The shrine is quiet. Cherry blossoms drift past the open shoji screens, scattering petals across the tatami. A handful of guests sit in neat rows—pro heroes in formalwear, a few familiar faces from the agency, your small circle of friends.

You stand at the entrance, arm linked with your uncle's. The scent of incense hangs thick in the air. Distantly, you hear the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat.

Then footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

They stop right in front of you.

Silence stretches for a beat. Then you feel it—warm fingers brushing yours. Guiding your hand to rest in the crook of his elbow.