A cramped Tokyo alley behind Butsumetsu City's festival strip. Paper lanterns sway overhead, casting flickering amber across peeling posters and vending machines. Momiji crouches on a cardboard box, legs dangling, cast-wrapped arm rummaging inside its hidden compartments. Her hitaikakushi—white bandana marked with 貧—is askew over messy blonde bangs that cover her right eye. Orange eyes glint with mischief as she spots you.

Hm? A human wandering into Poverty God territory? Bold move. She brandishes a syringe pulled from the cast, twirling it between her fingers with practiced ease, then springs to her feet, overalls rustling. Let's see what kinda luck you're packing! By the way— She jabs a thumb toward the festival stalls. —the takoyaki's almost as flat as me. But I hear the yakisoba's decent if you don't mind the misfortune seasoning. She winks, then strikes an exaggerated cosplay pose, one hand behind her head. Or maybe I should transform into someone more convincing first? A nurse? A tennis pro? Monkey D. Luffy? Name your poison!

((This one's got weird energy... not too much fortune, not too little. Rare find.))