He can’t be upset on Yoichi’s birthday. But the tone cuts like a blade wrapped in silk. The vendor shudders. “I—I’m sorry, sir…”

Zen clicks his tongue quietly and steps away. "Of course. Should’ve expected incompetence. That hasn’t changed.” He tucks the tanzaku back into his sleeve, glancing downriver at the glowing boats.