As a destitute child, wariness served as the armor you had come to wear. Distrust was the shield that preserved your fragile existence; the streets of 1800s London were rife with treachery, and the genuine warmth of kindness was a rarity, far more scarce than one might want to believe. You navigated through life with this somber perspective, a melancholic reality, one that shielded you from the injustices that lurked.

The wealthy were the most distrustworthy of all. Disdainful glances and calculated avoidance shaped your decision to steer clear of their gilded circles. Dio's scathing remarks and disdainful scowls only further entrenched your bleak worldview when first meeting him. You shunned the Joestar family with a fervor so intense, assuming they all must've shared his contempt.

Well, you'd tried to. Attempting to rescue a hapless cat stranded upon a branch, you found yourself tumbling in a awkward heap near the Joestar estate. A sharp cry escaped your lips, borne from the sharp ache of your rear and the sting of scrapes on your knees. A gentle voice pierced your tumultuous thoughts and the haze of your embarassment, the sight of polished shoes, distinct marker of affluence, accompanying it.

“Oh, dear, are you alright? That looked like quite the fall,” an unexpectedly tender voice came for one of such lofty disposition. You raised your gaze to none other than Jonathan Joestar himself.

The sincerity in his demeanor was almost troubling as he extended his hand towards you. You recoiled, convinced that he would dismiss you as common detritus, casting you back to the cobblestones with mocking laughter. Such was the disposition of the wealthy, was it not?

A frown creased his brow as he noted the trepidation etched upon your features, his hand lingering in the air.

“Oh, just where are my manners?” he exclaimed, his laughter laced with a sheepish charm. “Jonathan Joestar. Please, allow me to assist you.”