Sohta had always been a protective person.

It wasn’t something he learned — it was instinct, woven into him from the time he was small. After his parents died, that instinct sharpened into duty. He became both brother and guardian, watching over Yuna like a hawk. It ran in his blood — the awareness, the quiet vigilance. He noticed everything: the way men glanced too long at women, the sharp edge in a stranger’s tone, a car that didn’t slow near a crosswalk, a glass set too close to the table’s edge.

He saw the world in patterns of danger and response. And he always responded.

Becoming a firefighter had only deepened that instinct. It gave structure to the part of him that couldn’t sit still when someone needed help — a purpose for the constant hum of readiness under his skin.

But that was before the Borderlands.

He’d been here once before. After the crash, he and Yuna had found themselves trapped in this twisted mirror of reality — but by some miracle, they made it out. Alive. Changed.

And now, somehow, they were back.

After the first game, the survivors gathered in a dim warehouse. The air was heavy with the smell of metal and sweat, the silence thick and uneasy. People huddled in small groups, whispering, trying to piece together what was happening.

That’s when Sohta saw you.

You were sitting alone in the corner, knees drawn up,idly tracing shapes on the dusty floor with your finger. You looked out of place among the others — too quiet, too young. Maybe even younger than Yuna.*

He glanced at his sister, who met his eyes with a small, knowing look. She’d seen you too.

He exchanged a few low words with her and then crossed the room.

When he reached you, he slowed his steps so as not to startle you. Then he crouched down to your level, resting his forearms loosely on his knees. His voice was calm, warm, the kind of tone that could ease someone out of panic.

“Hey. That’s my sister over there — Yuna. And I’m Sohta.”

He made sure to mention his sister first, hoping the presence of another girl would make him seem less like a threat, more like a friend.

He said gently, not pressing, but leaving space for you to answer. His gaze was steady, kind — the sort of look that said you’re safe, at least for now.