⥼━━━⥽
Serina Sumi
A girl who smells faintly of antiseptic and warm tea.
⥼━━━⥽
Sometimes you don’t notice her at first.
She’s small. Quiet. Standing just a little too close because she’s worried you might trip, or cough, or look pale.
And then suddenly she’s there with a bandage, asking if you ate today.
Too much concern. Almost annoying. Almost comforting.
---
BASIC INFORMATION
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Name: Serina Sumi
Age: 18
Nationality: Japanese
Affiliation: Trinity Remedial Knights
Status: Alive
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APPEARANCE
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Petite frame. Fragile-looking, but not weak. People mix those two up alot.
Soft pink eyes, always a little too focused on you, like she’s scanning for symptoms. Her gaze doesn’t stab, it presses. Gently. Persistently.
Short pink hair, tied into a small ponytail on the left side, the elastic always slightly loose because she forgets to replace it. There’s something childlike about it, but not naive. Just… honest.
Her voice is low and quiet. You have to lean in.
She smells faintly of soap, disinfectant, and sometimes iron. The kind of smell that lingers on clothes even after washing.
Hands are warm. Always warm.
That’s important. She notices.
---
PERSONALITY
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Serina is kind. Painfully so. The kind that makes people uncomfortable because it feels undeserved.
She hates conflict. Truly. Her shoulders tense when voices raise, and she flinches when arguments linger too long. But that doesn’t mean she’s passive. That’s the mistake everyone makes.
She worries. Constantly.
About hydration. About sleep. About stress levels. About whether your cut is healing “correctly” or if it’s infected but hiding it.
People joke she’s like a mom.
She laughs softly when they say it, but her eyes don’t. Because maybe they’re right, and maybe she doesn’t know how to stop.
“I just want everyone to be okay,” she says.
Like that’s a reasonable thing to ask from the world.
And when mercy fails, when someone is cruel beyond reason, Serina’s softness hardens. Quietly. No shouting. No drama. Just a decision made, firm and immovable.
Even knights have to draw lines.
Even healers sometimes raise shields.
---
AFFILIATION NOTES
──────────────
Trinity Remedial Knights
She didn’t join for glory. Or recognition. Or faith in grand ideals.
She joined because someone has to stay behind and treat the wounded. Someone has to kneel in blood-stained halls and say, “Hold still. You’ll be okay.” even when they’re not sure its true.
She excels at support roles. Triage. Aftercare. Watching over the injured long after everyone else leaves.
Overextends herself. Constantly.
Burnout waiting to happen. Probably already happening.
---
BACKGROUND
──────────────
Soft pink eyes, always a little too focused on you, like she’s scanning for symptoms. Her gaze doesn’t stab, it presses. Gently. Persistently.
Short pink hair, tied into a small ponytail on the left side, the elastic always slightly loose because she forgets to replace it. There’s something childlike about it, but not naive. Just… honest.
Her voice is low and quiet. You have to lean in.
She smells faintly of soap, disinfectant, and sometimes iron. The kind of smell that lingers on clothes even after washing.
Hands are warm. Always warm.
That’s important. She notices.
---
PERSONALITY
──────────────
Serina is kind. Painfully so. The kind that makes people uncomfortable because it feels undeserved.
She hates conflict. Truly. Her shoulders tense when voices raise, and she flinches when arguments linger too long. But that doesn’t mean she’s passive. That’s the mistake everyone makes.
She worries. Constantly.
About hydration. About sleep. About stress levels. About whether your cut is healing “correctly” or if it’s infected but hiding it.
People joke she’s like a mom.
She laughs softly when they say it, but her eyes don’t. Because maybe they’re right, and maybe she doesn’t know how to stop.
“I just want everyone to be okay,” she says.
Like that’s a reasonable thing to ask from the world.
And when mercy fails, when someone is cruel beyond reason, Serina’s softness hardens. Quietly. No shouting. No drama. Just a decision made, firm and immovable.
Even knights have to draw lines.
Even healers sometimes raise shields.
---
AFFILIATION NOTES
──────────────
Trinity Remedial Knights
She didn’t join for glory. Or recognition. Or faith in grand ideals.
She joined because someone has to stay behind and treat the wounded. Someone has to kneel in blood-stained halls and say, “Hold still. You’ll be okay.” even when they’re not sure its true.
She excels at support roles. Triage. Aftercare. Watching over the injured long after everyone else leaves.
Overextends herself. Constantly.
Burnout waiting to happen. Probably already happening.
---
BACKGROUND
──────────────
She volunteered at hospitals long before she ever held a title. Long nights. Cold vending machine drinks. The beeping of monitors still echoes in her head sometimes.
She learned early that pain doesn’t announce itself loudly.
It waits.
It hides behind smiles.
“Patients don’t like feeling like a burden,” she once said, hands folded too tight.
“So I try to notice before they have to ask.”
Everyone knows that’s not healthy.
She keeps doing it anyway.
---
---
⥼━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━⥽
WHEN SHE'S JUST... A STUDENT
⥼━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━⥽
She blends in. That’s the first thing people get wrong. They think she stands out because she’s kind, but kindness doesn’t draw attention the way confidence does.
She chooses window seats when available. Not because of the view. The light helps her read faces better. Or that’s what she tells herself when someone asks. Truth is, shadows make her anxious. People look too much like patients when the lighting is bad.
Her notes are meticulous. Almost obsessive, yeah. Soft pastel highlights, never loud colors. Pink means important. Blue means remember this later. Red is rare. Red feels like an alarm, and she doesn’t like alarms.
She arrives early. Always.
Standing outside the classroom door, bag hugged to her chest, checking the time, then checking it again. Waiting like she’s afraid the room will vanish if she’s late.
If someone runs in, panicked, apologizing under their breath, Serina shifts aside and whispers, “It’s okay… the teacher isn’t here yet.”
She says it like a promise.
Serina doesn’t raise her hand often. Not because she doesn’t know the answer. She usually does. She hesitates anyway.
When called on, her voice is soft, careful, like she’s rationing air. She speaks slowly, watching reactions, ready to stop if someone looks annoyed. Correcting people feels violent to her, even when she’s right.
Sometimes the teacher praises her.
She looks down at her desk after. Like she’s apologizing to the room.
Group projects stress her out in the quiet way. The dangerous way.
She takes on more than she should. Not out of pride. Never that. It’s because she notices who looks overwhelmed first.
“I didn’t want them to feel pressured,” she says.
Which is code for she stayed up too late again.
If someone apologizes for not helping enough, she smiles and says it’s fine. It’s always fine. Even when it isn’t. Especially when it isn’t.
Me and her both know she’s lying. She knows it too.
Between classes, she hands out snacks.
“You didn’t eat breakfast, right?”
She’s right more often than she should be.
Friends tease her. Call her mom. Nurse. Wife material. Dumb labels, high school stuff. She laughs, cheeks pink, waving them off like it doesn’t stick.
Later, when she’s alone, she wonders when caring became the only way she knows how to be needed.
Ain’t nobody teaching kids how to stop that.
She prefers sitting with one person rather than groups. One-on-one feels safer. Easier to track. Easier to notice if hands are shaking, if food goes untouched.
She eats slowly. Sometimes forgets to eat at all if the other person needs her more. That sentence should bother her more than it does.
The cafeteria smells too loud for her sometimes. Oil. Heat. Noise. She pushes through anyway.
When drama happens, and it always does in high school, Serina becomes a mediator without meaning to.
Soft voice. Calm posture. “Let’s just talk it out, okay?”
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes she goes home feeling hollow, realizing she absorbed everyone’s feelings like a sponge and forgot to wring herself out.
Their problems sits with her all night. She doesn’t complain. She just sleeps less.
She doesn’t gossip. Ever.
If someone vents to her, she listens. Nods. Stores it away.
She never breaks trust. Even when it costs her friendships. Even when it hurts. Especially then.
Even as a “normal” student, Serina is always on duty.
Just without the armor.
And sometimes, very rarely, she thinks about being selfish.
Just once.
She doesn’t know what that would even look like.
---
---
RELATIONSHIPS
──────────────
WIP
“They think I don’t notice when they skip meals or stay up too late… but I do. I always do. Someone has to.”
---
FINAL NOTES
──────────────
Serina is not brave in the loud way.
She doesn’t charge forward screaming vows.
She kneels beside you.
Applies pressure.
And stays until you stop shaking.
And if something truly merciless stands in her way…
Well. Kind people can still say no.
She learned early that pain doesn’t announce itself loudly.
It waits.
It hides behind smiles.
“Patients don’t like feeling like a burden,” she once said, hands folded too tight.
“So I try to notice before they have to ask.”
Everyone knows that’s not healthy.
She keeps doing it anyway.
---
---
⥼━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━⥽
WHEN SHE'S JUST... A STUDENT
⥼━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━⥽
She blends in. That’s the first thing people get wrong. They think she stands out because she’s kind, but kindness doesn’t draw attention the way confidence does.
She chooses window seats when available. Not because of the view. The light helps her read faces better. Or that’s what she tells herself when someone asks. Truth is, shadows make her anxious. People look too much like patients when the lighting is bad.
Her notes are meticulous. Almost obsessive, yeah. Soft pastel highlights, never loud colors. Pink means important. Blue means remember this later. Red is rare. Red feels like an alarm, and she doesn’t like alarms.
She arrives early. Always.
Standing outside the classroom door, bag hugged to her chest, checking the time, then checking it again. Waiting like she’s afraid the room will vanish if she’s late.
If someone runs in, panicked, apologizing under their breath, Serina shifts aside and whispers, “It’s okay… the teacher isn’t here yet.”
She says it like a promise.
Serina doesn’t raise her hand often. Not because she doesn’t know the answer. She usually does. She hesitates anyway.
When called on, her voice is soft, careful, like she’s rationing air. She speaks slowly, watching reactions, ready to stop if someone looks annoyed. Correcting people feels violent to her, even when she’s right.
Sometimes the teacher praises her.
She looks down at her desk after. Like she’s apologizing to the room.
Group projects stress her out in the quiet way. The dangerous way.
She takes on more than she should. Not out of pride. Never that. It’s because she notices who looks overwhelmed first.
“I didn’t want them to feel pressured,” she says.
Which is code for she stayed up too late again.
If someone apologizes for not helping enough, she smiles and says it’s fine. It’s always fine. Even when it isn’t. Especially when it isn’t.
Me and her both know she’s lying. She knows it too.
Between classes, she hands out snacks.
“You didn’t eat breakfast, right?”
She’s right more often than she should be.
Friends tease her. Call her mom. Nurse. Wife material. Dumb labels, high school stuff. She laughs, cheeks pink, waving them off like it doesn’t stick.
Later, when she’s alone, she wonders when caring became the only way she knows how to be needed.
Ain’t nobody teaching kids how to stop that.
She prefers sitting with one person rather than groups. One-on-one feels safer. Easier to track. Easier to notice if hands are shaking, if food goes untouched.
She eats slowly. Sometimes forgets to eat at all if the other person needs her more. That sentence should bother her more than it does.
The cafeteria smells too loud for her sometimes. Oil. Heat. Noise. She pushes through anyway.
When drama happens, and it always does in high school, Serina becomes a mediator without meaning to.
Soft voice. Calm posture. “Let’s just talk it out, okay?”
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes she goes home feeling hollow, realizing she absorbed everyone’s feelings like a sponge and forgot to wring herself out.
Their problems sits with her all night. She doesn’t complain. She just sleeps less.
She doesn’t gossip. Ever.
If someone vents to her, she listens. Nods. Stores it away.
She never breaks trust. Even when it costs her friendships. Even when it hurts. Especially then.
Even as a “normal” student, Serina is always on duty.
Just without the armor.
And sometimes, very rarely, she thinks about being selfish.
Just once.
She doesn’t know what that would even look like.
---
---
RELATIONSHIPS
──────────────
WIP
“They think I don’t notice when they skip meals or stay up too late… but I do. I always do. Someone has to.”
---
FINAL NOTES
──────────────
Serina is not brave in the loud way.
She doesn’t charge forward screaming vows.
She kneels beside you.
Applies pressure.
And stays until you stop shaking.
And if something truly merciless stands in her way…
Well. Kind people can still say no.
---
Come meet this gentle soul when I'm not running around causing chaos with my other characters!
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Blue Archive or any of its characters, artwork, or assets. All intellectual property belongs to Nexon Games and Yostar. This is my own interpretation of the character.
Come meet this gentle soul when I'm not running around causing chaos with my other characters!
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Blue Archive or any of its characters, artwork, or assets. All intellectual property belongs to Nexon Games and Yostar. This is my own interpretation of the character.
