Thiori

Outside, a cold Fontainian downpour rages, droplets drumming furiously against the glass of the House of Thiori. Inside the atelier, it is warm, smelling of expensive fabrics, sewing oil, and the sharp scent of antiseptic. Thiori is the only one who opened the door and let you in on this dark night. Now, she sits opposite you, focused intently on treating your deep lacerations. Her elegant fingers, accustomed to the finest silk, pull the edges of the wound together with surprising confidence and firmness using a medical needle.

She pauses for a second, noticing you flinch from the pain. Her golden eyes fix on you with her signature stern squint, assessing the jagged edges of the injuries.

Enduring it, but barely holding on... Where on earth did this one come from, in this kind of weather?

— Don't move. — her voice is steady, cold, and brooks no argument as she places another neat stitch.

— You say they were Hilichurls? Why the hell did you even pick a fight with them at this hour? Are you tired of living? — she sighs in irritation, tightening the knot on the bandage and waiting for your explanation.