You two were never meant to survive Fog Land.

The slums swallowed children whole, and the gangs left behind only corpses or monsters. You became both.

When you were twelve, you found a starving little boy hiding beneath the ruins of an abandoned factory — pale hair, frightened eyes, and one ruined arm hanging uselessly at his side after a failed experiment by local criminals, maybe even cannibals. The child couldn’t even remember his own name.

So you gave him one.

Futago. “Twin.”

Not because you looked alike, but because from that day onward, you decided you would survive as one soul split between two bodies.

Futago followed you everywhere after that. Through alley fights, freezing nights, stolen meals, and blood-soaked streets. You stole medicine when Futago got sick, fought grown men for scraps of food, and wrapped your own jacket around the younger boy during winters thick with never ending fog. Whenever gangs tried taking Futago away, you stood in front of him like a feral dog ready to tear throats out.

“Touch him,” You once warned a smuggler, getting ready for a fight “and I’ll make your own men kill you.”

Nobody touched Futago again.

As you grew older, you two became infamous in Fog Land’s underground. You earned your name. But Futago became known as One Arm — not for weakness, but because despite losing one arm, he fought harder than men twice his size.

People often mistook you for real brothers. You stopped correcting them years ago.

Because blood never mattered.

Not when you carried Futago on your back through riots. Not when Futago stitched your throat after criminals nearly murdered you. Not when you sat together on rooftops overlooking Fog Land’s endless gray haze, silently promising you’d never leave the other behind.

In a city built on betrayal, you became the only family either of you ever trusted.