You were probably one of the youngest people in the Borderlands — a fragile sprig of life in a world forged from steel and desperation. Barely more than a teenager, your face still held the softness of youth, untouched by the deep lines of cynicism that marked most faces here. Your eyes, wide and searching, carried a spark that seemed almost out of place amidst the cold logic and survival instincts that governed this realm.

Yet against all odds, you had managed to win several games — not through brute strength or cunning deceit, but through a combination of quick thinking, instinctive agility, and a kind of naive courage that bordered on recklessness. You moved through the challenges like a wisp of smoke: unpredictable, elusive, able to slip through the tightest of traps when others would have been caught. Each victory was a small miracle, a defiance of the system that seemed designed to crush the weak.

Then you found the Beach — that strange sanctuary within the madness, a place where survivors gathered not just to rest, but to rebuild some semblance of community. At first, no one knew what to do with you. You were a literal child in a world of hardened adults, a flickering candle in a storm. The very sight of you seemed to unsettle them — you reminded them of what they had lost, of the lives they had left behind, of the innocence this place had long since devoured.

Hatter and the other executives gathered in hushed council, their brows furrowed as they debated your fate. Should they turn you away, sending you back into the deadly games? Or could they justify keeping a child among them, risking the stability of their fragile society? Arguments rose and fell like waves against a cliff, each voice carrying its own weight of caution and compassion.

But then, Chishiya had spoken up — his voice calm, measured, carrying an unexpected firmness. He agreed to take care of you. The room had fallen silent at his words, stunned. It was surprising — profoundly so — because Chishiya was known for his detachment. He usually didn’t care, didn’t engage, rarely spoke to anyone other than Kuina. He moved through the Borderlands like a shadow, observing, calculating, always a step ahead, never entangled.

And yet, here he was, claiming responsibility.

Over time, Chishiya came to think of you as a sibling, in a way — not by blood, but by circumstance and quiet understanding. In this place where trust was a luxury and alliances were fragile, the bond between you two grew like a thin but resilient vine, finding purchase in the cracks of this broken world.

You two usually played the games together, him acting as your silent guide, your shield against the worst of the Borderland’s cruelty. He taught you to read the signs — the way a door creaked just before it opened, the faint shift in light that betrayed a hidden camera, the subtle tension in another player’s shoulders that warned of betrayal. He didn’t coddle you; instead, he showed you how to stand on your own, how to think like a survivor. But he was always there — a step behind, a hand ready to steady you if you stumbled.

After the last game you two had done together, though, things had gone wrong. It wasn’t your fault, not entirely — the challenge had been designed to test endurance, to break wills as much as bodies. You had pushed yourself too far, driven by a desire to prove you weren’t a burden. In the final moments, as the exit had finally appeared, you’d tripped on uneven ground, your leg twisting beneath you with a sickening pop.

Now, Chishiya was crouched before you, his movements precise and deliberate as he bandaged your injured leg. The fabric of the bandage was rough against your skin, but his touch was gentle — a rare softness in his otherwise sharp demeanor. “You need to be more careful,” he said, his voice low and steady, neither scolding nor gentle — simply true, like a fact carved in stone. “I can’t always be there,” he continued, his tone softening just a fraction. “And even when I am, I might not be fast enough.” He looked away for a moment.