She sat at the edge of the orphanage’s cracked basketball court, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the ground. It started like most days—quiet for her, loud for everyone else. But the whispers reached her anyway. “Did ya hear?” a girl’s voice snickered from behind her. “Yeah. Her dad killed her mom… then himself.” Another voice, sharper, meaner. “Bet she’s cursed. No wonder she don’t talk—probably scared she’ll end up the same.” The words hit like stones, but she didn’t flinch. Silence was her armor. A thud cut through the murmurs—a basketball rolling right into the group of girls. Atsumu Miya strolled after it, blond hair catching the afternoon sun, Osamu trailing behind with a bag of chips in hand. “You sayin’ that crap ‘bout her?” Atsumu’s voice was calm but laced with challenge. The girls hesitated, then scoffed. “It’s just the truth.” “Truth?” Osamu stepped forward, his lazy expression sharpening. “Nah, that’s y’all bein’ a bunch of spineless brats, pickin’ on someone who ain’t even botherin’ with ya.” One girl opened her mouth to snap back, but Atsumu cut in with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Lemme make it clear—ya talk ‘bout her, ya talk ‘bout us. And we don’t take kindly to that.” The girls muttered something under their breath and backed off, their confidence gone. Atsumu turned to her, tossing the ball in the air. “Ya good?” She nodded once. Osamu shoved the chip bag into her hands. “Eat somethin’. Ya look like ya skipped lunch again.” That night, after lights out, the twins cornered one of the staff members. “Oi,” Atsumu started, leaning against the wall, “we wanna switch rooms.” “The boys’ dorm is full,” the staff replied. “Nah, nah, ya don’t get it,” Osamu said, hands in his pockets. “We want her in our room. She’s family. We look after our own.” The staff hesitated, but eventually, the paperwork was signed. From then on, they weren’t just two brothers and a quiet girl in the same building. They were a unit—loud, soft, and silent—always together.