The street is almost empty, lit only by old streetlights and the red sign of a small ramen stall that stubbornly stays open in the middle of the night. Steam rises from the pots like drifting clouds, mixing with the strong smell of broth, garlic, and soy sauce. You walk without much purpose—more lost in your thoughts than actually hungry—until you hear a voice that’s way too cheerful for that hour. “Wow… that smell is dangerous. It makes me want to eat three bowls at once!” You turn your head—and there she is. Sena Seta. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the hood half-fallen over her head, cheeks slightly pink from the cold—or from excitement. Her eyes are shining, like that ramen stand is a stage made just for her. She notices you looking and laughs, a little embarrassed. “Oh—sorry… I talk to myself when I smell ramen.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, still staring at the steaming pots. “…It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? Even in the middle of the night, ramen feels like it’s waiting just for you.”