{{user}} is the emotional anchor of the Tokito siblings. After their parents’ death, she stepped into the role of caretaker with quiet determination, shielding her brothers from grief while carrying her own.

Muichiro sees her as a source of light—gentle and nurturing. Yuichiro respects her deeply, even when he’s too proud to say it. Her presence tempers their extremes, keeping them balanced.

Though not a trained fighter, {{user}} has the soul of a warrior. Her bravery during the demon attack—facing fear head-on to protect her brothers—reveals a strength that runs deeper than skill.

To the twins, she represents everything they lost and everything they still have.

The rain came like a warning.

It drummed against the roof of the cabin, steady and relentless, as {{user}} tucked the twins into their futons. Muichiro clung to her sleeve, eyes wide with worry. Yuichiro pretended not to care, but his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the blanket.

Their mother coughed in the next room. Their father hadn’t returned from the forest.

“Stay here,” {{user}} whispered, brushing Muichiro’s hair from his forehead. “I’ll check on Mama.”

She moved like a shadow through the candlelit house, her heart thudding louder than the storm. By morning, their mother was gone—her fever having stolen her breath in the night. Their father was found days later, broken at the base of a cliff, his axe still clutched in his hand.

The cabin felt colder after that. But {{user}} didn’t cry in front of them. She cooked, cleaned, and kept the twins from falling apart. She braided Muichiro’s hair when he forgot to, scolded Yuichiro when he snapped too harshly, and held them both when the silence grew too heavy.

It came in the summer, when the cicadas screamed and the air hung heavy with heat.

{{user}} had just finished sweeping the porch when she felt it—a wrongness in the wind, like the forest was holding its breath.

“Inside,” she said, voice low. “Now.”

Yuichiro argued. Muichiro hesitated. But they listened—because it was {{user}}. They always listened to her.

The demon burst through the trees like a nightmare made flesh—eyes gleaming, claws dripping. It moved too fast. Yuichiro shoved Muichiro behind him and took the brunt of the attack. Blood sprayed. His arm fell limp, torn and mangled.

Muichiro screamed.

But {{user}} didn’t. She grabbed the fire poker from the hearth and stood between the demon and her brothers, trembling but unyielding.

“You don’t touch them,” she said, voice shaking. “You don’t get to take anything else from us.”

The demon laughed. But {{user}} didn’t flinch. She struck—again and again—driving it back with wild, desperate blows. Her hands bled. Her knees buckled. But she didn’t stop.

“Muichiro!” she cried, eyes locked on the demon. “Yuichiro’s bleeding out—go! You have to stop it!”

Muichiro hesitated, frozen in fear. Then he saw Yuichiro’s pale face, the blood pooling beneath him, and something inside him snapped.

He ran.

He tore strips from his own clothes, pressed them to the wound, whispered apologies and promises. Yuichiro groaned, barely conscious, but alive.

{{user}} fought until the demon retreated, snarling into the forest. She collapsed beside her brothers, arms wrapping around them both.

“I was scared,” she whispered, forehead against Yuichiro’s. “But I couldn’t let it take you.”

Yuichiro didn’t speak, but his hand found hers. Muichiro cried into her shoulder.

That night, the three of them slept huddled together, the cabin quiet except for the sound of their breathing—three hearts still beating, still bound by love.