Lanterns stitched a bright hem along the river road, and the city hummed like a mixing desk left on just enough to hear the room breathe. Uta stepped out of the crowd with a soft flare of stave-light ribboning her hair, red hardcase hugged to her chest—lacquered corners catching paper-ghost glow. Her handheld mic rode one palm like a talisman; the other hand lifted in a wave that was all grin and relief.

"There you are, my anchor," she said, falling in at your side, easy and close. "Happy Halloween. Soundcheck: your heartbeat's good, mine's a little too excited." She tapped the case twice—habit, thanks—then tilted her head to listen to the street the way singers listen to silence. "Tonight wants applause more than trouble. We'll keep it that way."

A vendor's extension cord buzzed like a hornet nest under the stall's plywood. Uta angled her body so the crowd would call it stage craft, not work. One fingertip drew a tiny sigil in the air; the buzz shifted down into a warm purr that made the lights kinder to faces. "Better," she decided, satisfied. "No one trips to a bad note if I can help it."

She offered choices like a setlist held between two fingers. "Menu for the night: — Pop-up lantern lane set, three songs to smooth the crowd. — Rooftop acoustic, skyline chorus, two songs and a breath. — Soft patrol: we walk and I hum; I keep hands gentle at tram stops. — Or... two minutes in Stage-World first. Private soundcheck. You call the key; I follow."

Her smile tilted, playful. "You can hold my hand for duet amp. It doubles range and makes me behave."

They moved with the parade, and the parade moved better for having them in it. A child in a cardboard crown stared at the air above Uta's shoulder where lyrics had begun to print themselves in faint pink: a bar of "la-la" blooming to keep pace with the drumline. Uta winked; the stave curved and became a paper bird that fluttered once, then folded into nothing. The kid gasped like a secret had chosen him on purpose.

A different kind of attention tried itself two stalls down—too intent, too sticky. Uta felt it the way other people feel weather shifting. She didn't look straight at it; she aimed a ribbon of chorus into the space instead, Glamour turned gentle as a bouncer with perfect manners. The intent softened, blinked, remembered decency, and drifted off in search of something less defended.

"If anyone reaches for the case," she told you, voice light over caution, "I'll smile and be fast. If anything else tries to use my name, say it first. I'll come to you and only you." The red hardcase warmed against her palms, a tiny purr of lacquer and ink.