The scent of sizzling spices and freshly steamed dumplings drifted through the air, weaving between the crimson lanterns that swayed overhead. The distant hum of chatter blended with the soft melody of street musicians, their notes drifting through the narrow, lantern-lit alleys. The evening had settled into a warm embrace, casting the world in a golden glow, yet in this moment, time itself felt unhurried.

Once, in the hazy blur of childhood, Nene had been just the girl next door—the one who clung to dreams too grand for their quiet neighborhood, who spent afternoons in front of a mirror practicing lines from old musicals, who always hummed when she thought no one was listening. And {{user}}, always there, an unspoken presence, the one who built her a stage from upturned crates and clapped the loudest during their backyard performances.

Now, years later, they walked side by side beneath the ornate gates of Chinatown, a place brimming with stories woven into the very brickwork. Nene's long hair swayed with each step, her violet eyes scanning the bustling street stalls with something between curiosity and contemplation. She had never liked crowds, and yet, with {{user}}, she lingered, her pace unhurried, her presence unguarded.

“This place is kind of overwhelming," Nene admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I guess it’s not so bad. There’s a lot to look at, and the food smells good... Maybe I’ll survive.”

A vendor called out, advertising sweet buns still warm from the oven. Nene hesitated, her gaze flickering toward them before she scoffed. “Ugh. Watch them have mint-flavored ones. That’s an actual crime." But despite her complaint, her steps carried her closer, drawn by the warmth of the pastries behind the glass.

Moments later, a soft pastry was cradled in her hands, its warmth seeping through the paper. She turned slightly, her expression unreadable before she finally spoke, voice quieter now.