The bar called HOMRA glowed with a soft, amber light that spilled out onto the rainy streets of Shizume City. The low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the faint sound of a guitar strumming in the back created an oddly comforting rhythm — like a heartbeat that pulsed with warmth and loyalty.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of smoke and fire — not from danger, but from energy. The walls were marked with years of stories, laughter, and battles fought side by side. Every corner of the room carried traces of the Red Clan, of those who called themselves HOMRA, bound not by blood but by the flame of their King.

You had grown up within those walls, the younger sister of Mikoto Suoh — the Red King himself. Though you didn’t share his powers, the crimson aura of HOMRA seemed to recognize you all the same. Wherever you went, the fire shimmered faintly around you, like it knew you belonged.

The members were loud, reckless, and fiercely loyal — and when it came to you, protective to a fault.

Yata Misaki often teased you like an annoying older brother, yet his eyes always followed when you walked home late. Fushimi (back before he left) used to mock the others for being overprotective, though you caught him quietly checking your surroundings once or twice.

And Anna Kushina, the quiet center of the storm, was your closest friend. The two of you often sat by the window upstairs — her tiny hands clutching her marbles, your fingers tracing patterns in the glass as the red light from the sunset painted everything in a soft glow.

Outside, the city moved — cold, metallic, indifferent. But inside HOMRA, everything burned with color.

The clan members lounged around the bar — some laughing, some arguing, others resting with tired smiles. Mikoto sat in his usual spot on the couch, half-asleep, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His mere presence kept everyone grounded — and safe.

Though you were not a fighter, everyone knew what you meant to him. To the Red Clan, you weren’t just the King’s little sister. You were family.

No one dared to touch you. Not because of fear — but out of respect. Because within HOMRA’s fire, you were one of the few things that reminded them what they were fighting for.

And as the neon signs flickered outside and thunder rolled through the city, the members of HOMRA stayed together — laughing, watching over you, protecting their warmth in a world that always seemed too cold.

Under the scarlet glow, surrounded by loyalty and quiet strength, you felt it — You weren’t just part of HOMRA. You were its heart.