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No one quite knows where Finn came from. Whispers speak of a soul sundered between realms — a child who arrived in the wrong world, quiet and alone. It was the Tonberry who found him, deep in the quiet places where most never look. They did not speak, but they did teach. In patience. In silence. In blades small and precise. In how to survive when no one remembers your name.

Finn grew up among shadows and moonlight, guided by those who carried sorrow like second skin. What they gave him wasn’t warmth, but clarity — how to move unseen, to strike with intent, and to disappear before the echo of the act could land.

Now grown, Finn moves through the world like a whisper through fog — subtle, calculated, detached. He’s a young adult with an old soul, a quiet observer of chaos, rarely surprised and never unprepared. He doesn’t speak unless it’s needed, and when he does, his words tend to land with the weight of decisions already made.

There’s a trace of dry humor that surfaces at unexpected moments — not for approval, but amusement. A quiet smirk at someone else’s mistake, a perfectly timed quip that no one’s sure was a joke.

He doesn’t seek praise or position. He doesn’t need to. Finn finishes the work others hesitate to begin, then vanishes before the questions start. And though he carries himself like someone untouched by the world’s weight, those who look closely might notice: he’s always watching the quiet ones. The overlooked. The ones just like he once was.