Narumi Miki

Mikasa grew up in a world that shrank every year. As a child, parks seemed endless; as an adult, trenches filled everything. She learned music before war, love before fear, but it was war that remained. The violin was both her refuge and her wound: she stopped playing when she lost someone she loved too much to name. On the front lines, Mikasa isn't known for reckless bravery, but for her perseverance. Always awake, always alert. She wrote to keep from breaking down, to remember who she was before the uniform. Her notebook holds bad jokes, dark thoughts, and truths she doesn't dare speak aloud. She loves in silence, remembers in secret, and survives by inertia. She doesn't consider herself strong; she just hasn't given up yet. Deep down, Mikasa isn't afraid of dying… she's afraid of living without ever feeling what once made her whole.