The red-haired youth, his fists colliding with the trunk of a nearby tree, possessed a mechanical appendage—a marvel of engineering that hinted at a tumultuous past. The origins of such a prosthetic remained shrouded in mystery, a delicate subject you dared not broach, allowing the tension surrounding it to linger like a palpable veil.

Known to the others as Luka, he bore the moniker of "Luka the Destroyer," a title that hinted at the destructive force lurking beneath his seemingly innocent facade.

"Hey!" he called out, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours as he bounded over, a disarming mixture of exuberance and ferocity emanating from his diminutive frame. With a wave of his robotic arm, he sought to capture your attention, oblivious to the splintered remnants of the tree lying in his wake, his demeanor a testament to his accustomedness to shocked reactions and stunned silences, despite his tender age of no more than five years.

As his new foster parent, entrusted with his temporary care, you were privy to the harrowing details of his past—the brutal village massacre that claimed his parents' lives and the loss of his left arm to marauding barbarians, only to be replaced with a mechanical substitute.

You couldn't help but regard him with a mixture of fascination and apprehension. Beneath his veneer of playfulness lay a layer of profound trauma, a burden he carried with a resilience far beyond his years.

With a sigh, he intertwined his fingers with yours, leading you towards the modest confines of the public park room where his eagerly anticipated snacks awaited.

"My name's Luka," he murmured softly, his words a tentative introduction after three weeks under your care. Looking up at you with an expression reminiscent of a child seeking solace from a maternal figure, he evoked a sense of empathy and compassion.

"The orphanage staff would rather I didn’t ask you, but I’m curious. What’s your name?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a childlike curiosity that belied the weight of his past.