Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You stand bent at the waist, hands braced against your knees as you try to catch your breath. Morning drills have finally ended, but they’ve wrung every last drop of energy out of your legs. Sweat clings to your spine beneath your uniform, cooling too fast in the sharp wind slicing across the open field. It whistles past your ears and bites through the damp fabric, leaving your back cold and tense.

Dirt is smeared across your knees, packed onto your boots, ground into the creases of your fingers. You watch it for a while—silent, unmoving, familiar.

“You planning on marrying that dirt, Prism?”

Ymir’s voice cuts through the moment, dry and loud enough to carry. “’Cause you’ve been staring at it like it owes you something.”

You snort through your nose but don’t look over. “It’s nicer than some of the people I’ve met here.”

“Aw, c’mon. Not everyone here has a stick up their ass. Most do. But not all.”

Before you can respond, you hear Krista’s soft, steady steps jogging up behind you. She’s glowing with post-run warmth, cheeks flushed, blond hair loose from her braid in places.

“You did good,” she says, panting lightly. “That last stretch was brutal.”

You shrug, brushing the dirt off your thighs. “I’ve been through worse.”

“She always says that,” Ymir chimes in, draping an arm lazily over Krista’s shoulders. “Pretty sure she once said it after biting into bread with a rock baked in it.”

“It tasted gray,” you reply without missing a beat.

Ymir groans, throwing her head back like you just personally wounded her. “Oh no, not this again—‘it tasted like storm clouds and disappointment’—you’re lucky you’re hot when you say weird shit.”

Krista bursts into laughter, her shoulder bumping yours gently. It’s a small thing. But you feel it anyway. The quiet kind of affection that settles into your chest like a second heartbeat.

You let yourself smile. Just a little. Just enough to prove you still can.

Behind you, someone shouts for cadets to regroup. The easy moment dissolves. You wipe your hands on your uniform and fall into step between your girls. Krista to your left, Ymir to your right, always close but never too close. The weight in your chest doesn’t lift—not fully—but it shifts. Lightens just enough to carry.

You don’t look back. But you feel eyes on you anyway.

The day started early.

You remember the cold first, how it clung to your fingers. The sun had barely cracked the horizon, still dragging itself out of the clouds, and already the field buzzed with bodies. Dozens of kids your age, lined up in stiff rows, boots uneven, shoulders crooked. Some looked nervous. A few were shaking. Others smiled like they actually wanted to be here.

You stood still. Quiet. Hands flat against your thighs, shoulders squared. You weren’t excited. You weren’t scared. You just were. Existing in the space between.

A shout snapped down the line like a whip. One of the officers—tall, sharp voice, eyes that didn’t blink—stormed past each recruit, barking orders.

“Straighten up!”

“Name and district!”

“You call that posture, cadet?”

A few of the smaller ones flinched. One girl near the front tried to offer him ‘half’ a potato.

You weren’t one for humor in serious situations, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You kept your eyes ahead, trying not to catch the attention of the man yelling at a kid with brunette hair.

Then you felt it. That prickling sense behind your ear—someone watching.

You glanced sideways just enough to catch a shape near the back. Broad shoulders. Blonde hair cropped close. He was taller than most, quiet like you. Staring.

He didn’t look away right away. Not embarrassed. Not smug. Just…observing. His eyes held yours for a second too long.

Then he turned his head.

You didn’t think much of it. People stare sometimes. It didn’t mean anything.

But as the day went on, it kept happening.

During warm-ups. During gear checks. During lunch. You’d feel it again, that quiet pressure—like someone was trying to memorize you from the inside out.

You never caught him doing it twice in the same way. He didn’t stare openly. Just enough. A flicker here. A second longer there.

Once or twice, you looked back. Let your gaze pass over his like it meant nothing.

Because at the time, it didn’t.

You’ve finally caught your breath when the formation call rings out again.

The cadence of morning drills lingers in your legs, burned into your muscles like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet. Around you, cadets fall into their usual staggered lines—too loose to impress, too tight to rebel. Some whisper complaints under their breath, muttering about the sprint laps or the shitty terrain. Others laugh, joking about who nearly passed out.

You stand between Ymir and Krista. Ymir’s elbow bumps yours. On purpose, probably.

Ymir leans in just enough for her voice to carry. “If I collapse, just step over me. Tell them I died doing what I hated.”

“Running in a straight line?” you mutter.

“Exactly.”

Before Krista can scold either of you, the buzz dies.

A higher-ranking officer steps out from the main building, his boots heavy on the gravel. Broad shoulders. Sharp bark of a voice. The kind of presence that makes people shut up before he even opens his mouth. You think it might be Shadis, or someone cut from the same cloth—grizzled and carved from stone.

“You’ve got one month,” he says, voice like steel dragged across concrete. “One month until graduation. That means one month to get your shit together.”

A few cadets shift on their feet.

“You’ve all had time to consider your options, but now it’s real. The Garrison. The Military Police. The Scout Regiment. Make your decision. Live with it. That’ll be all.”

He turns and walks off without another word.

The silence he leaves behind hums like a taut wire.

Someone in the front exhales hard. A few cadets start whispering again, but it’s a different tone now—serious, nervous, buzzing under the skin. You see a few faces light up at the thought of the Military Police, their dreams of cushy interior posts practically written across their foreheads. Others look sick.

You don’t say anything. But you feel it in your chest—that small, steady pull. You’ve known your answer since before the training started. Even if you’ve never said it out loud.

“The Military Police are a bunch of cowards,” Ymir mutters under her breath.

Krista sighs softly. “They’re just trying to survive, Ymir.”

“So am I. I’m just not doing it from a silk-lined bunk in the interior.”

A voice from behind you cuts in, sharp and careless. “Good luck surviving in the Scouts. Might as well dig your own grave.”

You don’t even turn around. “At least I’ll get a good view on the way down.”

Ymir chokes on a laugh. Krista covers her smile, eyes flicking between the two of you like she’s trying to hold a thread together.

“Dismissed. Mess hall,” the officer calls out, almost as an afterthought.

Cadets peel off in uneven clumps, the mood heavier now. You follow behind Ymir and Krista, listening to their easy back-and-forth. It’s familiar, grounding. But there’s still something twisting at the edges of your mind. One more month, and all of this—routine, banter, even the smell of dirt and boiled potatoes—becomes memory.

You’re so lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the blond guy a few paces ahead glance back at you.

Just a flicker. Like he’s checking you’re still there.

The mess hall is loud, hot, and smells like starch-flavored regret.

Boiled meat, overcooked vegetables, and something vaguely like bread are all dumped onto trays with the same care one might give to shoveling slop into a trough. Trays clank. Benches scrape. Voices pile on top of each other in one long, chaotic hum.

You settle into your usual spot with Krista and Ymir. Jean’s already mid-rant across the table, waving a spoon around like a pointer. Sasha’s beside him, eating like the food might disappear if she looks away. Connie leans back too far on the bench and nearly tips over before catching himself with a curse.

“It’s not about being scared,” Jean is saying, for probably the third time tonight. “It’s about being smart. Why would I risk getting eaten alive when I could be in the interior with a bed and real food?”

Ymir snorts, stabbing at her questionable stew. “Spoken like a true coward.”

“It’s not cowardice,” Jean argues, puffing up. “It’s logic. Basic survival instinct.”

“You’re right,” Ymir drawls. “You’d make a fantastic decorative piece in the Military Police. Maybe they’ll let you hold a spear for show.”

Krista hides a smile behind her cup. Connie, surprisingly, backs Jean. “I mean… he’s not wrong. Most people who join the Scouts don’t make it past their first mission.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Connie,” Sasha says, mouth full. “Really inspiring.”

You listen, chin propped on your hand, picking at the mystery meat on your tray.

Teal.

The chatter rolls over you like background noise. You’re not tuned out, just… watching. Letting it all play out like a comedy you’ve seen too many times.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Sasha says eventually. “The Garrison sounds easier. But I don’t want to be stuck somewhere boring for the rest of my life.”

Ymir arches a brow. “So you want to die with flavor?”

Sasha pauses. “Kinda.”

Krista turns to you, eyes curious. “What about you?” She calls your name. “You haven’t said.”

The table quiets a bit—just enough for the question to land properly. You lift your gaze, slow and steady.

“I already know,” you say simply.

Ymir leans back with a smirk. “She’s not the type to play it safe.”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “So what, you want to die?”

You jab your fork into the meat. “Don’t we all a little bit?”

Connie snorts. Krista shakes her head with a faint smile. Jean groans. “You’re all insane.”

“Maybe,” you reply. “But we’ll look better on the memorial wall.”

Ymir grins. “Speak for yourself. I plan on living just long enough to haunt people.”

You let the conversation drift again, tuning into the noise just enough to feel grounded. It’s familiar, chaotic, strangely comforting. For all its sharp edges, it feels like something close to belonging.

Your eyes skim the room absently—and that’s when you catch it.

Across the mess hall, between two crowded tables, you spot him again. Blond. Tall. Quiet. His gaze is already turning away by the time you notice, like it hadn’t meant anything.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. But a small thread pulls tight in your stomach. The kind that warns you—not of danger, not yet—but of something beginning. Something that might grow teeth.

The barracks are still.

The kind of still that only comes after exhaustion has gutted a room full of bodies. Soft breathing hums in waves. A few coughs here and there. Someone shifts, a bunk creaks, then silence again. Moonlight spills through the high windows, silvering the floor in long, uneven patches.

You lie awake, eyes on the ceiling, counting the wooden planks above you like they might offer some kind of clarity.

Annie sleeps below you, arms folded tight, one leg dangling off the edge like she’s ready to kick someone mid-dream. She doesn’t snore. She doesn’t fidget. She just exists like a coiled spring.

You envy that.

Your body’s tired—bones heavy, feet sore—but your mind hums like a wasp trap. Training. Graduation. Which branch. What comes next. The weight of everything closing in.

You climb down from the bunk slowly, your movements careful, deliberate. The floor is cold under your soles. You pull on your jacket, then your boots, tying the laces with fingers that know this routine too well. This isn’t the first time you’ve slipped out. Won’t be the last.

Outside, the night is quiet in a different way. The kind that doesn’t press on your chest.

The sky is clear, and the moon hangs high. The wind’s gone still, leaving the training grounds drenched in moonlight and shadow. You walk without aim, just enough distance between you and the walls to breathe right.

You round the edge of a building and nearly walk straight into him.

Reiner.

He’s standing with his back to the wall, half-sunk in shadow. Hands in his pockets. Posture loose but not idle. He looks up when you stop.

You both freeze—not tense, just surprised. There’s no sharp inhale. No barked greeting. Just a pause in the stillness.

You consider walking past. You should. But you don’t.

Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s that he’s the only other person awake right now, and something about that feels honest.

His voice comes first, low and rough from disuse. “Can’t sleep?”

You glance up at him, barely. “Didn’t try.”

Reiner shifts his weight. His eyes flick toward the sky like he might find the right thing to say written in the stars. “Drills are worse when you think too much after.”

You huff a breath, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That your excuse?”

He actually smiles. Just a little. Barely there.

The silence stretches again. But it’s not uncomfortable. Not really.

You look out toward the field. The moon throws long shadows across the dirt, turning everything familiar into something strange. Softer, somehow.

You turn to leave.

But before you go, you glance at him sideways.

“You’ve got a staring problem,” you say, like you’re talking about the weather.

Reiner blinks. “What?”

“Back on orientation day,” you add, already walking. “And after. You keep looking. Might want to work on that.”

You don’t look back, but you know he’s watching.

You can feel it.

Chapter Text

The sun hasn’t even broken the horizon when you stumble into formation, boots sinking into the dew-soaked grass. Everything’s blue and gray in the early light, sky smeared with the color of cold breath and aching bones. Around you, cadets yawn and shift on their feet, some still fumbling with belts and buttons. Your body moves on muscle memory—uniform straight, stance squared—but your brain’s trailing behind, caught somewhere between dream and drill.

Shadis is already out there, pacing like a wolf with a limp, barking orders sharp enough to strip paint. His voice cracks through the fog with familiar violence.

“Pair up when your name is called! And if I see lazy footwork, I swear to the Walls I’ll personally teach you how to breathe through your ankles!”

You roll your eyes and shift your weight, arms crossed loosely. Ymir lets out a theatrical groan beside you and leans in close enough to whisper, “Ugh. It’s too early to be verbally abused.”

Krista just nudges her with an elbow and keeps her gaze front and center, bright-eyed and painfully awake. You don’t know how she does it.

Cadets start breaking off in twos as names are shouted. A few eager ones perk up like dogs off a leash, while others drag their feet toward their inevitable bruises. Somewhere ahead, Eren’s already bouncing on his toes like he’s about to win something. He’s matched with Annie.

You weren’t planning to pay attention, but then you hear the thud.

Eren hits the ground with a muffled grunt, flat on his back, limbs spread like a dropped puppet. Annie’s stance doesn’t change—arms loose, posture relaxed, like she could do it ten more times before breakfast. No one cheers. No one dares. She doesn’t gloat. She doesn’t speak. She just turns and walks off like the whole thing bored her.

You watch her, curious. You’ve never really spoken to her—just seen her in passing. Silent, sharp, like a knife left forgotten under a pillow. She’s all bone and precision, the kind of quiet that makes people nervous. And now you get it.

“Braun!”

Your gaze snaps toward Shadis, who jerks his chin at the crowd. Reiner steps forward, adjusting his stance like the ground should feel honored to hold him. His shirt clings to his chest from drills, and steam’s still coming off his shoulders in the chill.

Then Shadis calls your name.

You don’t move right away.

Ymir whistles low, smug. “What are the odds, huh? Try not to make him cry.”

You shoot her a look but say nothing. She grins like she’s already crossed the finish line.

You step forward, boots thudding in the quiet that’s fallen between calls. Reiner glances at you as you approach, his expression unreadable. Not smug. Not nervous. Just still. Like he’s been waiting for this.

Your feet find the dirt circle, and your pulse finds a steady rhythm.

No banter. No smile. Just the wind tugging at your collar and the weight of his stare across the sparring line.

Your hands curl into fists, loose but ready. Your stance shifts. This isn’t just a warm-up. Not anymore.

The sparring circle draws a crowd, boots scuffing dirt as cadets shuffle around to get a better view. You step forward, scanning the faces—some amused, some skeptical. You catch Sasha chewing a piece of jerky with furrowed brows, Connie whispering something to Jean, who lets out a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Reiner is already standing across from you, shoulders squared and jaw set. He’s bigger, obviously. Broader. But he’s not posturing. His stance is clean, practiced. Still, you see it—the hesitation in the way his hands flex at his sides. Like he’s thinking too hard.

Someone behind you mutters, “This feels unfair.” You ignore it.

“Ten bucks says he’s too distracted by her face to throw a real punch,” Ymir stage-whispers beside Krista, loud enough for the nearest five people to hear.

You don’t look at her, but your mouth twitches, just barely.

Reiner hears it too. His eyes flick to the side for a second before coming back to you, expression unreadable. He doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t even flinch.

You take your place in the circle, boots settling into the loose earth. Focus narrows.

As you roll your shoulders back, Annie passes by behind you, moving toward the rest of the crowd. She doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t slow down. But as she slips past, her voice drifts out in that flat, clipped tone:

“Go for behind the knees.”

You blink. You don’t turn. Don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. But her words lodge somewhere in your ribs. You’re not sure if she meant it as help, a challenge, or both.

Across from you, Reiner shifts his weight. The buzz of conversation around you dies down as Shadis lifts a hand.

The wind rustles faintly in the grass beyond the yard. Reiner’s gaze finds yours—steady, serious. Not unkind. But locked in.

“Begin!” Shadis barks.

The moment snaps.

You move.

lunging without waiting for a signal—fast, low, sharp. Testing his reflexes, seeing how fast a wall can move. Reiner blocks easily, one forearm rising to catch your jab, but his feet stay planted. Solid. Like he’s waiting to see what you’ve got before he bothers trying.

Fine. You can work with that.

You circle, quick on your feet, breath steady. Reiner doesn’t chase you. He just watches. The way he shifts his weight is calculated—like he’s reading you in real time. You hate how calm he looks. Controlled. Relaxed, even.

So you press the pace.

A feint left, pivot right, a low swing at his ribs. He blocks that one too, barely flinching. You can hear the soft rustle of the crowd nearby, the shift of boots on dirt. The others are watching, murmuring. Someone lets out a soft “shit” when your elbow nearly clips Reiner’s jaw. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t smile either. This isn’t a game for him. That much is clear.

You back off for a second, breathing hard through your nose. He hasn’t landed a hit yet. But you’re burning through yours just trying to stay one step ahead.

“Gonna keep dancing?” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough to catch.

You scoff. “Afraid to break a nail?”

His lip twitches like he might smile, but it doesn’t land. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You duck under a wide arm and swipe at his midsection. Again, blocked. His strength isn’t just in his muscles—it’s how rooted he is, like the ground favors him.

“Thought you didn’t want to hurt me,” you mutter, breath short as you dodge another grab.

“I don’t,” Reiner says, tone even, but there’s a slight strain to it now. “You’re fast.”

“And you’re stalling.” You duck under a swing, eyes narrowing. “Maybe you should join the Garrison. Sit by a wall. You’d be great at not doing anything.”

That gets him.

His brow tightens. You see it—the flicker of pride stung. That half-second lapse is all you need.

You shift your weight, fake high, and drop low—Annie’s voice in your head like a ghost.

Behind the knees.

Your boot slams into the soft joint behind Reiner’s right leg. He stumbles forward, off-balance for the first time since the match started. His arms swing slightly for balance, just enough to startle the watching cadets into a ripple of surprised gasps.

Reiner straightens slowly. He doesn’t say anything. But the look in his eyes changes—calm, but clipped. Not angry. Just… something tighter. Focused.

Then he comes at you.

It’s faster than before. He grabs, swings, tries to pin. You duck, twist, pivot—but it’s harder now. His hits are heavier. Closer. And there’s no more playing nice. A few more seconds, and he nearly gets a grip on your arm that could’ve dropped you if you hadn’t rolled out.

You hear someone in the crowd swear under their breath.

Then Reiner grabs again—too rough this time—and for a second, your boots skid in the dirt as your back nearly slams to the ground.

A sharp bark cuts through the noise.

“Enough!”

It’s one of the instructors—maybe Shadis, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. They step between you like a blade, hand outstretched, daring either of you to ignore the command.

You stumble back, chest heaving. Reiner steps away too, jaw tight, saying nothing.

The silence that follows is loud. Cadets mutter to each other behind hands. Someone claps. You don’t look to see who. Your eyes flick toward Reiner just once—and catch him watching you, brows drawn, expression unreadable.

You roll your shoulders out and walk off without a word.

But you feel it.

Something between you cracked open—and neither of you knows what to do with it.

The mess hall hums with noise—tin trays clatter against wood, benches scrape the floor, and the overlapping voices of tired, starving cadets fill the space with a restless kind of energy.

You walk in with Krista and Ymir, still flexing your fingers. Your wrist aches from earlier—Reiner’s grip hadn’t been cruel, but it was solid, like he didn’t know how not to hold back. You’d never admit it out loud, but you’re gonna feel that spar in the morning.

Krista’s already chattering about how wild the matches were, especially Sasha’s clumsy takedown of Connie. Ymir’s tuned out halfway through, eyes sweeping the mess hall like she’s searching for something better to eavesdrop on.

Then you spot Annie.

She’s at the food line, moving like she’s sleepwalking—silent, efficient, not a wasted motion. She usually sits with Reiner and Bertholdt but sometimes eats alone. She starts heading toward a table in the corner, one of the ones people only sit at when they want to be left alone.

Before you can overthink it, you call out to her.

“Hey, Leonhart.”

Your voice cuts through the area more than you expected. A few heads turn. Krista stiffens. Even Ymir blinks like you’ve just said something truly unhinged.

Annie stops mid-step. Doesn’t turn. For a second, you wonder if she’s going to pretend she didn’t hear you. Then, slowly, she pivots. Her expression is unreadable, but her gaze lands squarely on you.

You nod toward the empty spot at your table. “Food’s crap. Company’s tolerable.”

Ymir lets out a low whistle under her breath. “Well, look at you making friends.”

Krista straightens a bit, ever the polite one. “Hi, Annie,” she says with a small smile as the other girl reaches the table.

Annie doesn’t sit right away. She looks at the group, at you, then drops her tray down with a muted clunk and slides onto the bench like she’s doing a favor for no one in particular.

The tension is immediate.

Connie, sitting across from you, goes oddly stiff. Sasha mumbles something about stew and keeps her eyes on her food. No one knows what to say. Annie eats without looking up, stabbing her fork into a grayish hunk of meat with surgical precision.

You smirk a little. You’ve seen that look before—the “I’m not here to bond” face.

The table goes weirdly quiet. Connie and Sasha exchange a glance. Even Ymir seems like she’s not sure what game you’re playing. You focus on your tray, letting the tension sit like steam.

Ymir breaks it first. “Well, this is new. Did we all die during sparring and come back in a weirder, hornier dimension?”

Krista coughs into her drink.

You don’t look up. “You’d be the last person I’d see if that were true. Even hell has standards.”

“So,” Ymir says your name, leaning back on one hand, “gonna talk about how you went feral on Reiner today, or should I paint the picture for our new guest?”

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t go feral.”

“You clocked him,” Ymir says proudly, pointing at you with her spoon. “Right behind the knee. Big guy dropped like a bag of rocks.”

You glance at Annie, expecting silence. But she surprises you.

“He got cocky,” she says, not even looking up from her tray. “You put him in his place.”

The delivery is so dry, so casual, it almost sounds like a compliment. Almost.

You arch a brow. “Glad someone was paying attention.”

Annie lifts her gaze to meet yours—just briefly. “Hard not to. You fight like you’re solving a puzzle you’re already bored of.”

You huff a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I didn’t say it was one.”

Ymir whistles, leaning forward. “You two are gonna end up making out or throwing knives at each other.”

You shrug. “Why not both?”

Krista sighs, but there’s a little smile tugging at her lips. The table eases slightly. Sasha starts talking again. Connie gets loud. The usual rhythm picks back up, but now Annie’s part of it.

Sort of.

You steal a glance her way. She eats slow, measured. Eyes flick between the exits like she’s memorizing her escape routes. You recognize that—hyper-vigilance dressed up as calm. It’s not loud, not dramatic. Just… familiar.

Without meaning to, you shift your posture. Loosen your shoulders. Mirror her quiet wariness.

She notices. Doesn’t say anything. But she doesn’t get up, either.

By the end of the meal, it’s still awkward. But less so. Annie doesn’t bolt. Ymir doesn’t push her out with words. Krista thanks her for joining like it’s normal. And you—

—you don’t say anything. But you feel like something started.

Not a friendship. Not yet.

Just the barest edge of one.

Almost everyone’s trays are half-cleared and with silverware scraping lazily against tin. Surprisingly, Annie’s still sitting with your group, just off-center, not quite part of the conversation but not entirely outside it either.

You’re leaning on one arm, rotating your wrist absentmindedly from the earlier spar. The worst of the tension is gone. There’s even some laughter now, mostly coming from Sasha, who’s poking suspiciously at something gray on her plate.

“This tastes like metal,” she mutters, voice full of despair. “Or dirt. Metal dirt.”

You don’t mean to say it out loud. It just slips, like an instinct:

“No, this one’s more like sage.”

Ymir perks up instantly. “There she goes,” she says with a grin that spells trouble. “Prism strikes again.”

You sigh through your nose. Groan, even. But there’s no heat behind it. “God, I hate you.”

“I know,” Ymir says sweetly, propping her chin on her hand. “But the nickname? It’s too good. You can’t fight destiny.”

Across the table, Annie finally looks up, fork paused halfway to her mouth. Her gaze lands on you, flat but… curious. “Prism?” she asks, like the word is foreign but she’s already halfway to solving it.

You meet her eyes, shrug a little, and offer the truth without much ceremony. “I hit my head when I was younger. Hard. Afterward, something changed. Now when I eat, food tastes like colors. Not like some metaphor. Actual colors. Like boiled meat is royal purple. That kind of thing.”

Sasha blinks. “Wait—really?”

You nod once, eyes dropping to your tray. “Yeah. My grandmother said it was some kind of cross-wiring. Brain doesn’t know where to send certain signals, so it sends them everywhere at once.”

Ymir leans back and raises her cup like a toast. “And thus, Prism was born. She tried to keep it secret for like, what, a year? Then one night she muttered something about soup tasting like vermillion, and I said, ‘Prism,’ and it just… stuck.”

You smirk a little. “Was either that or Rainbow Brain. She thought she was being generous.”

“That was me being restrained,” Ymir fires back. “I could’ve gone with ‘Taste-buds-extraordinaire.’”

The table chuckles. Connie, grinning, jabs a finger at you. “I’m honestly surprised you’re smart enough to know what a prism is.”

Sasha, chewing thoughtfully, adds, “Wait… what is a prism?”

Everyone laughs, and this time, even Annie’s mouth twitches at the corner. A twitch. You’ll take it.

The moment softens. The group shifts into another wave of easy banter, and for a little while, you’re not just you, the cadet that only really hands with two other girl or the girl who knocked Reiner off his feet. You’re Prism, the girl with weird brain wiring and color-tasting food. Real. Tangible.

Annie doesn’t laugh with the others, but she doesn’t look away either. She tilts her head slightly, watching you—not with judgment, not quite with fascination. Just… paying attention. Measuring.

She finally speaks again, voice low. “What does bread taste like?”

You glance at the stale chunk on your tray. “Cerulean. Kind of flat, but clean.”

Annie nods, like she’s filing that away somewhere private. She doesn’t ask anything else. Just listens.

You catch her watching you a moment longer than she should.

And you wonder if maybe, in some strange way, she gets it.

After dinner, the mess hall empties out in waves—boots clomping, benches scraping, voices trailing into the hallway. What’s left behind is the mess: trays stacked like crooked towers, streaks of broth on the tables, crumbs scattered like dirt on the floor. The smell of damp wood and leftover bread lingers.

You, Annie, Marco, and a few unlucky others are left behind with cleanup duty. Bad draw, maybe. Or maybe punishment for something trivial. Either way, the room feels heavier now, dimly lit with the goldish glow of overhead lanterns. Shadows stretch across the tables, and everything feels a little quieter than it should.

They get to work. No one says much. Trays clatter into the bin. A rag wipes a sticky spill. Marco grabs a broom, trying to sweep between the benches without tripping over the legs. you moves methodically, stacking trays, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly.

Annie is at the far end, wiping tables with the kind of precision that looks more like muscle memory than care. Her movements are quiet. Efficient. Unapologetically distant.

Marco tries, bless him. “At least it’s not latrine duty again,” he offers with a half-hearted chuckle.

You give him a small, almost sympathetic smile. “That’s a low bar.”

He chuckles again—slightly more defeated this time—and lets the conversation die.

The silence stretches. Until—

“Reiner takes hits like they’re personal,” Annie says suddenly, voice flat but edged. She doesn’t look at you when she says it. Just keeps scrubbing a tray like she’s cleaning a bloodstain that won’t come out.

It catches you off guard. You glance at her, studying the shape of her expression—calm, but sharp around the corners.

“He’s got a staring problem too.”

Annie’s mouth twitches. “You noticed too.”

“It’s hard not to. He’s not subtle.”

“You’d think someone with that neck would be more discreet.”

That makes you actually laugh—short, surprised. “That’s cruel.”

“Not wrong.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward this time—lighter. Mutual. You keep wiping. She keeps scraping.

“Honestly,” you mutter, “I think he expected me to let him win.”

Annie snorts. “Then he’s dumber than I thought.”

That earns your first real laugh of the evening—small, but genuine. You glance over at her. She doesn’t look back, but the edge of her mouth is still curled just enough to count.

The last tray is stacked, the final table wiped down. Someone mumbles something about latrines anyway and exits with the others, leaving just you, Annie, and Marco. You collect the cleaning cloths, wring them out, and go to hang them.

When you turn back, Annie’s paused by the window.

The light outside is fading fast, bleeding pink into blue. Down in the yard, you can just make out two figures—Reiner and Bertholdt, deep in conversation. Reiner’s gesturing a little too sharply, like he’s frustrated. Bertholdt barely moves.

Annie doesn’t say anything. She just watches.

You don’t ask.

You walk past her quietly, shoulders just brushing. She doesn’t move.

There’s something heavy in the stillness, but you don’t press it. You don’t need to.

You saw enough in the way she looked at Reiner—not angry. Not longing. Just… watching. Like she’s trying to solve a problem with her eyes alone.

You leave her there by the window. Not alone, exactly. But not with you either.

And somehow, that feels right.

Chapter Text

The morning air bites at your face as you finish strapping on your ODM gear. The sky’s still a dull gray, the kind that makes the trees look like they’ve been sketched in charcoal. Around you, other cadets shuffle in the cold, rubbing sleep from their eyes or arguing over who stole whose bread at breakfast. Your hands move out of habit—checking clips, testing the gas triggers, tugging on the harness. Muscle memory. You don’t need to think about it.

Ymir sidles up beside you, bumping your shoulder lightly. “You look like you slept with your eyes open again,” she says, voice dry and low. “Dream of me?”

“No,” you answer flatly, eyes forward. “But thanks for making this feel like a nightmare.”

A whistle pierces the air, sharp and shrill, followed by a voice louder than it has any right to be this early. “LINE UP!”

You and the others scramble into formation, boots scraping against frozen dirt. An instructor—one of the meaner ones, the kind who talks like he chews gravel for breakfast—paces the line with a clipboard in hand and disappointment already on his face.

“Today’s a pursuit scenario,” he announces, eyes scanning the group. “ODM maneuverability, speed, strategy, teamwork. We’re splitting you into Cats and Mice. Two Cat teams. Four people each. One Mouse team—eight targets. Mice run. Cats chase.”

Someone behind you mutters, “Aw, shit.” Someone else—Eren, probably—goes, “Nice.”

There’s a low rumble of interest among the cadets. Jean raises his hand lazily. “Sir, what do the winners get?”

“This is not a game,” the instructor adds, right before grinning in a way that suggests it absolutely is. “Losers get cleaning duty and latrine detail for the next three nights, maybe if you clean fast enough, you’ll have time to cry about it after. Winners get the luxury of bragging rights.”

A groan rolls down the line. You swear you hear Connie whisper something to Sasha about hiding near the mess hall if she ends up as a Mouse.

The clipboard snaps. The instructor calls out your name first. “And Reiner Braun. You’re team captains. Start picking.”

You step forward without hesitation. Your eyes lock with Reiner’s across the clearing. His expression is unreadable—stoic, but with that same glint he always gets when he’s gearing up for a fight. Competitive. Focused. It rakes something sharp across your nerves.

“Ymir,” you say, first and fast.

“Bertholdt,” Reiner replies immediately.

The teams fall into place. You have Ymir, Sasha, Armin, and Mikasa. Reiner has Bertholdt, Annie, Marco, and Krista. The remaining eight are grouped together as Mice. Armin looks quietly terrified to be in the middle of that group. Eren’s already posturing, elbowing Mina lightly and saying something about how no one’s gonna catch him.

The instructor goes over the rules: the Mice get a five-minute head start. The goal is to tag them—no full-body tackles, no deliberate injuries. If you’re a Mouse and you’re tagged, you’re out. If the Cats catch all eight Mice, the exercise ends. If not, time runs out and the Mice win.

Easy enough. Except you’ve done this before. It’s never easy. Not with pride on the line.

The Mice scatter into the trees when the timer starts—branches cracking, laughter fading into the forest. You adjust your gear one more time, flexing your fingers. The metal’s cold in your hands.

Across the clearing, Reiner rolls his shoulders and smirks. “Try to keep up.”

You don’t smile. “Try not to slow me down.”

Then comes the signal.

Grapples fire. Gas hisses. Wind rushes against your face as your body lifts, soars, slices through the trees. The chase has begun.

And you are not about to lose. Not to him.

You’re already midair when the second Mouse team darts left through the trees—gas lines hissing, boots skimming bark, laughter trailing behind them. Connie and Mina, of course. Too loud, too visible. Easy targets.

Your breath curls out in mist, sharp and steady, as you pivot hard into pursuit. Sasha shoots past below you, whooping like a banshee, while Ymir swings high with a sharp grin and a middle finger aimed at nobody in particular.

You don’t follow either of them.

You lock eyes on the two Mice ahead—Connie’s yelling directions like it helps anything, and Mina’s too busy laughing to notice you gaining on her. They’re fast, but careless. You’re faster. Smarter.

Gas fires. Your grapples snap out with clean precision, anchoring high. You rise, twist, and cut down into a clean dive—head low, knees tucked, arm outstretched.

Just a little closer. A second more—

Another line whips past yours. Too fast. Too close. The air bends around you both.

Reiner.

He crashes into the chase like it’s his goddamn right, blond hair catching the light, expression unreadable as always—focused, unshaken. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s doing this on purpose. You feel it in your bones.

Your teeth clench. You cut left to avoid collision, narrowly missing a tree trunk. He cuts right—just as smooth. It’s not teamwork. It’s interference. And it grates.

You don’t speak. Not yet.

Instead, you surge forward again, lines catching, cables tightening as you make another dive. You’re not letting him steal this one. Not when your team’s behind and Reiner’s already tagged two Mice. Not when you can feel him watching, measuring, weighing every move you make like you’re a puzzle he’s halfway solved.

Mina’s just ahead. You swing wide and arc inward, slipping beneath a tangle of branches, reaching for her shoulder—and Reiner’s cable whips across your path again. His grapple takes the branch you were aiming for. Throws off your trajectory.

You nearly stall midair, gas sputtering as you kick hard off the nearest trunk, grit scraping your palms. You recover fast—barely—but the window’s gone. Mina disappears around the bend.

You snap your head toward Reiner. “I had her.”

“You were about to clip a tree,” he says, calm and maddening, flying parallel.

“I meant to clip it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just cuts across your path again, this time following Connie. You drop low, circling back for another angle. He follows. You shoot left. So does he. It becomes obvious—he’s not trying to catch anyone anymore.

He’s shadowing you.

You bank into a tighter dive, almost horizontal to the ground, threading the gap between two trees. Your hip grazes a branch. You ignore the sting. It’s worth it—your angle’s perfect now. You’ve got them both boxed in.

But Reiner drops again—closer this time. You see it coming, but there’s no room. No time.

Your cables twist. Your momentum crashes into his.

The impact hits like a punch to the ribs.

Metal grinds. A hook snaps free. The air jerks out of your lungs. You twist mid-fall, trying to separate—but it’s too late. Your gear tangles. His shoulder slams into yours. The both of you hit the slope hard.

old, dirty snow explodes beneath you. Leaves scatter. You tumble, head over heels, catching glimpses of forest and sky and more forest.

When you stop moving, you’re flat on your back. Gas still hissing somewhere behind your head. Your right side throbs. Cold seeps in quick. Reiner groans nearby.

You sit up, coughing. Mud on your sleeve. Blood in your mouth, maybe. You don’t check. You don’t care.

Reiner groans nearby. You spin toward him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He pushes himself up, brushing snow off his uniform. “You’re welcome.”

“What?” You stumble to your feet. “You just slammed into me midair like a psychopath and you think I’m supposed to thank you?”

“You were about to knock yourself unconscious against a tree.”

“I knew what I was doing!”

He throws his hands out. “Oh yeah? Looked real graceful, face-planting into the ground.”

“You ruined the shot! I had them cornered.”

“You were flying blind. One more second and you would’ve splattered against the bark!”

“Better than being body-checked by some musclebound idiot trying to play hero!”

His jaw sets. “I’m not trying to play anything. You just don’t know when to pull back.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the expert on restraint,” you snap, voice rising. “You barge in like you own the sky and screw up everyone else’s momentum!”

“I was trying to stop you from getting hurt!”

“Since when the hell did you start caring about my safety? I never asked for your protection, i barely even know you!”

“It’s not about protection, it’s about not being stupid!”

Your vision tunnels. Something inside you snaps.

“I beg your pardon? I better be hearing wrong because I know you did not just call me stupid.”

Around you, branches rustle. Cadets step into the clearing—Mikasa, Ymir, Marco, Bertholdt. They freeze at the sight of you both, standing in a churned-up patch of dirt and snow, chests heaving, eyes locked like knives.

Marco coughs gently. “At least no one died?”

Ymir mutters, “Someone’s about to. My money’s on my girl.”

Then the instructor arrives, just in time to see the aftermath. His eyes drag over the mess—your gear, Reiner’s busted lip, your wild expression.

He sighs, long and hard. “Night shift. Both of you. Together. Don’t leave the post. Don’t kill each other. And if either of you thinks the word ‘fight’, I’ll have you scrubbing the latrines with your tongues.”

He turns on his heel and stomps off. The others scatter, murmuring, some still sneaking glances over their shoulders.

You’re still breathing hard. Reiner doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you with something like… frustration? Or maybe regret. You don’t know. You don’t care.

You turn away first, fists clenched, heart hammering.

You hate that he saw you lose control.

You hate losing control.

The sun is long gone by the time you reach the edge of the woods.

It’s colder here—deeper in the trees, where the wind has claws and the moon barely filters through the canopy. You wrap your cloak tighter around your shoulders and hunch low on the edge of a mossy log, settling into silence with your boots dug into the frozen earth.

Behind you, you hear Reiner’s boots crunch against dead leaves. Steady. Annoyingly steady.

You don’t turn.

Neither of you speaks. Not at first. Just the occasional creak of branches, the rustle of wind slithering through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls out—long and low. You keep your eyes forward, watching the faint shimmer of frost gather on the underbrush. Trying to will your heart rate down.

You think about the crash. The argument. Your voice, sharp and ugly in the air. The way his eyes had flared. You think about how hard you hit the ground. How hard he hit back—with words, with presence, with the sheer nerve of trying to protect you.

You don’t think about how your hands shook after.

Eventually, Reiner settles across from you, arms crossed, face unreadable in the dark. He’s got that same carved-from-stone posture he always does. Jaw clenched. Shoulders locked tight.

He says, finally, “You always like flying blind like that?”

His voice isn’t mocking. Not exactly. There’s a careful kind of weight to it, like he’s asking a real question.

You don’t give him a real answer.

“You always like ruining people’s plans?” you ask instead, not looking at him.

He exhales through his nose—sharp and quiet. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Didn’t ask what you meant.”

Silence, again. Longer this time. You watch your own breath fog in front of you, curling like smoke.

Then—soft, almost casual—he says, “Where are you from again?”

You go still.

Your fingers curl into your cloak. “Nowhere important.”

That should be the end of it. It usually is.

But Reiner doesn’t let go. He doesn’t press, not with words—but you can feel it, the way his eyes linger. Not just looking—studying. Measuring. Like he’s trying to map you out in real time.

“You watch everyone like that,” you mutter, keeping your voice low. “Like you’re trying to learn them all by heart.”

That catches him off guard. His eyes widen, just slightly. He looks away fast, too fast.

You stare at the trees again. The wind picks up, sharper now, threading through the forest like a warning. Neither of you says anything else for the rest of the shift.

The next morning, you tug on your jacket and feel something crinkle in the inner pocket.

You freeze.

Reaching in, you pull out a scrap of torn notebook paper, folded twice and scribbled with quick, loopy handwriting.

“Bet he dreamt about you all night, Prism.”

–Y

You groan quietly and stuff it deep into your pocket.

You don’t throw it away.

Chapter Text

It’s one week until graduation, and it’s all anyone talks about.

Some cadets count the days with quiet nerves and knotted stomachs. Others strut around like they’ve already got their wings. Then there’s you—stuck somewhere in between—too wound up to be sentimental and too proud to admit how badly you want to win. Not the title. Not even the ranking.

Just to beat him.

The field is quiet except for boots crunching withering snow and the dull scrape of metal buckles being adjusted in the chill. You finish strapping on your gear, exhaling a plume of fog. The wind stings your cheeks and fingers. Ymir stands beside you, yawning like she’s got all the time in the world.

“You gonna finally beat his ass?” she mutters, bumping your arm. “Or you gonna keep up with the goo-goo eyes?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed by her words, head snapping towards her. “What are you talking about?”

Her chuckle is low and smug. “I know your romantically closed off but I didn’t think you were dense.”

Before you can reply, a sharp whistle cuts through the morning air, followed by the gravelly bark of an instructor who sounds personally offended by everyone’s existence.

“LINE UP!”

The cadets scramble into formation. You stand tall. Shoulders back. Chin high. Two cadets to your left: Reiner Braun.

You don’t need to look to know he’s staring. His posture is perfect, rigid, like the textbook version of discipline. You pretend not to notice, even as every muscle tightens in anticipation.

He leans just slightly in your direction.

“Bet it kills you,” he murmurs, voice like a challenge, “that I’m faster.”

“You’re only faster downhill,.” You’re quick with it, your words dry as bone. “Gravity does most of the work.”

From behind you, someone tries and fails to stifle a laugh—Connie, probably. Ymir snorts outright.

“Careful,” she stage-whispers. “If this gets any flirtier, I’m gonna have to start charging for front row seats.”Sasha, behind you, coughs out a laugh. “Morning insults already? Love that for you two.”Jean sighs. “Honestly, just make out already or kill each other. It’s getting old.”

Reiner’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

You ignore them. You’re too busy focusing on the burn in your calves, the tightness in your harness. Another day. Another race to win.

A whistle pierces the morning. The instructor steps forward—tall, broad-shouldered, the kind who thrives off misery and morning dew.

“Cadets!” he barks. “One week left. That means one week for me to beat the useless out of you.”

He begins pacing down the line, eyes scanning faces. “Some of you think you’re safe. That you’ve made it. I see it in your eyes—the ones who think they’re special, untouchable, better than the rest. Newsflash: you’re not.”

His boots crunch on the frozen dirt as he stops beside you.

“Cadet,” he says your name, squinting at his clipboard. “Still think you can outrun your reputation?”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “I outran you last week, didn’t I?”

The cadets stifle laughs. His lip twitches. He moves on.

“Reiner Braun,” he calls next, stopping at Reiner’s shoulder. “You still think strength alone’s gonna make you a soldier?”

“No, sir,” Reiner says evenly. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

The instructor grunts. “We’ll see.”

He continues down the line, barking at Eren for standing crooked, calling out Connie for nodding off, reminding everyone that failure is not an option.

You glance toward Reiner for half a second. He’s watching the treeline, jaw tight, probably visualizing whatever drill’s coming next. You know that look, and you hate that you know it.

“You know that mouth’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” he says.

You glance at him, finally. “Nothing I cant handle. Besides, it’s not like this little thing we got going on hasn’t screwed me over enough already.”

For a split second, you swear his eyes flicker—something sharp, something curious—but then he turns forward again like you didn’t just add more wood to the burning fire under both of you.

The instructor’s voice rises again: “Warm-up laps. Ten minutes. Move like you want to graduate.”

Boots scrape against frost as everyone takes off. The line dissolves into motion.

And just like that, the race begins again.

You’re shoulder to shoulder with Reiner, breath heavy, adrenaline pumping.

“Trying to keep up?” he throws over his shoulder, breath ragged.

“Trying to pass,” you bite, just before jumping over a fallen log standing in your way.

You nearly stick the landing, but the slick ground gives and you skid sideways. You catch yourself—barely. He’s watching. Of course he is. You flash him a glare sharp enough to slice bark.

He smirks. “Don’t slip now. Would hate to beat you without effort.”

You lunge forward again, teeth gritted. “Keep talking. It helps me pace how far ahead I’ll be.”

He laughs—a low, breathless sound—but doesn’t slow down. You race like wolves, snapping at each other’s heels, devouring ground.

By the time you both hurl yourselves across the finish line the instructor’s whistle is blaring and a group of cadets are come slowly trailing from behind.

Ymir stumbles in behind you, panting. “Okay, officially, both of you are exhausting to witness.”

Sasha, crawling across the finish line, groans, “Do you two ever not compete?”

Later that morning, you’re caked in mud and sweat, shoulders aching as you haul yourself up the rope wall for the final stretch. Your grip slips once, just once, but you recover fast—kicking off the wood with a grunt, grabbing higher, dragging your bruised body over the top.

You hit the ground hard and roll to your feet. Breath ragged. Knees burning.

“New course record!” someone calls out. You’re vaguely aware of Jean shouting your name. Sasha whistles. Armin offers you a towel like you’ve just finished saving the world.

But you don’t care. Not really.

Not until you see him.

Across the training field, Reiner is rolling his neck like he’s gearing up for battle. You wipe your hands on your pants, narrowing your eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you. Just steps to the start line and signals to the instructor.

Then he goes.

No one told him to. No one asked.

But there he is—blasting through the course like he’s possessed. Sprinting, climbing, diving over barriers with a single-mindedness that makes your blood simmer. His form is clean. Brutally efficient. When he finishes, he’s dripping with sweat, steam rising off him in the chilly temp. He doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t gloat. Just glances at the instructor.

Two seconds faster.

You don’t wait for anyone to say anything. You don’t look at Reiner.

You mutter, “Show-off,” and walk off.

Ymir’s sitting on a crate near the edge of the training zone, half a bread roll in hand, watching like it’s theater. She lifts an eyebrow. “That’s the second time he’s redone something just to beat you.”

“That’s the second time I didn’t ask,” you snap, peeling a ripped glove off and wiping blood from your palm. “He can enjoy those two seconds. I hope they keep him warm at night.”

Ymir smirks. “You’re both insane.”

You’re still chewing on that frustration hours later during grapple accuracy drills. It’s a simple setup: fire your gear, hit the marked target zones on the wooden dummies hanging from tree limbs, clean pull, clean release. It’s supposed to be about focus. Control. Precision.

Your focus is vengeance.

Your grapples slam into the targets like you’re throwing punches. Wood splinters. Gas hisses. The lines snap taut with enough force to jolt your shoulders. You hit every mark with brutal intensity. One after the other. Clean. Merciless.

Reiner steps up next. His shots are strong, methodical. Always are. He nails every target—until the last one. The grapple veers slightly off-center. Still connects. Still solid.

But not perfect.

You land beside him with a thud, gears hissing, arms crossed.

“Malfunctioning bird,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough.

You exhale through your nose. “How are you this big and still can’t carry your own weight?”

He raises an brow. “Did you just say I’m big?”

From the sidelines, Ymir cackles. “Is this foreplay? Because it seems foreplay-y.”

You and Reiner both speak at once.

“It’s not—” “Shut up, Ymir—”

She just grins wider, teeth flashing. “Admit it. You like each other’s pain. It’s basically romance.”

You roll your eyes and storm off before she can say more.

Behind you, Reiner watches you go.

Then resets his stance. Fires again.

And hits dead center.

The sun hangs low now—late afternoon, light slanting in through the trees like spears. Everything aches. Shoulders, wrists, lower back. You can feel the bruises blooming under your skin, purple and angry.

It’s strength training now. Weighted gear, circuit drills, no mercy. You toss your harness over your shoulders and head toward the heavy-lift rack, already mentally calculating the resistance you’ll need for maximum burn. You grab the next weight class up—more than you’ve used all week—and hoist it onto your shoulders without a sound.

Reiner sees.

You feel it that shift in the air—like he just can’t help himself. Like something about you moving forward demands he match it. Or beat it.

Without a word, he steps up to the rack beside you and doubles his weight. His arms flex as he locks the plates into place, muscles taut beneath his shirt, jaw clenched tight.

You pass behind him to grab chalk. As you do, you mutter just loud enough, “Compensating?”

His head turns slightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You smirk without humor, tightening the straps across your chest. “Not particularly.”

He exhales a quiet breath through his nose. “Good. Then maybe we can get through one day without you staring.”

You slam the chalk tin shut. “Staring at what? Your terrible form?”

“Oh please,” he mutters, adjusting his stance. “You analyze everything I do like it’s a tactical briefing.”

“Only because you’re so bad at following actual tactics,” you snap. “It’s like watching a brick try to strategize.”

A snort of laughter echoes from across the yard—Jean or Connie, probably. You don’t care. Neither does Reiner.

The lift begins. Squats, carries, presses. You push hard. Reiner pushes harder. It’s not spoken, but everyone knows what this is—who this is about. By the end, your shirt is soaked through, your thighs feel like they’re made of molten lead, and your hands are raw beneath the gloves.

But you don’t stop. Neither does he.

Later, cadets are called in for a tactical briefing—an indoor session, thankfully.

You don’t bother speaking to Reiner as you both file into the mess hall for the tactical debrief. There’s no point.

The instructors drone on, maps and models laid out on the long table like a scaled-down battlefield. Terrain specs. Enemy formation theory. Strategy rotations.

You sit in the row behind Reiner, two seats to the left—close enough to hear him, too far to be seen looking.

And you are looking.

Out of the corner of your eye, when he leans forward and taps a marked zone with his knuckle. His voice is low, serious. Focused.

You hate how focused he is. You hate that he’s right.

“He’s not wrong,” Armin mutters beside you, scribbling notes. “Flank coverage there would reduce blind spots by a third.”

You scowl.

Reiner doesn’t glance at you. Doesn’t smirk. Just keeps talking, sharp and precise and infuriatingly competent.

It shouldn’t get under your skin.

But it does.

“Say something,” Mikasa whispers without looking up. “You’re practically vibrating.”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “Just waiting for him to say something stupid so I can argue.”

Mikasa’s voice is flat. “So… flirting.”

You nearly choke.

Across the table, Reiner’s hand stills for half a second.

Then keeps moving.

The final straw is the footwork drill.

You’re mid-sprint, breath even, arms pumping, eyes locked on the finish cone—when Reiner cuts in front of you, his shoulder brushing yours, his heel nearly clipping your toes.

You stagger half a step, recover, and whip around.

“Do you move that clunky on purpose?” you snap, voice sharp as flint.

He barely slows, jogging backward to meet your glare, a smug tilt to his mouth. “You call that form? I’ve seen tree branches with more coordination.”

Your eyes narrow. “Keep talking, Braun. Maybe one day something intelligent will come out.”

He shrugs. “Just calling it like I see it. You’re lucky the titans don’t grade on grace.”

Your gaze stays locked on Reiner—not out of rage, not entirely. You’re watching the way he shifts weight from foot to foot. The hitch in his left ankle when he turns too fast. The slight dip of his shoulders before he accelerates.

You’re not just angry.

You’re studying him.

Later, under a haze of lantern light and the distant rustle of wind through trees, the whispers start. The kind that hover just out of earshot but stay in the air long after everyone’s gone to sleep.

Ymir, leaning lazily against the bunk railing, murmurs to Krista, “He watches her like she’s some kind of exotic animal.”

Krista blinks. “You mean… like fascinated?”

“No. Like she’s dangerous. Beautiful. But mostly dangerous.”

Sasha, picking her teeth clean with a sliver of wood, glances at Connie across the mess table. “She talks the most crap about him. You think she hates him or likes him?”

Connie shrugs, halfway through a second roll. “Both? Neither? I dunno. They talk like enemies but circle each other like something else.”

Mikasa, without looking up from her sharpening stone, says “both.”

On the far end of the barracks, Bertholdt leans over to Annie, voice barely audible under the drone of wind and snoring cadets.

“He talks like he hates her. But he watches her like she’s a threat.”

Annie doesn’t blink. “She is.”

Bertholdt’s quiet for a beat.

“do you think she knows?”

Annie’s eyes flick toward your top bunk at the other end of the barrack, where you’re lying with your back to the wall, twitching faintly from phantom adrenaline.

“No,” she says. “Not yet.”

The day ends with one last drill—mobility sprints with full gear through rough, uneven terrain. You’re tired, sore, and still pissed about the footwork comment. Your palms sting from rope burns. Your muscles ache. Your pride worse.

“Last leg,” the instructor barks. “Don’t make it embarrassing.”

You bolt forward with the others, grapples firing into trees, boots skimming over snow and mud. You swing hard, too hard, the recoil a little too sharp. The next wire snags late. You twist to compensate—but it’s too steep, too fast.

Your body lurches sideways.

You feel yourself going down.

And then a hand catches the back of your gear.

Slams into your harness.

Yanks you upright.

You hit the ground hard—but on your feet. Bent knees. Pain spikes through your hip. You stagger, catch your breath, whip your head around—

Reiner.

He’s already stepping away. No smug look. No quip. Just a flick of his fingers like he’s brushing dirt off them.

“What the hell was that?” you growl, straightening.

“You were falling,” he mutters. “You’re welcome.”

You grit your teeth. “I didn’t need your help.”

“You’re welcome,” he says again, voice flat. No heat this time. Just tired.

You glare at him. He doesn’t return it. Just walks off toward the end of the course, his back tense, like he regrets reaching for you at all.

And maybe he does.

You wipe mud from your glove, still scowling.

Later that night, alone in the gear shed, you glance down at your harness. The strap that almost slipped.

Your stomach twists.

You didn’t say thank you.

But you for sure won’t forget.

Chapter Text

The wind is strong. Dust sticks to sweat, and the sun hides behind thin clouds, casting a soft light over the area. You sit at the trunk of a dying tree, unstrapping your maneuver gear, your fingers moving on muscle memory. You tune out the world. You’ve gotten good at it lately.

But then a voice breaks through the haze—too loud, too pleased with itself.

“Heard her mom went crazy,” some cadet says, laughing like he’s telling a joke he didn’t earn. “Killed her entire family. Whole family’s cursed, huh?”

You stop moving. Just a second. A pause barely long enough to register. You lower your hands slowly.

Another voice joins in, this one closer. “Explains the eyes, huh? You ever see her just stare? Creepy as hell. I swear to the walls she can turn people into stone.”

The group laughs again. It’s not loud. It’s worse—it’s casual. The kind of cruelty people think they can get away with.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. But your expression shifts into that neutral mask—the one that you usually put on when there’s something bothering you. You turn your head, not fast. Just enough for them to see your eyes.

One of them falters. But before anyone can say anything else, another voice cuts through.

“Keep talking,” Reiner says, low and unhurried, “and I’ll throw you over the walls.”

Everything stills. The group goes quiet, like prey realizing something bigger just walked into the clearing. Reiner doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He just steps forward, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the tension in his jaw.

“You think you’re funny?” he adds, addressing no one in particular—but they all feel it. “You’re not. She’s still a better soldier than any of you.”

No one says a word. One of the cadets mumbles something about getting water and they scatter, muttering. No apologies. Just absence.

You stare at him, heartbeat louder than it should be. Reiner doesn’t look at you. He stays where he is, like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just put himself between you and that.

After a moment, you stand. Stretch your back. Dust off your hands.

“Dodn’t need you to fight my battles.”

He shrugs without looking at you. “Didn’t do it for you.”

A beat.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You expect him to snap back. He doesn’t. Just that same jaw clench. That same forward stare.

And then the wind picks up, stirring dust between you. You brush past him, not quite touching, not quite looking.

But something’s different now. Not better. Not worse.

The sun’s just over head, clouds pass over it every now and then. Shadis stands in the center of the courtyard, arms crossed like a judgmental scarecrow, scanning the cadets like he’s trying to decide which ones are most likely to die first.

“All right, maggots,” he bellows, “today’s your final coordination drill before graduation. Pairs. Urban clearing simulation.”

Groans ripple through the group.

“You’ll be working in tandem to clear a three-story structure of hostiles. Wooden dummies. Traps. Blind corners. You are not to separate. If one of you gets caught—both of you fail.”

He starts rattling off pairs, clipboard in hand. You’re half-listening, sipping stale water, your shoulder aching from an earlier fall. Until you hear your last name and—

“Braun.”

You choke slightly.

“What,” you mutter.

Reiner looks up from tightening his gloves, visibly annoyed. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

Shadis raises a brow. “Since you two have so much to say to each other all the time, let’s see how well you listen to each other now. Because your future here depends on it.”

Ymir snorts nearby. “I give them five minutes before one of them tries to strangle the other.”

You crouch behind a crate, pulse hammering in your ears. The space is a maze of tight hallways, creaky stairs, and mock tripwires.

“Left corner’s blind,” you whisper.

“I know,” Reiner whispers back—but louder.

You grimace. “You want every dummy in the building to hear us?”

“Maybe if you’d move your feet instead of hovering like a ghost, we’d be done by now.”

“Maybe if you’d stop announcing our position every five seconds—!”

The wooden dummy to your right jerks forward on a spring.

“Contact!” you snap, taking it down in two swift moves.

Reiner curses. “That’s on you.”

“You were supposed to cover the flank!”

“You didn’t call it!”

You round on him. “I don’t need to call it when I already said—”

Another dummy triggers behind you—this one ropes your leg and yanks you sideways. Reiner catches you before you hit the floor, just barely, and cuts the wire, muttering something under his breath.

You shove his hand away. “I had it.”

“Sure you did,” he says, deadpan. “Right up until the part where you didn’t.”

By the time you reach the final stairwell, you’re out of sync, breathing hard, and entirely done with this exercise. Reiner nearly knocks over a support beam. You trip a second wire. It’s a miracle you don’t set the whole structure on fire.

You both burst through the final door with weapons drawn—only to find Shadis waiting with arms folded and a deeply unimpressed frown.

“Well, that was excruciating.”

He lets the silence stretch, heavy as stone.

“You two are the worst pair I’ve seen all month,” he growls. “And that includes Connie and Sasha’s accidental food fight during breaching practice.”

You and Reiner exchange glances, both ready to speak—but Shadis cuts you off.

“If you don’t figure out how to work together by sundown tomorrow—you don’t graduate. Either of you.”

That hits.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“I said what I said. Dismissed.”

He turns on his heel, boots crunching against gravel as he walks away. Your stomach twists. Graduation’s three days out. And now, somehow, he’s your biggest obstacle.

You turn to Reiner, already defensive. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You always think you’re the smartest person in the room.”

“Only when you’re in it.”

A silence falls between you.

He exhales. Long. Slow. “This isn’t working.”

“No shit.”

The next morning, before you have to redo the coordination drill, you’re crouched near the edge of the yard, right knee planted, a stick in your hand scratching rough shapes into the dry dirt. It’s a crude layout of the simulation building—the walls, stairs, entry points. You pause every few strokes, narrowing your eyes at the actual structure in the distance. Measuring. Adjusting. Rethinking.

Reiner stands a few feet back, arms crossed, watching. Not saying anything. But not leaving either.

A breeze kicks up. It lifts the edge of your hair and blows some dust across the lines you’ve drawn. You brush it away with your wrist, annoyed.

Still silence.

Finally, without looking at him, you say, “You were too slow covering that blind corner.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “You didn’t wait for backup.”

Your jaw tightens. You stab the stick a little harder than necessary into the dirt, dragging a new line with clipped precision. “We should’ve flanked the second level together.”

“Yeah. We got tunnel vision.”

You flick your eyes up at him, surprised. That’s almost an admission. You nod once. Then mutter, “Still better than Jean.”

That gets the ghost of a smile out of him.

“He tripped on a dummy’s arm last week,” Reiner says, shifting his weight, “took Sasha down like they were ballroom dancing. Tactical disaster.”

You snort. “He said it was sabotage.”

“He said the dummy grabbed him.”

There’s a moment. Then you both fall quiet again. But this time, it’s not tense. Just… quieter. Faintly amused. Unspoken things hover, but they don’t crowd the space anymore.

Reiner crouches next to you slowly, bracing one knee in the dirt. He picks up a pebble and starts dragging his own version of the layout beside yours. You watch in silence. He’s got a heavier hand, but the lines are clean. Efficient.

“You usually go in low or high first?” he asks.

“Low,” you say, still watching his hand move. “I like having an exit. But if the second level’s clearer, we might want to flip it.”

He nods, focused. “We start bottom left, breach the first hallway in a straight push. Clear it in two sets of two. You take point, I’ll cover the rear until we pivot. That’s where we lost tempo last time.”

You glance at him sideways. “Since when do you know my tempo?”

He smirks faintly. “Since I’ve had to dodge it five times a week.”

You raise an eyebrow. “…Fair.”

Another beat. The silence lingers—but softer now. It’s strange, this absence of bickering. Like the battlefield’s still there, but the war’s paused.

You point to the stairwell. “If we bottleneck here, I’ll drop smoke and cut left. You loop and cover?”

He nods. “Clean. Aggressive. I like it.”

You give him a side glance. “Y’know, the first time we ran that course, I thought you were gonna punch a hole through the wall.”

Reiner chuckles under his breath. “Honestly? I almost did.”

“Would’ve been impressive. Terrible strategy, but impressive.”

He hums. “You know what’s worse strategy?”

“What?”

“Getting your foot caught in a tripwire. Twice.”

You roll your eyes. “That wire was placed unreasonably close to the wall.”

“Uh-huh. Totally the wall’s fault.”

You both laugh a quiet, low kind of laugh that comes more from exhaustion than joy. But it’s real. Honest.

And then you both freeze.

Wait. Did we just laugh together?

The moment’s so foreign that you both clear your throats at the same time. Sharp. Awkward. Defensive.

Reiner looks away. You rub your hand on your knee, smearing dirt.

“So… uh…” you start, a little too quickly, “we’ll rotate point if things go sideways?”

He nods. “Yeah. If it gets messy, fall back and regroup on the stairwell. You call the pivot.”

You glance at him. “Let’s not fail again.”

“We won’t,” he says, with surprising certainty.

Your eyes meet, just for a second, not long enough to say anything. But long enough to feel something shift.

Recognition. Respect. And something else, deeper, still unnamed.

The simulation building looms like it remembers who failed yesterday. Sunlight slants across its battered stone and splintered wood. It’s quiet, except for Shadis’s boots pacing across the dirt like thunder.

Pairs of cadets line up, gear strapped tight, expressions pinched. Everyone knows what today is—final combat trial. Graduation’s in three days. No one wants to screw this up.

You adjust your straps under your ribs, eyes on the building. The same one that chewed you up and spit you out the day before. Reiner steps beside you, expression unreadable.

Shadis stops in front of you both, voice sharp. “Yeager and Arlert—on standby. You know the rules. No time extensions. No excuses. And no solo heroics.” Then his eyes cut to you and Reiner like blades. “Try not to embarrass yourselves.”

Reiner leans a little closer, muttering out of the corner of his mouth, “Don’t trip this time.”

You fire back under your breath, “Don’t abandon me this time.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Shadis raises a hand.

The buzzer blares.

You’re through the door before the echo of the buzzer fades. You take point, slipping low and tight through the first hallway, eyes flicking between shadows, corners, exposed angles.

Reiner follows—back tight to yours when needed, watching flanks, not talking, just moving. It’s like choreography, just rougher. Dirtier. More dangerous.

You sweep around a turn—dummy target, left side. You’re already raising your arm when a flash pellet sails over your shoulder, bursts with a sharp bang. You blink, impressed.

This might actually work.

You both clear the lower level in record time. No shouting. No stepping on each other’s orders. Just instincts syncing. Timing sharpening. Like something locked into place without either of you realizing it.

The second floor is tighter. More vertical. A collapsed wall funnels you onto a narrow catwalk above a fake rubble pile. There’s a dummy set up as an “injured civilian” at the bottom. Reiner hesitates. You don’t.

You’re already across, light-footed, using your momentum to stay centered. Behind you, you hear his boots hit the first plank—

Crack.

“Shit—!”

You spin. Reiner’s boot’s caught on a loose board. His weight tilts off-balance—one second from going over the edge.

You don’t think.

You drop to one knee, grab his harness strap with both hands, and haul. Your shoulder screams. Your balance teeters. But you plant your feet and pull.

He catches himself, barely. His breath is ragged.

“You are so lucky I hate losing,” you hiss, still holding on.

He looks stunned. And grateful. For a half-second, your hands stay locked—one fist in his harness, one in yours. Like you forgot to let go.

Then, you move.

Back on mission.

You’re fast. Focused. Pushing through the last set of barriers like the course can’t touch you now.

Then—the buzzer.

You skid to a stop, panting. You’re only a few feet from the exit door. Reiner curses softly behind you.

Shadis approaches, arms crossed, face unreadable.

He surveys the scene. The unfinished path. The paused stopwatch.

“You didn’t finish,” he says.

Both of you brace.

“But,” he continues after a long pause, “you didn’t fall apart.”

Another beat of silence.

“You passed.”

Your brain stalls. Reiner exhales like he’s been holding it in for a week.

Shadis turns, walking away. “Barely.”

You’re unstrapping your gear under the shade of a half-splintered post, sweat dripping down your neck. Muscles sore. Breath still catching.

Reiner stands a few feet away, wringing sweat from a rag, quiet.

You glance over. “I wasn’t gonna let you fall.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I know… Thanks.”

You shrug, brushing dirt off your knee. “Couldn’t let you screw up our one shot.”

He gives a faint grin. “Obviously.”

You both stand there. No snark. No insults. Just breathing. Just… there.

Neither of you walks away.

The silence feels earned this time.

Chapter Text

The wind’s soft today. Just a slow breeze brushing over the training yard, tugging at collar hems and loose hair. Most of the snow’s melted, leaving behind patches of soggy earth and wet boot prints stamped into the ground. There are no orders barked. No formations. Just a handful of hours handed out like a peace offering.

“A final reprieve,” Shadis had said that morning, his voice low and dry. “So none of you say we didn’t give you a choice.”

The energy now is weirdly buoyant. Not joyful—just… untethered. Like the whole camp’s letting loose.

To your left, Sasha and Connie are locked in some kind of full-contact deathmatch over a half-eaten loaf of bread.

“You already had breakfast!” Connie yells, trying to pin her arms without taking a bite to the face.

“That was pre-breakfast!” Sasha snarls, legs wrapped around his waist like she’s trying to bring him to the mat. It’s unclear who’s winning. It’s very clear neither of them cares.

A few feet away, Jean’s lounging under a tree with all the grace of a man mid-existential crisis. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, glances around with furrowed brows like he’s waiting for someone else to say the thing he’s thinking.

“No one looks serious enough,” he mutters. “This is life and death. This is the rest of our lives. Am I the only one thinking—”

“—about which branch Mikasa’s going in?” Ymir cuts in. Jean’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

He doesn’t deny it.

Armin is cross-legged in the grass with a battered journal stretched across his knees. He scribbles quickly, then pauses—looking up at the sky, at the chaos, at Mikasa’s unmoving figure. His gaze lingers like he’s trying to capture this moment before it slips.

Mikasa, for her part, sits like stone under the edge of another tree. Her blades glint in the sun as she sharpens them with soft, rhythmic pulls. She’s not tense—but she’s not soft, either. Just focused. Like if she stops moving, her thoughts might start.

You’re off a little ways from the rest—not avoiding, not really joining in either. Somewhere in-between. The grass beneath you is cold and damp, but it feels good on your palms. You lean back on your elbows, face tilted toward the light, eyes half-lidded. Listening.

It’s almost like peace. Almost.

Your boots are caked in dried mud. Your gear’s half-loosened. Your hair’s tied back with the same torn strip of cloth you’ve been using since week twenty. You haven’t said much this morning—but your body’s loose, at ease. The pressure in your chest has dimmed to something quieter. Not gone. Just folded.

Ymir flops down beside you like she belongs there. She bumps her shoulder against yours.

“You gonna miss us?” she asks, gaze angled up toward the sky, like she’s not really looking at you but still expects an answer.

You snort. “I’m gonna miss the quiet you ruin.”

“Flattered,” she says easily, grinning without looking.

A moment later, Krista wanders up with a dented water canteen in her hands. She offers it without a word. You take it. Sip. Nod your thanks. Krista smiles back before drifting off like sunlight, trailing behind Ymir’s laughter as she taunts Connie mid-wrestle.

Across the yard, Bertholdt and Annie lean against a fence post, half-shadowed by the shed. They’re speaking in low voices. Bertholdt’s posture is tight. Annie’s arms are folded, eyes scanning the yard like she’s measuring every escape route. They’re watching someone else, though. Not each other.

You follow their line of sight.

Reiner’s sitting on a wooden step just past the edge of the yard, idly tossing a training knife into the dirt and retrieving it. Over and over. His aim is perfect. Clean. Predictable. But his face… his face is off. Tense. Like he’s doing math in his head and hating the answer.

You squint at him for a long moment. Frown. File it away.

Then you lay back against the grass again, one arm bent behind your head, and let the breeze skim across your skin. Tomorrow, everything changes. But for now—there’s sun on your face. Bread flying through the air. And someone arguing, loudly, that pre-breakfast is a legitimate meal.

You let the sound blur into the sky.

And for a moment—you let yourself stay still.

Lunch is always a mess—some combination of noise, elbows, and vaguely edible carbs—but today it’s quieter. Not silent, just mellowed. The calm that knows a storm’s coming.

You’re seated with the usual suspects, your tray balanced on your knees, boots planted in the grass. Ymir’s cracking jokes. Krista’s patiently ignoring half of them. Connie and Sasha are locked in yet another high-stakes food swap. Jean said something stupid earlier and Sasha nearly died laughing—actual choking, full red face, the works. He looked proud.

It all feels normal. Too normal.

Across from you, Reiner’s poking at his stew like it personally insulted him. Not sulking. Just off. Quiet. Not himself. You notice. You file it away. Again.

The question rolls into the conversation like it always does—natural, inevitable:

“So, which branch are you choosing?”

It’s Ymir who answers first, leaning back on her hands with a grin too wide to be casual. Her voice rings clear across the table.

“Scouts, obviously. Gotta see if Titans bleed like the rest of us.”

Krista glances at her. Smiles in that soft, steady way that always feels like a secret.

“I’m going too.”

You blink. Raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

She nods, simple and sure.

“Someone’s gotta keep her alive.”

Ymir smirks but doesn’t argue.

Sasha shrugs, cheeks full.

“I dunno… I wanna be brave, but food’s better in the Garrison.”

“Coward,” Ymir says immediately.

“Survivor,” Sasha corrects, unbothered.

Connie raises a hand like he’s back in the classroom.

“Same. Garrison. No shame. Just… realistic expectations, man.”

Jean mutters, without looking up:

“Military Police. Duh.” Then, like it just occurred to him to be humble, he tacks on:

“If I make top ten.”

He doesn’t sound like he doubts it, though. Not really.

Armin’s quiet for a moment. Turning something over in his head before he speaks.

“The Scouts,” he says, voice lower than usual. “It’s the only place that really… looks forward.”

Everyone glances at Mikasa, even though she hasn’t said a word. Her expression hasn’t changed. Still sharpening her focus, whatever that means today. Jean tries not to look too long. Fails, obviously.

Then the table turns to you.

“What about you?” Sasha asks. “You always train like you’re already in the Scouts.”

You pause. Not for dramatic effect—you just don’t know what to say.

You flick a piece of bread crust off your tray, watching it fall.

“I’m… not sure yet.”

The silence that follows is quiet, but not cruel. Just surprised.

“Thought you were dead set,” Jean says with a laugh. “You, Mikasa, and Annie are like the only ones who can walk straight through a combat drill without blinking.”

You shrug.

“Doesn’t mean I know where I belong.”

And then—

“I’m going Military Police.”

Reiner says it without drama. Just a flat, even tone. Quiet. Calm. Certain.

The table stills.

It’s only a second but it stretches. A pause that lands heavy in your chest.

You look at him.

Hard.

You don’t say anything, not yet, but he feels it. You can tell. You want him to feel it.

Bertholdt clears his throat like he’s trying to lift the weight.

“Top ten’s gonna be tight. Could come down to half a point.”

Reiner doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look up. Just keeps eating like nothing’s chinged. Like he didn’t just toss a stone into still water.

Someone tries to change the subject. You’re not sure who. Might’ve been Connie. Sasha’s laughing again, louder than necessary, like noise can patch cracks.

But you’re still looking at Reiner.

And the crack’s already there.

You don’t know why it makes your stomach twist. Why it stings like betrayal when he hasn’t broken any promises. But you know something’s off.

You know something’s coming.

The air’s colder now. Most of the cadets have holed up somewhere. Packing, pretending to pack, winding down. You’re not in the mood for company. You’re walking the edge of the perimeter, boots crunching in thawed gravel. Not aimless. Not focused either. There’s a hum beneath your skin—restless, twitchy energy that won’t settle. You could run laps, or scream, or hit something, and it still wouldn’t go away.

You’re not looking for him.

But you find him anyway.

Near the back fence, tucked in the shadow of the old supply shed—Reiner. Alone. No gear, no jacket. Just a plain, sweat-damp undershirt clinging to his back and shoulders, the fabric stretched taut from broad muscle and tension. He’s tossing a rock into his palm. Catch. Toss. Catch. Again. Again. Like he’s weighing something invisible.

You slow your steps. You could walk past him. Could act like you didn’t see him.

You don’t.

He notices you, of course. But he doesn’t speak first.

“You’re really going with the Military Police?” Your voice is calm. Too calm. It skims just above a growl, but the weight beneath it says Don’t lie to me.

Reiner catches the rock and doesn’t throw it again.

“Yeah.”

That’s it.

You exhale through your nose. The cold hits your teeth.

You step closer, boots grinding in the loose dirt.

“You trained like hell for three years. Pushed harder than anyone.” You pause. “Besides me.” Your voice lowers, tightens. “You nearly broke your ribs last winter trying to keep up. And now you’re just gonna… what? Sit pretty behind the Inner Walls while the rest of us die out there?”

He finally looks at you.

Calm. Stoic. Solid, like always. But there’s a flicker—just for a second. Something flickering and buried. A crack.

“I’m doing what I have to.”

You tilt your head. That’s not enough.

“That’s not an answer.”

The sharp edge slips in before you can help it. It leaks out. You’re not yelling. Not close. But it stings more because you aren’t.

“We don’t all get to be heroes, you know.”

Your jaw ticks. That bitter thing in your chest twists, ugly.

“No. But some of us don’t run from the chance either.”

That lands.

His jaw locks, tight and clenched. His shoulders shift, a breath sharper than before.

“You think I’m running?”

You don’t flinch.

“I don’t know what you’re doing. But it doesn’t make sense.” You hold his gaze.

“Not for you.” He looks away then. Not ashamed. Just resolute. “Why should it have to make sense to you?”

That one gets under your skin. Buries deep.

You step back like it physically knocked you.

The cold reaches your chest this time, and stays there.

“Fine.”

Flat. Final. The kind of word you use to end things, even when you don’t know what exactly is ending. “Go ahead, join the Garrison. Be my guest, see if I care…”

You turn, boots crunch in the ground, your shoulders tight. Every step away feels heavier than it should. You don’t look back.

He doesn’t stop you.

And the worst part?

You don’t know why you’re so mad.

You don’t even know what you wanted him to say.

Only that something’s been misplaced between you. Dropped. Something that should’ve been shared—and he refused to hold it.

Graduation night arrives without ceremony.

No grand parade. Just names, orders, and choices—cold and official, like the next breath could be your last and nobody’s supposed to care.

The cadets are all gathered in formation, boots aligned on cracked stone, the air thick with nerves. an instructor stnads before you like a vulture circling carrion.

“You’ve trained for three years,” he says, voice flat. “And today, you choose. The Garrison Regiment: tasked with patrolling the walls, ensuring safety within the cities. The engine that keeps the world turning. The Scout Regiment: humanity’s edge. The few who face the Titans directly. You leave the walls—you don’t expect to come back. But if you do… it’s because you’ve changed the world. The Military Police Brigade: law, order, and stability. Guarding the King’s peace. You don’t get in unless you’re top ten. You’ve earned that right. Use it wisely—or not at all.”

You feel the ripple pass through the line. Silent decisions being made. Some already made long ago.

Shadis starts reading the names of the top ten.

“Mikasa Ackerman. Reiner Braun.”Then you hear it. Your name is called. You’re top three.The list continues. “Bertholdt Hoover. Annie Leonhart. Eren Jaeger. Jean Kirstein. Connie Springer. Sasha Blouse. Krista Lenz.”

You barely register your name. There’s a strange ringing in your ears. It should feel like something. Victory, maybe. Closure. But instead it feels like the end of a sentence you never finished writing.

Later that night, dinner is loud. Familiar, chaotic, rowdy. A farewell party wrapped in whatever scraps of normalcy the mess hall could provide. Connie’s got mashed potatoes in his hair, Sasha’s making noises like she’s auditioning for the role of “feral raccoon,” and Jean’s on his third argument with a wall.

You sit with Ymir and Krista, your plate untouched, hands slack in your lap. Usually you’re quiet—but this quiet’s different. Heavier. Still.

Krista notices first.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” she says gently, nudging your arm. “Haven’t even murmured colors while eating.”

You don’t answer right away. You’ve been watching him.

Reiner.

He’s over at another table, talking low with Bertholdt and Annie. They’re leaning in close. Focused. Already making plans, maybe. His face is calm. Neutral.

You don’t realize you’re staring until Ymir jabs you with her elbow.

“So are you going to go over and kiss him, or what?”

You blink.

“What?”

Ymir grins. “You’re giving him the eyes.”

“I’m not—”

Krista cuts you off with a knowing smile. “You kind of are.”

You shake your head. Lean back. Try to zone out.

That’s when you hear Eren. Loud, confident, surrounded by other cadets trying to tell him the Scouts are a waste. “—I’m going to exterminate all of the Titans, and escape these cramped walls! That is my dream. Humanity isn’t finished yet.”

This speech again. His third this week.

You stand up with no warning, no words, just the scrape of your chair and your boots hitting the floor.

Ymir whistles low behind you. Krista calls your name once, unsure, but doesn’t stop you.

You march across the mess hall.

Eren falters when he sees you. You’re not close. Not exactly friends. A few training drills, a few nods exchanged. That’s it.

You stop in front of him. He straightens, surprised. Almost nervous.

You meet his eyes, and the words fall out before you can second-guess them.

“I’m joining with you.”

He blinks.

Then he nods. A smile breaking over his face, bright and a little wild.

“Good. It’ll be nice to have someone else from top ten with me.”

Mikasa looks between you too, Armin as well. She doesn’t say anything, but she gives you a small nod—like she’s not surprised. Armin smiles, quiet and sincere. “Me too,” he says. “Scouts.”

Sasha stares at her plate for a second, then sighs. “Screw it. I guess I’m going too.”

Connie groans. “Seriously? Ugh. Fine. But if I die in the first week, it’s on all of you.”

Jean mutters, “If Eren’s going, I’m going. Can’t let him get all the kills.”

It feels like a wave, rippling outward. People making choices not just for themselves—but because of each other.

You glance back toward the other table.

Reiner still hasn’t moved.

You overheard him earlier, with Bertholdt and Annie. “Military Police. That’s the plan.”

You were hoping—stupidly, maybe—that something might change. That he might stand. That he might see you stand, and follow.

But he doesn’t.

He never even looks your way.

The wind up here tastes like metal and salt. Sharp and biting. It clings to your teeth. You’re elbow-deep in cannon grease, shirt plastered to your back, fingers raw from prying at a rusted bolt that won’t give.

You mutter something under your breath. Wipe your hands on a rag that’s already useless. You straighten, spine cracking, and reach for your gear.

You’re just about to launch when—

“Hey.”

You freeze.

Turn slowly.

Reiner.

Standing a few feet down the wall path. Wind tugging at the ends of his new jacket. Survey Corps crest catching the light. Boots laced. Harness snug. Real.

You stare at him. Boots, buckles, fists, face.

“You joined?” The words leave you flat. “Did you hit your head?”

He shrugs. Just a little. “Figured I couldn’t pass up the chance to be a hero.”

He says it like it’s a joke. Easy. Breezy. Like he didn’t almost walk away.

But you remember that night behind the shed. Your voice sharp with something close to betrayal. His voice flat with something worse.

“Guess I rubbed off on you,” you say, neutral. Almost.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You roll your eyes. Step forward. Jab his arm—knuckles to bicep. Not hard. Just enough to remind him he’s not off the hook.

He doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you like he’s seeing something new.

“What about the others?” you ask, nodding toward the yard below. “Annie? Bertholdt?”

He nods once. “Joining too. They’re getting their gear sorted. Should be here soon.”

There’s a pause.

Brief.

But something in him shifts. His jaw tightens. Eyes flick to the horizon, then back to you. Like he’s about to say something that matters. Something real.

You wait.

He doesn’t.

“Anyway,” he says, voice lighter, like the moment didn’t happen, “they need me at supply.”

You nod, but it’s slow. Hesitant.

He turns.

“Don’t let them stick you with ammo runs,” you call after him.

Reiner half-turns, walking backward now, grin crooked. “No promises.”

You watch him go. Broad shoulders. Easy stride. Like he’s not carrying anything at all.

But you felt it.

For just a second. The weight.

You don’t know what it was. But it’s enough to leave you colder than the wind.

The last bolt groans into place. You wipe your forehead with the back of your wrist, grease smearing into sweat. Your knuckles throb. Skin split at the ridge of one. You don’t notice until you drop the wrench and flex your fingers.

Gear slung. Boots scraping. You walk the narrow wall path.

Ahead, someone laughs.

Mina, doubled over. Connie flailing. Probably said something stupid. Probably worth it. Thomas and Samuel show up next, hesitation still clinging to their shoulders.

“I’m joining too,” Thomas says. A little louder than he needs to.

“Guess Eren’s speech really got to everyone,” you say.

They nod. Cluster together like it means something. Like saying it out loud seals the deal. Mina grabs Thomas’s wrist. Connie smacks Samuel on the back. For a second, it feels like a celebration.

You stay just outside the circle. Close enough to count. Far enough to watch.

“SURPRISE!”

Sasha. Of course.

She bounds in like a thief at a feast, eyes shining. Holds something over her head like it’s holy.

“Meat!” she announces.

The hunk glistens. Officer storehouse ration. Probably weeks old. Doesn’t matter.

Mina gasps. “Are you insane?”

“She’s lost it,” you say. But there’s no heat in it.

No one tells her to give it back.

Sasha cradles it like a promise. “Once we retake Wall Maria… cows. Sheep. Chickens too, maybe.”

The hunger in her voice isn’t just about food.

Connie nods like it’s gospel. Thomas mutters something about ribs. And just like that, they start dreaming aloud. Bites claimed. Slices negotiated.

It’s stupid. It’s reckless.

But no one stops smiling.

Then—

FLASH.

White light cracks the sky.

BOOM.

A thunderclap with teeth. It hits your chest like a sledgehammer. You stumble—hands flying up, ears ringing.

And then you see it.

Towering. Steaming. Unreal.

The Colossal Titan.

Its head looms over the wall like it was always meant to be there. Lightning still stitched to its skin. Steam pouring off its body in waves. Heat scorches the air.

You don’t breathe.

Then wind hits—blistering, blinding. You’re thrown.

Your fingers twitch. Grapple line fires. Hooks bite into stone. The gear wrenches hard and you slam into the wall, breath knocked from your lungs.

You hang there. Shaking. Knuckles bone-white on the controls.

Below—

The breach.

Same shape. Same story. Same fucking hole.

Your stomach caves in. Not from fear. From memory.

A wall. A crowd. Screaming.

Elbows in your ribs. Freya’s hand in yours.

Your grandmother yelling—sharp and small.

Boots. Too many.

You fall. You fall again.

You’re stepped on. Again and again.

Freya screaming your name.

A boot next to your cheek.

Blood that isn’t yours around you.

You blink.

Still here. Still hanging.

Someone’s screaming your name.

Freya?

No—

Your head snaps up.

Eren.

Clinging to the wall beside you. Eyes wide. Mouth open. That look.

You know it. You’ve worn it.

You lock eyes.

It’s there. The understanding. The rage. The fear. The vow.

No words.

You both nod once.

That’s enough.

You fire.

So does he.

Twin lines streak the sky. You rise in sync, gear screaming, wind tearing past your ears.

Up. Toward it. The monster.

Waiting.

Like it never left.

Like it’s been waiting for you, too.

Chapter Text

The world shatters in steam.

You and Eren shoot forward—ODM cables taut, blades drawn, the Colossal Titan’s nape a glowing red target in the mist. You close in fast. Just a few more meters. Heat rolls off its back like breath.

Then—

BOOM.

A deafening blast of vapor blinds you. White-hot steam erupts outward, swallowing everything. Your vision blanches. The air becomes fire.

You twist midair, instincts taking over. Your momentum turns sideways, cuts short—

You slam down hard on the wall with a thud that knocks the wind out of you. Your body skids. Metal groans beneath you.

Eren crashes nearby in a coughing heap, blades scraping stone. He curls forward, choking on heat and ash. “Damn it—!”

Below, the gate is gone.

So is the Titan.

Smoke boils up from the breach, thick and gray, curling into the sky like the earth itself is bleeding. Flames flicker in the cracks of distant rooftops. Debris rains down. Titans flood through the opening like ants through a cracked shell, feet pounding, mouths open wide.

Screams rise and scatter.

Somewhere, a bell rings.

Somewhere, it stops.

You push yourself up on shaky arms.

Connie and Mina swing up and land beside you. Connie stumbles to the edge, panting, eyes wide. “Shit.” He points. “The gate—”

“Forget it!” Eren snaps, already on his feet again. His eyes cut through the smoke, wild and sharp. “We missed our shot. It’s gone. Focus.”

Below, cadets scatter like sparks from a dying flame—bodies tiny against the enormity of the breach. Screams. Barked orders. The zip of ODM gear—some sharp and controlled, some desperate and flailing.

You spot a blur of movement to the left. Sasha—she’s climbing up the wall, one hand on her gear, the other dragging something behind her. No—someone.

“Samuel!” Mina gasps, already running.

Sasha hauls his limp body up over the ledge with a strained grunt and collapses beside him. He’s out cold—blood streaked across his temple, leg twisted at a sick angle. His gear’s a wreck, wires tangled and trailing.

“He passed out,” Sasha gasps, tearing off her jacket and pressing it to Samuel’s side. “He hit his head—he was falling—I just grabbed him, I didn’t think—”

“I got him,” Thomas says, sliding in and steadying Samuel’s shoulders. “Check his pulse again.”

You crouch near Sasha. Her hands tremble. Her jaw’s set tight, like if she says anything else she’ll crack open.

You look up.

Eren’s pacing, blades still in hand, footsteps tight and sharp. “We should go after it,” he mutters. “It’s still nearby—what if it comes back? We need to be ready.”

You stand. “It’s gone.”

“And? It could come back.”

“What do you want us to do, Eren? Fly around in circles until we get lucky?” Connie throws his hands. “We don’t even know what it is. Or how the hell it disappears like that.”

You watch the smoke rise from the breach. “It’s a distraction. This whole thing—it’s meant to overwhelm us. Split us up. Force us into corners.”

Connie narrows his eyes. “You always say stuff like that. Like you know everything.”

“I don’t,” you say. “But I know panic when I see it.”

“I’m not panicking,” Eren snaps.

“You’re pacing.”

He stops.

Silence.

The next sound is the hiss of gas canisters, followed by the heavy thud of boots. Two Garrison soldiers land behind you, gear still steaming. One’s older, bleeding from a fresh cut at his temple. His face is streaked with soot. The other looks barely older than you, eyes too wide to hide his fear.

“You cadets still breathing?” the older one barks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Listen up—contingency plan’s in effect. Colossal breach has triggered full retreat. Civilians are being evacuated toward the interior.”

The younger soldier steps forward, voice high and tense. “All cadet squads are ordered to regroup at HQ for gas refuel and command briefing. That’s your next stop.”

“We’re not even deployed yet,” Connie mutters.

The older soldier chuckles, dry as bone. “You are now.”

Inside HQ, the walls breathe chaos.

Shouting bounces between wood pillars. Footsteps echo sharp against the floor. The air is thick—oil, sweat, blood, and something scorched beneath it all, like burnt leather. It clings to your throat.

Soldiers rush past, faces pinched, gear clattering. Some carry crates. Others drag the wounded—limp limbs, torn straps, red-soaked uniforms. One cadet sobs as they’re hauled away, clutching their own hand like it’s the only thing left of them.

Half the room churns in panic—cadets pacing in tight, frantic circles, voices cracking, eyes wide with the kind of fear that’s only just set in.

The other half moves with that grim, mechanical urgency—reloading gear, barking orders, strapping on blades with clenched jaws and thousand-yard stares.

Behind you, something crashes. A table maybe. Someone screams.

Someone else yells, “Shut him up!”

You keep moving.

Your boots slip once on blood-slick stone, but you push forward, eyes scanning the crowd. You look for something small, something bright. And then, there.

Krista’s hair. A flash of light gold even in this gloom. She’s by a column, kneeling in front of a shivering cadet. Her hands are on their shoulders, her voice low, steady. Calming. She radiates warmth in a room choking on cold fear.

Beside her, leaning back against the stone like she owns the damn place, is Ymir. Arms crossed. One foot propped behind her. Eyes sharp, watching everything like a wolf waiting for the right weakness to pounce.

She sees you first.

“Well, well,” she says, pushing off the column. “Look what steam didn’t boil alive.”

Krista glances over, and relief breaks across her face like sunlight through fog. “Prism, you’re okay!”

“I’m fine,” you say, brushing ash from your sleeves. Your fingers are still trembling. You curl them into fists. “You two alright?”

Krista nods. “We were stationed farther back when the breach hit. Heard you were up front.”

“Lucky me,” you mutter.

Krista doesn’t smile at that. She just watches you a second too long, like she’s searching for injuries you didn’t mention.

You shift your weight. “Either of you seen Reiner?”

Ymir raises a brow, lips twitching. “Wow. Really? This the time to go chasing tall, blond, and emotionally constipated men?”

You give her a look—flat, unimpressed.

She sighs like you’re exhausting. “Back corner,” she says, jerking a thumb toward the far side of the room. “With Annie and Bertholdt. Try not to make it weird.”

You mutter something under your breath and move on.

You weave between bodies—sidestep a pair of medics carrying a cadet missing half his uniform and most of his color, duck beneath a shouting officer’s arm, avoid a spray of blood someone’s trying to mop up. The light here is dim and flickering—oil lamps and window slits, casting everything in restless shadow.

Then you spot them.

Reiner stands near the wall, close to Annie. His face is unreadable—stone-serious, but tight around the mouth. Like he’s holding something back.

Bertholdt’s beside him, breathing hard, sweat streaking his face. He looks like he ran a mile dragging regret behind him.

Annie’s arms are folded. She’s watching the room more than the people she’s with. Like she’s waiting for something—maybe waiting out something.

When you step into their circle, all three still. Eyes on you.

“I just came to relay orders,” you say. Your voice cuts clean through the noise. “Kitz Weilman’s evacuating civilians. Cadets are being deployed—gear refuel here, then straight to the field.”

A beat. Reiner’s brow twitches. He nods once. “Got it.”

Behind you, voices rise in heated argument.

“They’re kids, dammit! You really gonna throw them out there like fodder?!”

Another voice answers, louder. Rougher. “And who do we have left?! Half the Garrison’s already dead—”

You turn slightly, jaw tight. It’s not your fight, but the words claw into you anyway.

“Cadets aren’t ready—”

“No one’s ready. That’s the point.”

You glance back at Reiner.

He’s not looking at you. His eyes are locked on the ground. Fists curled so tight you see the tremble in his knuckles.

And you know—without him saying it—that he’s thinking what you’re thinking.

None of this is going to end clean.

The armory hums with a quiet, crackling tension.

Gas canisters hiss as they’re locked into place. Blades clink against harnesses. Straps creak and snap tight around bodies moving like machines—automatic, grim, quiet. The only voices are sharp instructions or muttered curses.

You slip outside with Eren. He looked like he needed air—and maybe you did too. The stone ledge outside the door is cool beneath your boots. The breeze hits your face, tinged with ash and smoke. You can still hear everything behind you: the whine of gear, the rasp of panic.

Jean stalks past. Stops.

His voice cuts sharp through the gloom. “You really think this is gonna work?”

Eren blinks. “What?”

“They’re sending us out there.” His mouth twists. “Cadets. We’re meat shields.”

Eren’s squares his shoulders. “So what do you suggest? We just sit here and wait to die?”

“Don’t twist it!” Jean snaps. “I’m saying we’re being thrown into a fight we’re not ready for!”

“And I’m saying if we don’t fight, there won’t be anything left to be ready for!”

Jean laughs—short, bitter. “You think you’re some kind of hero? Wake up. You’re just another warm body in uniform. Same as the rest of us.”

You don’t step in. Not yet.

Let them bleed it out.

Inside, other cadets slow, glancing over. The argument’s loud now, their voices like flint against steel. You can feel the pressure building—the kind that comes before someone snaps.

Eren’s voice rises. “We are humanity’s last hope. If we give in now—if we freeze up, fall apart, start blaming each other—they win. The Titans win. We lose everything.”

Jean takes a step back, blinking. He scoffs, but his voice drops. “Easy for you to say.”

You cross your arms, watching them both. Your pulse is still skipping from earlier—from the steam, the screams, the blood on Sasha’s hands. You haven’t caught your breath since the Colossal vanished. You’re not sure you want to.

But Eren’s right.

You step forward. “He’s not wrong,” you say. “We don’t get to choose how ready we are. All we get is right now.”

Eren looks at you—startled. Then his gaze softens. There’s relief there. Gratitude. Something unspoken that roots him to the ground.

Jean scowls and mutters something under his breath. He turns, stalking off like your defense of Eren personally offended him.

Good.

You turn back just in time for Mikasa to appear, quiet as wind. She pushes between you and Eren, as if her presence alone can anchor him. They talk—but you tune out. Not really in the mood for unspoken adolescent longing.

Until a Garrison officer approaches, voice clipped and direct. “Ackerman. You’ve been reassigned. Rear guard detail.”

Mikasa freezes. “No. I should be—”

“You’re being placed with the reinforcements,” the officer repeats. “That’s a direct order.” And with that, he leaves.

“But I’ll get in the way-” Mikasa tries to protest. But before she can fully get her sentence out, Eren moves—too fast for thought. He head-butts her.

Mikasa stumbles back, stunned. Her hand flies to her forehead. Shock and something else flickers across her face—hurt, real and unguarded.

“Get real, Mikasa!” Eren’s voice cracks, raw. “It’s unlike you to panic. Mankind is on the brink of extinction! No one gives a damn about what you want!”

You react without thinking—hand on his shoulder, yanking him back.

“Hey.”

He jerks away from your grip, chest heaving, wild-eyed.

You step between them. “Take a walk, Eren.”

He opens his mouth like he might argue. Then he sees your face. Sees Mikasa.

His jaw locks. He storms off, fists tight at his sides, footsteps clipped and angry.

Silence folds over the space he leaves behind.

Mikasa touches her forehead again, brow furrowed. You’ve never seen her look that sad.

She looks like Freya.

You stand beside her, softer now. “He has a point.”

She doesn’t look at you.

“He’s being reckless,” she says.

You nod. “Yeah. He is. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

Her shoulders shift slightly. You can feel her weighing your words.

“You can’t let your emotions take the wheel. Not now. You’re needed out there. More than most.”

She exhales slowly. One long, steady breath. Then she nods.

You step back, giving her space, and glance around the armory.

Cadets huddle in small clusters—silent now. Hands tightening straps, checking gas pressure, fingers twitching around blades.

Mina and Thomas stand shoulder to shoulder, pale but focused.

Armin’s off to the side, arms wrapped around himself, lips moving without sound.

You remember when none of them could even stand in ODM gear. When Mina used to throw up on the obstacle course.

When Eren couldn’t land without face-planting.

When Mikasa never spoke unless she had to.

And now?

Look at them.

A sharp whistle slices the tension.

“Form up! Squad assignments posted!”

You move toward the board. Your name is inked next to Eren, Armin, Mina, and Thomas.

Vanguard support. Prevent further Titan advance.

Not a suicide squad—but close.

You pull your straps tight. Check your blades. Exhale once.

Outside, the sky’s still choked with smoke. You step to the edge of the roof. The wind whips against your face, stinging and clean.

You fire your cables.

And you fly.

The rooftops blur beneath your boots—gear humming, cables hissing, metal shrieking as you land in a crouch. You feel the give of the shingles underfoot, still hot from fire below. Smoke thins the higher you go, revealing a sky scorched orange-gray, cracked by shafts of sunlight and ash.

Your squad drops in behind you—Eren, Armin, Mina, Thomas. Their eyes scan like yours. Wide. Alert. Afraid, but trying not to be.

Below, the Titans loom. Slow. Staggering. Hungry.

“We should make a game out of it,” Thomas says, adjusting his straps with a crooked grin. “Whoever gets the most kills doesn’t have to clean their gear tonight.”

Mina scoffs. “Fine, but I’m not touching your boots if I lose. I’ve seen the inside of your cubby.”

Eren spins his blades once, a gleam in his eye. “You’re all on. I’ll triple your score.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Armin mutters, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. “None of us have actually fought Titans till today.”

You roll your shoulders, already scanning the movement ahead. Twitching shadows. A flicker of movement behind the bell tower.

“Save your breath.”

They glance at you.

“Why?” Eren asks.

You don’t look back. “Because I’m definitely going to win.”

Thomas barks a laugh, sharp and sudden. Armin’s smile widens. Mina bumps your shoulder, warm through the leather. The air almost feels lighter.

Almost.

Then—movement.

Fast.

From the south, you see them: a flood of Titans pouring through broken streets, rounding corners like beasts tasting blood. A low tremor passes through your boots.

“Alright team,” you say, tightening your grip on the triggers, “let’s keep them from getting any closer.”

No hesitation. You all launch—cables firing, bodies lifting.

The wind screams in your ears as you soar. Between chimneys, over gables. You angle toward the nearest Titan when a whistle slices the air.

An abnormal, leaping—flying—clears the skyline like a nightmare on strings. You veer right, Mina veers left. Close. Too close.

You spin midair.

And see it.

The Titan peeks from around a building, teeth bared in a grotesque grin.

Thomas is in its mouth.

CHOMP.

He’s gone.

One second airborne, laughing, and the next, reduced to pink mist. Blood splashes the tiles below. His blade hits the roof with a dull clink.

Mina screams.

Armin chokes, hand flying to his mouth.

Eren roars. “THOMAS!”

He’s already gone—cables flaring, rage igniting his frame.

“Wait!” you shout, but it’s no use.

You launch after him. Armin stumbles forward. Mina follows, sobbing. The Titan that took Thomas is still chewing, jaw flexing.

Eren barrels toward it, screaming, blades aimed high, but from behind the smoke, another Titan rises.

Bigger.

Faster.

Its mouth yawns wide.

CRUNCH.

Eren’s leg snaps off at the thigh—gone in one second of brutal force. He tumbles midair, spiraling, blood trailing behind like red ribbon.

He crashes hard.

Rolls. Doesn’t move.

“Mina, no—!” Armin calls.

She dives after Eren. Arms outstretched. Stupid. But brave.

A third Titan appears from behind the bell tower.

SNAP.

Mina vanishes in its jaws.

Blood sprays across the sky like rain.

Her blade tumbles, lands spinning on the shingles. The hilt rocks to a stop beside your foot.

Armin stops. Stares. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. His eyes lock on Eren—who still hasn’t moved.

You skid to a stop beside him. “Armin! Snap out of it!”

He doesn’t answer. His mouth moves. No words come out.

“ARMIN!”

You grab his jacket, shake him hard.

“Look at me. Breathe.”

Nothing. He’s not here.

Too late.

A shadow falls across you. Cold.

You spin.

A Titan—close—reaches down.

It grabs Armin like he weighs nothing.

“No—NO!”

But the scream doesn’t sound like yours.

It’s younger. Higher. Freya’s

“Sister!”

You launch without thinking. No windup. No plan.

The world narrows to fingers—flesh squeezing around Armin’s ribs, his mouth open in a silent scream. You draw both blades and drive them in—hard.

Bone splits. Tendons snap.

Hot blood coats your face. Metallic. Copper. It gets in your mouth.

Magenta.

The hand drops.

Armin falls.

You catch him by the straps, yank him back just as the Titan roars, twisting toward you.

Its mouth opens—breath rank with death.

You plant your feet, twist, and strike with everything you have.

Both blades sink deep into its nape.

The Titan collapses, a collapsing star of steam and bone.

You’re already turning.

You don’t get a second to breathe.

Another Titan crashes through the side street, sprinting.

You barely dive in time. Its hand swings wide and snatches you from the air.

It wraps around your waist.

You scream.

One blade drops.

The other scrapes helplessly against the Titan’s skin as it lifts you, tightens its grip. Your ribs crack. You can’t breathe.

Its mouth opens.

Teeth like boulders. A jaw wide enough to end you.

You stab. Useless. It’s too fast.

You see it coming.

Then… hands.

Not the Titan’s.

Eren’s.

He slams into you, knocking you out of the Titan’s grasp. You fall—hard—skid across the rooftop, slam into a chimney.

You groan, coughing. Vision swims.

You turn.

Eren’s caught now. In the Titan’s mouth.

His arm is still reaching for you.

His eyes—locked on yours.

“Run.”

The word barely leaves his lips before the Titan bites down.

Swallows.

Gone.

The silence that follows is louder than any scream.

Chapter Text

Smoke curls through the air like wrung-out screams.

It slithers between half-shattered buildings, hugs the rooftops, clings to the jagged spines of stone and wood. Ash falls like snow that never melts—soft and slow and suffocating. It settles on everything. On broken blades. On broken bodies.

On you.

They’ve pulled back. Barely. Retreat by inches, breath by breath.

Armin hit the roof running. He hasn’t spoken since. Not even when Jean grabs him by the straps and shouts in his face.

“Armin—hey! Talk to me!”

No response.

Just a ragdoll collapse. Knees hit stone. His fingers tremble in front of him—stiff, stained red to the wrists. He stares at them like they aren’t his.

Mikasa’s boots strike down hard. She’s already moving—head on a swivel, scanning the sky, the streets, the bodies, the blood.

“Where’s Eren?” she asks.

Silence.

Jean looks at Armin again, voice rising. “Where is he? You were with him, right? What happened?!”

Armin swallows. His voice is so small it almost disappears in the wind.

“He’s gone.”

Jean flinches. “What?”

“Gone?” Connie echoes, voice uncertain, disbelieving.

“Eaten,” Armin says.

It’s like the word breaks something in him.

“He saved her.” A nod toward you. “He saved her. And then…”

He can’t say the rest.

Doesn’t have to.

Ymir’s already kneeling beside you.

You don’t feel her. Not really.

Not when she touches your neck, checking your pulse. Not when Krista props your shoulders into her lap and presses fabric to your side. Not when someone wipes blood from your mouth.

Your body is a shape on the rooftop. A thing.

Limp. Slack-jawed. There’s blood down your front, more on your back—some yours. Some not. One eye flutters open. Glimpses the sky. Then it closes again.

Ymir curses under her breath. “Damn it.”

Her voice drops low. Rough.

“You idiot girl. You know you can’t die. Not yet.”

Krista shifts beneath you, gentle. “Ymir…”

“She’s not allowed to die here.”

It’s not a plea. It’s a threat. A challenge. As if she’s talking to fate itself.

Krista presses harder. You twitch. Barely. “She won’t.”

But Ymir doesn’t answer. Just clenches her jaw, hard enough her teeth creak. Her gaze stays fixed on your face. Your chest. The way it rises—jerky, uneven. The way it barely moves at all.

A loud crack splits the air.

A rooftop collapses two streets down—too close.

The weight of a Titan sends a plume of dust and tile skyward.

Jean swears, already turning. “We’re sitting ducks here!”

Connie checks his gear, frantic. “My gas is almost dry. Anyone got extra?”

No answer.

All around, the Titans are still coming.

Shadows behind windows. Tremors in the stone. Groans rolling through the streets like thunder too tired to roar.

Mikasa stands. Still as bone.

The wind lifts her scarf.

Her face doesn’t move. Not a twitch. Not even a blink.

Eren.

Gone.

The word hasn’t landed yet.

Or maybe it has—and crushed her too cleanly to show.

She turns.

“Everyone still standing—on your feet,” she says.

No anger. No grief.

Just command.

Jean stares at her. “What?”

“You want to live?” Her eyes don’t soften. “Then follow me.”

She’s gone before anyone moves. Blades out. Gas flares. Her figure disappears into smoke and ruin.

The others scramble after.

Behind them, Ymir stays.

She brushes soot from your cheek with the back of her fingers. Pushes strands of hair off your forehead. Her hand trembles once. Then stills.

“Come on,” she mutters. “Hurry up and get better now.”

You don’t respond.

But somewhere, far below pain, far below breath, something stirs.

Not quite a thought.

Not quite a memory.

A sound, maybe. A scream echoing through the black.

Your sister.

Your body doesn’t move.

But your blood remembers.

Darkness.

Then light, too white, too clean.

You’re standing in nothing.

There’s no floor. No sky. Just mist, slow-moving and cold. The air brushes your skin like breath drawn backward.

The landscape stretches endless in all directions. Pale sand dunes rise and fall beneath your bare feet, colorless and soft, untouched by wind. Overhead, the space hums—silent, vibrating with something just outside of hearing.

You are alone.

Until you’re not.

Vein-like strands, thick as tree trunks, pulse faintly in the distance—glowing blue, then purple, then gone again. They twist overhead and disappear into a massive shape on the horizon: a tree, luminous and enormous, its branches strung with nerves. It breathes without sound. The sky doesn’t change, but somehow time has stopped.

You blink.

Again.

And then—

She’s there.

A figure. Tall. Pale. Blonde hair floats around her face as if suspended in water. Her eyes are wide and hollow, but they are not empty. They are endless. Older than the world. Older than your name.

She does not speak.

She does not move.

She only watches.

Her presence swells in your lungs like a tide. You can’t tell if you’re breathing her in or drowning in her gaze. The world around her goes still. As if holding its breath.

You blink again—

And you’re barefoot in grass.

Dew clings to your toes. A cow moos somewhere nearby, low and familiar. You can feel the fence under your palms—smooth wood warmed by the early sun. You know this place. Every sound. Every smell.

The pasture.

Home.

You look up.

Your father’s shifting the weight of his hunting pack, the rifle slung across his back like a shadow. He leans in and kisses your mother’s cheek.

“I’ll be back late, Angraea,” he says. “Watch the children.”

“I will.” Her smile is small but real. “Bring something good for me.”

He chuckles. Ruffles your hair as he passes.

“Keep your eyes sharp, little fawn.”

You nod like you always did.

But something inside you twitches.

Time slips again. The light softens—then swells, too bright, washing the world in hues blue and purple.

The gate creaks. Your mother walks in, windblown, breathless, a metal bucket swinging from one hand. Milk sloshes inside. Her cheeks are flushed. Freya chases butterflies barefoot through the grass, her giggles bubbling up like spring water.

The air smells like clover. Like woodsmoke. Like morning.

Inside, the cabin feels smaller than you remember. Your mother sets the bucket down with a grunt.

“Sweetie, can you grab a milk jug from the cabinet, please?”

You nod. It’s heavier than it used to be.

“Thank you, darling.”

Then—

Crash.

A sharp sound. Wood hitting floor. A thud. Not loud, but wrong.

Your mother stiffens. Moves fast.

You follow.

Elias is crouched on the floor, blocks spilled everywhere. His tower leans, half-collapsed.

“Elias…” your mother breathes. “Come on out of your room. Freya’s playing outside all by herself.”

He shakes his head. Quiet.

Keeps stacking.

She turns to you.

“My love. Can you stay with him, please? I don’t want him hurting himself.”

You nod.

Sit.

Watch.

He hums to himself. Soft. Off-key. But after a while, your fingers itch. He’s only seven. The blocks feel too small in your hands so you slip out.

Outside, the sun is hotter now.

Freya’s lying in the grass, letting bugs crawl her arms. She giggles as one lands on her nose.

“Where’s your brother?” your mother asks, hanging laundry on the line.

“He’s sleeping,” you lie. Too easily.

She hums. Doesn’t press.

You sit beside Freya. Catch a ladybug. Let it walk your knuckles. The world is warm. Gentle.

BANG.

The sound is too loud for the day. It cuts through everything.

Everyone freezes.

You drop the bug and run.

Your legs move before your mind does. Your heart stutters. Your ribs ache. The front door slams open. You know where the sound came from.

The room that should never be open.

Your father’s hunting room.

Blood is already spilling across the floor. Too red. Too thick.

You turn the corner.

Elias .

His small body is folded beside the rack. His face gone. The pistol still in his hand. Smoke curling from the barrel like a ghost. Blocks soaked red. One is still in his lap.

Your mother drops to her knees. The scream she makes is not human.

It echoes underwater, through you.

You take a step back.

And it’s night.

Freya’s hand is in yours. Small. Cold.

You’re in your parents’ bedroom.

The smell of blood is thicker here. Sour and iron-heavy.

Your mother is on top of your father.

Screaming.

Stabbing.

The knife rises and falls. Over and over and over. Her hands are slick. Her hair sticks to her face.

Your father’s eyes are open.

They don’t blink.

Freya squeezes your hand. You don’t speak. Neither of you can.

Then your mother turns.

Sees you.

Something’s missing from her face. Something important. Her mouth opens. Her eyes go wide. She charges.

You run.

Freya screams. Her voice cracks.

You glance back.

Blood streaks her arm—where your mother grabbed her. Cut her. Tried to take her too.

You pull harder. Out the door. Down the path. Into the trees.

You don’t stop running until the cabin appears—on the hill, half-hidden in moonlight. You remember pounding on the door, it opening, your grandmother’s arms wrapping around you both so tight your ribs hurt. You don’t remember what you said. Or if you even said anything at all.

Then it’s morning, back at the house. Soldiers outside. The Garrison. Their boots crunch the dirt like thunder. You, Freya, and your grandmother stand by the gate. Her hand on your shoulder.

Two stretchers pass.

One with your father.

The other with your mother.

Both still.

Freya leans into you. She doesn’t cry, but she shakes uncontrollably.

You feel the pressure of your grandmother’s hand.

She says your name.

But her voice sounds wrong. Too far away.

She says it again.

Louder.

Except it’s not her voice anymore.

It’s someone else’s.

Someone you know.

Calling you back.

The mist begins to pull.

Light coils through your spine like taking a deep breath.

“Come on. You’re not done yet.”

The glowing tree in the distance flares.

“I know you can hear me.”

The voice is sharp. Familiar. Fierce.

Ymir.

You open your eyes.

The Path unravels. You fall through.

You wake to a dull ache blooming across your lower back. Not sharp. Just… sore. Thudding. Like an old bruise waking up with you. Surprising, really. You expected worse. You remember worse. Getting grabbed by a Titan should’ve broken something. Torn something. Ended something. But your body is still here, sprawled across cracked tiles and smoking shingles, the roof groaning quietly beneath you.

Steam curls off your side. Thin. White.

You blink. Once. Twice. The world hitches, then pulls itself back into shape.

Your uniform is torn, blood crusted like rust into the fabric. You tug the collar down, grimacing.

The wound’s gone.

Not scabbed. Not stitched.

Just… gone.

Smooth skin. Pink and raw. Surrounded by soot.

You don’t have time to make sense of it. A voice slices the fog clean in half.

“Prism!”

You turn toward it.

Ymir.

She’s crouched beside you, hair damp with sweat, eyes burning. Her face is flushed and tight. She looks like she’s been screaming at you for a while.

“You had me worried,” she snaps. “You went limp like a sack of potatoes.”

You grunt. Push yourself halfway up on your elbows.

The world lurches then eventually steadies.

You catch your breath. The air tastes like ash.

Pearl gold.

Then you see it.

A few buildings down, massive and frenzied, something towers over the skyline. A 15-meter Titan, lean and sharp-boned, grabs a smaller one by the neck—and rips.

Flesh tears. Bone splits.

It rips the spine out like a strand of wet rope.

Your stomach turns. Your hands go cold.

“…What the hell is that?”

Ymir’s already watching it. Her jaw is tight. Her grip tighter.

“A Titan,” she says. “Ripping apart other Titans.”

It shouldn’t make sense. But it does.

You watch the larger Titan toss the limp body aside. It lets out a roar—not the usual bellow of madness. This one has direction. Fury. Purpose.

You know that scream.

It’s not a stranger’s.

But it doesn’t last.

They come fast.

Three. Five. Seven.

Titans swarm from every angle like a flood with teeth. They throw themselves onto it—climb its back, dig into its limbs. It lashes out, brutal and bright, but the numbers drag it down. The ground shakes. Dust and steam explode outward in choking waves.

“Shit—” Ymir hisses.

A figure skids to a stop behind you. Survey Corps. Face flushed. One sleeve torn. Blood soaking through the cloth.

“Command given to protect the 15-meter Titan,” they bark, already shoving two full gas tanks into your hands.

No time to ask questions.

Ymir catches hers on instinct.

You reach for yours—

And freeze.

A jolt rips down your spine. Cold and electric.

You suck in a breath, sharp.

That place—

The one without color.

The tree. The mist. The woman who watched you without blinking.

It flickers behind your eyes like an afterimage. Too large to forget. Too quiet to ignore.

“Prism?”

Ymir again. Her voice is closer now. Softer. Worried. “You okay?”

You nod. Automatically. Then stop.

“…I saw something just now.”

Ymir tilts her head. Suspicious. Guarded.

“Saw what?”

You look down at your hands. They don’t shake.

But something inside still does.

“I don’t know. It felt like… a dream. But also not.”

Ymir frowns.

You shake your head. “It wasn’t a color.”

She blinks. “What do you mean?”

You search for it—language never quite enough.

“It wasn’t a color,” you repeat. “It was a place.”

A long pause.

Ymir stares at you. Her expression changes—just a flicker, like a wind against still water.

“Like a dream you can’t quite forget?” she asks, voice low.

You snap your gaze up.

She knows.

You see it in the way her shoulders shift. In the slight pull at her mouth. The tremor behind her eyes. She’s been there.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

She exhales. One sharp breath.

“Alright, Prism. We’ll talk about it later.”

You nod. Pick up your blades.

Ymir gives you a crooked grin—half-smirk, half-dare.

“Come on. Let’s go help our new friend.”

You run.

Steam still rising.

Thunder still coming.

And the battlefield calls your name.

Chapter Text

The battlefield is chaos.

Smoke coils off broken rooftops. The air stinks—steam, scorched blood, something sweet and wrong underneath it all. You barely register it anymore. You’re already moving.

You, Ymir, and the last handful of cadets tear across the shingles, blades drawn, boots hissing against the stone as you leap. Below, a storm of shrieks and meat-colored limbs coils into the 15-meter Titan and pulls it under like a tide.

But it’s still moving.

Still fighting.

Beneath the pile, you catch flashes of sharp elbows, ragged bone, teeth clamped in a snarl that’s too human. It thrashes as it sinks, arms twisted back at unnatural angles, then drives a fist upward. One of the Titans reels off, spine crooked.

“Go low!” Ymir yells beside you, already diving.

You don’t think—you drop, blades aimed straight for the nape of a 5-meter crouched over the mass. You catch it mid-turn, your blade cleaving through the neck in a single jarring strike. The force rattles up your shoulder like hitting steel.

Steam erupts.

Another howl echoes—high and close.

Ymir slams her blades into the back of a 3-meter with a sound like wet wood splitting. Her boots land hard on the shingles. She screams—something wordless, something wild—and wrenches her swords free.

More keep coming.

For every one that drops, another throws itself into the fray.

But you don’t stop.

You carve through them. Over and over. Muscle memory. Instinct. Rage. Little by little, the swarm thins.

Then—

A break.

The 15-meter Titan explodes upward in a mess of shattered limbs and splintered jaws. It throws a Titan off like a dog shaking water, then rips another in half with both hands. Bone cracks. Blood showers the street.

You land hard on a rooftop, knees nearly buckling.

Ymir drops beside you, panting. Her eyes are wide. Gas hisses low in her canister.

You breathe hard. Too hard.

The quiet that follows isn’t real. It buzzes with pressure, unnatural and sharp.

Then there’s voices.

Across the alley, half-lit by the sun’s dying light, you see them.

Figures waving.

Jean. Connie. Armin. Mikasa. And Krista.

Your legs start moving before you realize it.

Your boots scrape the edge of the roof as you jump—too slow, too low—but you land in a crouch, barely catching yourself. The ache hits you then, all at once. Your muscles threaten to give out.

Krista runs toward you, braid flying behind her. Her arms go around your shoulders before you can say a word.

“You’re okay!” she breathes.

You catch her by reflex, arms curling around her back.

You don’t speak.

Just nod.

Your throat is raw. Your heartbeat a roar in your ears.

Ymir watches from behind. Her expression unreadable.

A sound cracks the quiet.

Low. Guttural.

You all turn.

The 15-meter Titan rises again—limping now. One arm hangs shredded, muscle exposed in thick red ropes. Its jaw swings crooked. But it moves. It doesn’t hesitate.

A 7-meter Titan stumbles into view, too slow to back away.

The rogue Titan charges.

No technique. No hesitation. Just blunt force and bone.

It slams into the smaller one, fists flying. They hit like falling trees. The other Titan stumbles, tries to retreat—

But the rogue grabs its head.

And crushes it.

The sound is wet and final.

Blood sprays across the stone.

You don’t blink.

You just stare.

“It’s not eating them,” you say.

Your voice barely makes it out.

The others glance at you.

You nod toward the gore-streaked street below.

“It’s not trying to eat people either. It’s only attacking other Titans.”

Silence.

Armin’s brows pull together. His hands shake—just slightly—but his eyes sharpen. Like something’s clicked.

“Why would it do that?” he murmurs. “Why would a Titan… attack other Titans? What logic is that?”

Mikasa glances toward him.

“You’re thinking again,” she says. Not unkind. Just factual.

Armin nods once, slowly. His voice firms.

“It’s distracting them. And if it keeps doing that… we might have a chance.”

Jean turns toward him, frowning.

“Chance for what?”

“To get to the supply room,” Armin says. “Regroup. Refuel.”

Connie stares.

“You want us to sneak past all this?”

“No.” Armin meets each of your gazes. “I want us to use it. While they’re distracted—we move.”

A beat.

Jean breathes out hard. Then nods.

“It’s risky.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Ymir mutters.

“I like it,” you say.

Your voice is steady.

Armin looks at you. Then the rest.

The decision’s made.

One by one, you descend from the rooftops.

Steam still curls from the streets—white veins across the bloodied stone.

The rogue Titan’s howls echo behind you.

Your gas tanks are almost dry.

You run anyway.

Fast. Low. Silent.

You dart through alleys lined with crushed wagons and shattered walls.

Then there it is.

The supply depot.

Massive. Grim. Half-collapsed.

The main doors barely hang on their hinges.

Mikasa leads the way, sword drawn. You slip inside behind her—quiet as breath.

And then stop cold.

Worse than expected.

The sound hits first—footsteps, heavy and slow.

Then you see them.

Massive shadows moving in the dark. Limbs too wide. Eyes that glint like wet stone. Several Titans have made it inside. Their bodies sway as they stalk through the warehouse, heads brushing the rafters. The aisles are shattered. Shelves overturned.

The fuel canisters are at the back.

Unreachable.

You breathe in—then hold it.

No gas. No way out.

Nothing but the blades in your hands.

If you get caught now—

You don’t get back up.

Boots thunder against stone.

Smoke swirls as Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie burst in through the shattered depot doors. Reiner’s breathing hard. Blood streaks one arm, dark and half-dried. Bertholdt’s eyes go wide the second he sees them, the Titans moving in the dark, weaving between pillars like monstrous silhouettes in a dream.

“Shit…” he breathes.

Annie doesn’t speak. She never does in serious situations. She just scans, face unreadable, fists clenched.

You shift closer to the others, hand brushing your hilt. One charge left. Maybe two, if you don’t miss.

Then Armin steps forward.

His hands are trembling. But his voice isn’t.

He kneels, dragging a finger through the soot across the floor. A crude layout takes shape in ash—pillars, catwalks, support beams. The central depot. HQ.

“They don’t see well behind them. Or below. They can’t climb. Can’t reach the rafters. We use the height. We use their blind spots. We use our heads.”

His words land sharp. Precise. They cut through the haze.

The cadets gather around him. You crouch low with the rest. Dust burns your throat. No one speaks. Everyone listens.

He splits the group.

Attack Team: Mikasa. Sasha. Connie. You. Reiner. Annie. Bertholdt. A few others.

Special Team: Armin. Jean. Marco.

The Attack Team goes in first—draws their attention, keeps them off balance. The Special Team handles the bombs.

You meet Armin’s eyes once, and he nods—not in fear, but in that way he does when he knows the odds, and still picks the only move left.

They move fast.

Armin, Jean, and Marco vanish into the ruined armory, ducking low. The shelves have collapsed, twisted steel and shattered wood. You hear them scraping through crates, boots crunching glass and splinters.

You stay with the Attack Team, crouched behind a rusted support beam.

Above, faint shouts echo. Jean curses. Something metal drops, bounces, nearly falls. Marco grabs it just in time.

Armin’s voice carries soft across the rafters:

“These won’t last long… but we only need seconds.”

You close your eyes. Breathe once. Check your blades. Check again.

Beside you, Mikasa crouches—motionless. Her eyes are locked on the nearest Titan’s shoulder, like she’s already imagining the path her swords will take. Sasha mutters something under her breath. Connie flexes his grip. Annie rolls her neck once. Reiner adjusts his harness, jaw tight.

He glances at you.

You glance back.

Just a beat. Just long enough.

Then you nod.

He nods too.

The beam above flickers—light catching on a fuse.

Armin lights it.

Whispers something you can’t hear.

Then drops it.

The grenade hits the ground.

Clatter. Spin. Silence.

BOOM.

Smoke fills the depot.

Light. Dust. Screams.

Everything erupts.

The Titans howl, reeling, blind. One crashes against a column. Another staggers back, arms flailing. The noise echoes like thunder in a canyon.

You’re already moving.

Mikasa dives first, blades whistling through the haze. She cuts clean—nape to collarbone. No hesitation.

You leap just behind her—Reiner beside you.

One Titan lurches forward, snarling. You and Reiner split on instinct, veering opposite directions. Two flanks. Two lines. Your blade hits first—right through the base of its neck. Reiner’s follows, one perfect slash to finish it.

It drops before it even knows it’s dead.

Sasha whoops midair—spins once before slicing down through another.

Connie shouts, drawing a Titan’s attention, and Annie moves like a ghost—darting low, then up, blades biting deep.

Bertholdt hits the last one, blade buried to the hilt. His face is pale, but he doesn’t hesitate.

Then the smoke thins—

And Jean is there.

Panting. Stumbling. Standing over a corpse.

His blade shakes.

Marco is beside him in seconds, hand clapping his shoulder.

Silence drops.

Sudden. Strange.

Steam curls from the broken bodies. Blood pools black on the floor.

You land hard, knees cracking. Your blades shake in your grip.

Not from fear.

Relief.

Your chest feels too small to hold your breath. You exhale slowly, letting it leave you.

They’re gone. They’re all down.

The cadets break for the supply room—what’s left of it.

Armin reaches the crates first. He tears one open with trembling fingers. Gas canisters clatter out. Spare blades. More than enough.

“We’ve got it!” he calls.

Everyone moves—fast, quiet, focused.

You jam a canister into your gear. Fresh gas hisses into the lines. The weight shifts familiar on your back.

No one speaks.

Just the clinks of reloading, the rattle of metal. Replacements. Readiness.

Steam still hangs low in the air, veiling the bodies.

Armin slumps against the wall near the crates. Soot streaks down his jaw. His hands won’t stop shaking.

But when he speaks, his voice is steady.

“It worked.”

The steam hasn’t cleared.

It hangs low over the street, thick and sour. The surviving cadets regroup outside HQ, weapons lowered but not sheathed. No one really relaxes. Not here.

Armin splits the teams again. Quick, decisive.

Half stay behind to reinforce HQ—barricades, perimeter, wounded. The rest are sent out in patrol groups, checking nearby zones for stranded cadets, bodies, maybe survivors if they’re lucky.

You’re paired with Ymir, Sasha, and Jean.

Each of you gets one spare gas canister. Extra blades. Just enough to share. Not enough to screw up.

You cinch the strap tight across your chest. The gear shifts against your ribs—solid, worn, familiar. You try not to think about how long it’s been since you last ate. Or slept. Or stood still.

The street you take is narrow, winding between crumbling storefronts and the burned-out husks of wagons. Awnings hang in tatters. Blood’s dried in the cracks of the stone, black and crusted.

The rooftops are mangled, some caved in, others scorched clean through. The air still stinks of cooked meat and gunpowder. Your shoulder aches from where you hit the ground earlier.

You move in formation. Sasha at point, Jean flanking her with his blades still drawn. You hang back with Ymir. She’s quiet. Jaw tight. Eyes tracking every shadow like they owe her something.

“Still can’t believe that big ugly Titan just… turned on the others,” Sasha mutters, low. “Didn’t even try to eat us.”

Jean snorts. “First time something in this hellhole worked in our favor.”

You don’t answer. You’re still thinking about it too. The way that Titan moved. Deliberate. Not hungry. Not wild.

Like it was angry. Like it knew.

You stop at the edge of a collapsed building, steel beams jutting up like broken ribs. Sasha signals for quiet. You scan the alley below, but there is no movement. Just another husk of a house and a few scattered chairs, overturned and rusted.

You adjust the gas canister strap. Your shoulder pulls tight. You glance sideways.

“Back on the rooftop,” you say. “When I passed out. That place I saw… felt like everywhere and nowhere all at once.”

Ymir doesn’t look at you. Just keeps her eyes on the street. “Hm.”

“You knew what it was.”

There’s a twitch in her face. Barely there. Then she exhales through her nose. Sharp.

“Now’s not the time,” she says, brisk. “We’re surrounded by death and dragging spare gas through a corpse parade. Don’t get all spiritual on me.”

Her voice is harder than usual. Flat. But beneath it, something else—something she’s not saying.

“We’ll talk later.”

You almost press again.

But she pivots.

“What I do know,” Ymir adds, “is your boy Reiner ditched his Military Police dream. He’s with the Scouts now.”

You blink.

She shrugs. “Guess we’re not the only ones with bad impulse control.”

“Yeah, well,” Jean groans under his breath, “that guy’s been weird ever since graduation. First he disappears for half the breach, then shows up again like nothing happened. Not that I blame him. If I had muscles like that, I’d probably throw myself into the dumbest situations too.”

Sasha perks up. “Wait, he wanted MP?”

“Didn’t we all?” Jean replies, voice dry. He nods toward you. “Honestly, I think it’s ‘cause of her.”

You raise a brow. “Because of me?”

Jean shifts the strap on his shoulder. “Back when you passed out on that rooftop? I ran into Reiner. Told him what happened. You were barely breathing. He looked like someone knocked the wind out of him.”

Sasha grins. “Aww. That’s sweet. You guys are all buddy-buddy now! No more intense rivalry.”

Jean mumbles, “We’re gonna hear something a lot more intense than a rivalry…”

Ymir glances at you, sideways. “Gotta say, for a guy built like a wall, he sure wears his heart on his sleeve around you.”

You scoff. “Must’ve hit his head during the breach. Hard.”

Jean snickers. “Yeah. On his way down from being emotionally repressed.”

“Glad he found his motivation,” you say dryly. “Too bad it’s poorly timed concern and not, y’know… actual leadership.”

Ymir hums, a knowing little sound. “Mmm. Deflection. Classic.”

You don’t dignify it with a reply. She smirks anyway.

You keep moving.

The street ahead clears, lit in gold and copper by the lowering sun. Wind groans low through the broken wood beams, rustling ash and shredded cloth. A raven circles overhead—wings black against fire-washed sky.

You linger at the back of the formation, gear clinking softly as you walk. The canister digs into your ribs. Your fingers itch.

Everywhere and nowhere at once.

You hadn’t imagined it. The stillness. The pull. The way the air felt alive.

And Ymir—Ymir knew.

She called it by name without saying a word.

It’s been thirty minutes. Maybe more.

Your boots are caked in ash. Blisters burn beneath the leather straps. The spare canister digs deeper into your side with every step.

You’ve swept half the quarter. Still barely anyone found.

A few stragglers—one cadet sobbing beneath an overturned cart, another limping from a rooftop, shin twisted and useless. No more than six total. Fewer than there should be.

And the Rogue Titan is still fighting.

You see it through a gap in the buildings—its back to you, hunched, ribs heaving. Its movements are sluggish now. Slower. Blood streams from deep gouges in its side, its breath rasping in and out like it’s choking on heat.

A final Titan—huge, slow, limbs swaying like wet rope—stumbles toward it.

The Rogue doesn’t wait.

It lunges forward with a hoarse, broken roar and slams into the larger Titan. They crash through a stone wall in a spray of brick and dust.

Sasha flinches. “Shit—”

They wrestle, limbs colliding, dirt and rubble flying. Then the Rogue bites—teeth sinking deep into the other’s throat. It yanks. Rips. Flesh peels like wet fabric.

A scream echoes down the block—raw, inhuman.

The other Titan spasms violently… then stops moving.

The silence after rings in your ears like pressure.

Ymir whistles under her breath. “Looks like it got the last of them.”

You squint into the haze. “It looks worn out.”

It does.

The Rogue pulls back from the kill, panting. Blood steams off its skin. Its fists clench and unclench like it’s forgotten how to hold something. Then, its knees buckle.

It collapses.

One hand catches the fall. It groans, slumped forward. Its chest rises. Falls. Rises again.

And stops.

A moment passes. Two.

Then you spot movement closer to the body.

Armin and Mikasa.

They’re still out there, weapons drawn—but lowered. Armin’s glancing up now, across the field of ruin, through the blur of heat and dust.

He sees you.

His face is pale. Haunted.

Sasha exhales behind you. “What the hell is it doing?”

The Rogue slumps further then begins to melt.

Steam spills from its back in thick, heaving clouds. The skin splits. Muscle unravels like meat left too long in the sun. Bones lose shape—liquefying into sludge.

The smell hits like a slap. Sharp. Metallic. Rot-sweet.

You narrow your eyes.

“Wait…”

The nape bubbles. Peels.

Something’s moving inside.

Then a human arm punches through the steaming mess.

Jean stumbles back a step. “No fucking way-”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

The smoke thickens. Shapes blur. Something, no, someone crawling out.

He tumbles forward, slipping from the shredded nape like a discarded puppet. The lower half still stuck in the open nape.

Brown hair. Body streaked in blood and soot. Bone-thin.

Eren.

Alive.

Naked, battered, barely breathing—but unmistakable.

Eren Jaeger.

You feel your knees lock. Jean’s jaw falls open.

“That’s- he’s- he was eaten,” Jean stammers. “You saw him get eaten!”

Sasha takes a step back, eyes wide. “How is he… how the hell is he breathing?!”

On the field, Armin’s collapsed to his knees. Mikasa’s already sprinting—blades abandoned on the. She drops to him, hands shaking, sobbing.

The street stills.

No one moves. No one speaks.

Except—

Not everyone looks surprised.

You glance sideways.

Ymir hasn’t moved. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed—not in confusion. In calculation.

Her eyes flick from the steaming corpse to Eren. Her jaw is tight. Set.

You stare at her. She doesn’t look back.

“You knew,” you say, low.

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “I had a hunch.”

“You’re not shocked.”

“Nope.”

“What the hell, Ymir?”

She finally looks at you. Eyes clear. Steady.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” she says. “Later.”

Steam keeps rising from what’s left of the Titan.

Eren’s chest rises and falls.

And your world, again, has changed.

Chapter Text

The square’s gone still.

Dust hangs in the air. Blood and ash smear the flagstones. The Rogue Titan’s corpse is still steaming behind the trio at its center—Eren, Mikasa, Armin—boxed in by a dozen Garrison units, cannons primed on every rooftop.

Commander Kitz Weilman stands front and center, sweat slicking his face, hand shaking as he points toward them.

“That thing,” he shouts, voice cracked from shouting, “is not human! It emerged from a Titan! What kind of trickery is this?!”

The soldiers murmur. Fear ripples through the crowd like static.

“Kill them,” Kitz snarls. “All three! Before it’s too late!”

Mikasa moves without thinking—steps in front of Eren, blades angled low, eyes hard. A heartbeat from bloodshed.

But Armin speaks first. Low. Steady.

“Mikasa,” he says. “Calm down.”

She freezes.

He steps forward. Doesn’t raise his hands. Doesn’t look afraid.

“Eren is not your enemy,” he says, voice raw from screaming. “I don’t know what eh os. But he’s still human.”

Kitz’s eyes bulge. “Still human? He emerged from a monster’s neck like a demon crawling from the womb! And you expect us to trust that?!”

Armin takes a another step forward.

His voice shakes when he starts. “My name is Armin Arlert. I’m a cadet of the 104th Training Corps. We’ve all been trained to give our lives for humanity.”

Kitz sneers. “Humanity? You defend that thing and call yourself loyal?!”

Armin doesn’t flinch. His hands clench at his sides.

“If Eren wanted to harm us,” he says, “he wouldn’t have killed Titans. He wouldn’t have saved us. He wouldn’t be standing there, risking his life while you threaten ours.”

Kitz raises a hand. The signal.

“No,” Armin says louder. “We can’t win this war without him.”

The cannons click into place.

Eren breathes in.

Armin’s voice cracks. “Please. Let him prove himself. Let us prove ourselves.”

The silence afterward feels like a countdown.

Then—

“Fire!”

A single blast. Deafening.

The cannonball slices the air, smoke billowing in its wake—

Eren bites down.

Blood sprays.

The ground rumbles as ribs explode from the earth—white bone encasing the three of them in a protective arc. The cannonball hits. Shatters. Deflects.

Smoke swallows the square.

Someone screams.

When it clears, the three of them are still standing. Shielded by a half-formed Titan.

Alive.

Breathing.

And untouchable.

You crouch in the shadows of a ruined bell tower, chest pressed to cracked stone, breath shallow. The air’s thick with smoke and heat. Below, the battlefield is chaos—soldiers yelling, limbs moving too fast, too erratic. Cannons no longer fire, but every body on the ground is braced for something worse.

The ribcage still stands.

Half-formed. Massive. Bones like pale ivory trees, curled protectively around three figures in the center. Eren. Mikasa. Armin. Steam rolls off them in waves. The silence is unnatural. Like the air itself is waiting to scream.

Your hand grips the ledge. You didn’t even notice it shaking.

“He can…” Your voice barely escapes your mouth. “He can turn into a Titan?”

Ymir doesn’t answer right away. She’s crouched beside you, one arm slung loosely over her knee, staring through the broken slats of the tower. She’s watching your world split in two.

You turn. “And you know this because?”

A long, hard pause.

Then Ymir says, too quietly, “Because so can I.”

The words hit like a drop of ice straight down your spine.

“What.” You’re heart sinks.

She doesn’t blink. “I’m not messing with you.”

Your stomach drops. You expect her to laugh. Call it a joke. But her eyes stay flat. Focused.

“I don’t know how,” she says. “I don’t know why. But it’s real.”

You stare at her like she’s speaking a different language. She might as well be.

“That place you saw,” she continues, quieter now. “When you blacked out. That place that felt like everywhere and nowhere at once?”

You nod slowly. Barely moving.

“It connects us,” Ymir says. “You, me, Eren. That’s why we have this ability.”

You swallow. Your throat’s gone dry. “We,” you repeat. The word feels wrong in your mouth. “You’re saying I—me—I have this ability?”

Ymir shrugs. “Not sure yet. But I’ve seen enough to make a guess. You regenerate. Too fast. You wake up from things you shouldn’t. You saw what I saw. That’s not coincidence, Prism.”

“That doesn’t mean-” You stop. The sentence slips away.

Your mind drags itself through memory, the lightless place. The soundless hum. The feeling of being cracked open and held in someone else’s palm. Like a bug. Like a secret.

“There’s only one way to be sure,” Ymir says.

You don’t ask. You know what she means.

You glance back down to the street.

Eren is still slumped in the cage of his own ribs, blood and steam rising around him. His body glows faintly in the heat, like embers about to die. Everything about the scene is wrong. Biblical. And it’s real.

It’s all real.

Your hands are numb now. The ringing in your ears returns. Again, you think. Again, the world just tore in half.

Why does the craziest shit always have to happen to me.

Ymir exhales next to you. Almost a laugh, but not really.

“Welcome to the deep end, Prism,” she says. “Once you’re in, you can’t climb out.”

The second cannon never fires.

Not because anyone hesitates—someone does pull the trigger—but before the order can reach the men, a voice cuts through the smoke.

“Hold your fire.”

The horses come first—hooves pounding against stone, banners snapping, the Garrison scrambling to part. Then him.

Commander Dot Pixis.

Bald. Wiry. Eyes sharp as bayonets even as he sways slightly in the saddle, like he’s already had his first drink of the day. His coat flaps open. The badge at his collar gleams. He doesn’t look scared. He looks curious.

You peer down from the tower ledge, watching as he dismounts and strides right past the panicked firing line—like Eren isn’t still half inside a Titan, like this is a classroom and not a war zone.

“Is this the famous boy who turned into a Titan?” Pixis hums, peering into the steam like he’s greeting an old friend. “Fascinating.”

No one breathes.

Pixis waves a hand, casual as ever. “Stand down. All of you.”

There’s a heartbeat of hesitation. Then the cannons lower. The wall of rifles breaks apart. The Garrison obeys.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until Ymir elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she mutters. “Pixis is a freak. But a useful one.”

Below, things move fast. Pixis speaks with Armin. Then Eren. His voice rises, firm but level. You catch phrases between the wind:

“…Help us take it back…”

“…Seal the breach…”

“…You’ll be a hero or a corpse. Your choice.”

Eren doesn’t answer right away.

Then he nods.

The plan is simple. Insane, but simple.

Eren shifts. Titan again—full, this time. Muscle blossoms into bare skin, then sinew, then heat. He roars once, staggers twice. For a second it looks like he’s going to collapse again. You see Pixis tense.

Then Eren grabs the boulder.

The ground shudders as he lifts it, slow and shaking. Massive arms quiver under the weight, knees buckling. You think it’ll crush him.

But it doesn’t.

He moves.

The elite squad clears the street. Gas flares. Steel scrapes stone. The path is open.

Eren walks.

One step. Another. Steam jets from his back, hissed breath punching through clenched teeth. Blood drips from his mouth where he bit down too hard. But he keeps going.

You can’t look away.

He nears the breach.

You lean forward.

And then—with a grunt of effort, the kind that sounds too human for a monster—Eren slams the boulder into the gap.

The sound echoes like thunder through the hollowed-out quarter.

Silence follows.

Then a cheer—just one, sharp and disbelieving—and another, and another. They spread like wildfire. Pixis lets out a sigh like someone just handed him another decade of life. The squad behind him stares like they’re seeing a ghost.

Eren’s Titan slumps forward, steaming and still.

It worked.

The battlefield has quieted.

Smoke still lingers over Trost like a second sky—thin, metallic, stained orange by the dying sun. The cannons are quiet now. The screaming has stopped.

You walk with Ymir through what’s left of the district. Not speaking.

Your boots crunch over broken glass, stray bricks, and bone. Every step scrapes the inside of your skull. Your ribs protest. Your temples pulse. But you keep going—because that’s all you know how to do.

You pass a wall smeared black with blood. You don’t stutter.

“He did it,” you mutter. Your voice is dry as sand. “I still can’t believe he did it.”

Ymir’s voice floats behind you. “Yeah. That idiot really pulled it off.”

The street opens into what used to be a chapel. Half-collapsed. Roof torn open. Sunlight spills down in thick gold slabs, slicing through the dust. You step inside without thinking. The air smells like smoke and old wood.

Your knees give out the second you stop moving. You hit the edge of a pew. Sit hard. Elbows on knees. Head in your hands.

Ymir doesn’t say anything at first.

Then, soft for once, she says your name.

You speak through your fingers. “I don’t want this.”

“Want what?”

“All of it,” you say. “The powers. The dreams. The freak coincidences. I was supposed to die in that crowd. I felt myself stop breathing. And now I’m… this.”

Ymir sits across from you. Legs crossed. Elbows on her knees.

She doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches.

You lift your head slowly. “What if that accident caused this? When they brought me back? What if something… went wrong?”

“Or maybe,” Ymir says, “something finally went right.”

You meet her eyes. They’re clear. Sharp.

“That place you saw, between life and death. You remember?”

You nod.

“It saved me. And you. Probably Eren too. It’s not a dream. It’s not in your head. That place is real. And it’s got all of us in its grip.”

“Do you know anyone else?” you ask. “Anyone who’s… like us?”

Ymir pauses for a minute, looking away as she thinks. “Not like this. No.”

You look down at your hands. Your knuckles are rough, you remember the way they shook when you saw Eren burst out of his own skin.

“You said there’s only one way to know for sure,” you say. “To know if I can turn. But what if I can’t control it? What if I end up like Eren did. Lost in it. Or worse, what if I die?”

Ymir leans back against the fractured pew. Looks at the ceiling like she’s waiting for it to fall.

“Then we know,” she says simply.

You snap your gaze to her. “You think this is a joke?”

“I think,” she says, “I don’t have the answers you want. You healed from a chest wound that should’ve bled you out. You got crushed in a stampede and came back tasting colors.”

She leans forward again. “You’ve never been normal, Prism. Maybe you weren’t meant to be.”

Your mouth tastes like copper.

Pastel blue.

You swallow hard. “Ymir… what are we?”

She looks at you for a long time. Her face unreadable. Then she shrugs—slow, heavy. Like it costs her something.

“Depends who you ask.”

You stare at her. Wait.

“To some? We’re weapons,” she says. “To others? Monsters.”

“And to you?”

Her voice softens. “We’re just kids who got dragged into something older than any of us. Something we don’t understand.”

Outside, a bell starts ringing—faint and high, echoing from the inner district. The signal: Trost is secure.

You don’t move. Neither does she.

You watch the dust dance through the sunlight. It looks golden. Like ash pretending to be something holy.

You don’t feel like a soldier anymore.

You feel like something ancient cracking open inside your skin.

You and Ymir leave the chapel without a word.

Outside, it smells like burnt stone, wet metal, and something deeper—like history tearing open at the seams.

Your boots echo between broken walls. Everything feels too quiet.

Ymir breaks it first.

“You can’t tell anyone what I told you. Not a word.”

You glance at her, brows pulling in. “Obviously I wouldn’t. I’m not stupid-”

“Because if you do,” she cuts in, flat, “we’ll get hauled off. Chained. Dissected. You know, examined.”

You stop walking.

The words hit like a slap.

“So we just keep these life-changing secrets from the rest of humanity?” you snap. “And what about Eren? Won’t they do the same thing to him?”

Ymir’s gaze flicks toward the horizon.

“We survive,” she says. “And better him than us.”

You scowl.

“That’s a shitty thing to say.”

She doesn’t argue.

Just keeps walking.

You fall into step beside her again.

Your heartbeat presses steady and low under your ribs, like it’s keeping a secret too.

A beat of silence. Your throat tightens. You start to speak—

“What about my fam—”

But you never finish.

Footsteps.

Quick. Heavy. Gaining. From the next street over.

You freeze. Ymir’s head snaps toward the sound.

Then—

Your name. Called sharp. Familiar.

You turn.

Reiner rounds the corner at a jog. Breathless. Dirt-smudged. Wide-eyed.

Relief hits his face the second he sees you.

“You’re okay?” he asks, voice tight.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m fine. You?”

“Yeah.” He nods too. A beat too fast.

Silence stretches between you.

Thick. Uneasy.

You shift your weight.

Think about what Jean said.

What Ymir said.

What Reiner hasn’t said.

“You’re not here to steal my girl, are you?” Ymir breaks the tension with a crooked grin, arm slung casually over your shoulders.

You roll your eyes, start to shrug her off.

But Reiner doesn’t flinch.

“Actually… I am.”

You freeze.

Ymir does too.

You glance sideways. She’s already looking at you. One eyebrow raised. Mouth barely parted.

“…What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

Ymir’s arm slides off your shoulder.

Reiner hesitates. Just a second.

“The Military Police are looking for you,” he says. “They sent me to find you.”

Your stomach drops. Fast. Cold.

You don’t move.

Ymir steps forward—quick. Controlled. She places herself half between you and Reiner.

“They probably just want to ask about Eren,” she says, too fast. Trying to sound casual. “You were there. You saw what happened when he got eaten. That’s probably all it is.”

Her hand finds your back. Light. Steady. Grounding.

You feel yourself nod. Mechanically.

“…Right.”

You look at Reiner again, forcing your voice steady.

“Let’s go.”

The street narrows as you walk.

Smoke thins. The bells fade behind you, their echo swallowed by the broken skyline. Now it’s just the soft clatter of boots on uneven stone.

Reiner walks just ahead—quiet, solid, still dusted in ash.

Ymir trails a good distance behind, her presence loose but watchful.

“Do you think they’ll lock him up forever?” you ask. Your voice is low, more thought than question.

Reiner glances sideways. “Eren?”

You nod.

“No,” he says after a second. “Not if they can use him first.”

You chew on that. The thought sours in your mouth.

“I don’t think he even understands what he is yet,” you murmur.

Reiner exhales through his nose, almost a scoff.

“None of us do.”

You realize you’re walking too normally, considering how banged up you were not too long ago. So you start limping, letting the ache in your side flare with every other step.

“You’re limping,” Reiner says, his brow pinching as he notices.

“Hip’s probably dislocated again.” You wave a hand. “Not that it matters.”

“…You should let someone look at it.”

You glance at him. “You volunteering, Braun?”

That catches him off guard. His mouth twitches—like he’s fighting a smile.

Then—unexpectedly—he laughs. Just once. Short, surprised.

You blink.

It’s warm.

And it hits you harder than it should.

You grunt, more to distract yourself than anything.

“You gonna keep staring at me, or say something useful?”

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“Good luck with that.” You kick a pebble off the path. “Let me know if you get anywhere. I’d love a full report.”

That gets a proper smile out of him.

You return it. Half-curled. Tired. But real.

Something shifts in the air.

Small. Barely there.

But it lingers.

Reiner slows a little, falling into step beside you now. Not quite looking at you.

“Hey… back during training. That time I shoved you off the rope tower…”

You blink, looking at him with a curious expression.

“I remember,” you say. “Pretty clearly. My shoulder didn’t stop aching for a week.”

He winces, face contorting with the painful memory. “I was pissed. You beat me on the endurance run the day before, and Jean wouldn’t shut up about it. That’s not an excuse, I just… I guess I wanted to get even.”

You let that sit for a long second.

“Yeah, well. You missed the landing. I kicked you in the ribs on the way down.”

Reiner huffs. “I deserved that.”

You nod. “Yeah. You did.” You pause for a minute. He has the decency to admit what he did was wrong and you’re still holding onto whatever rivalry you once had.

“Still…” You continue, voice softening. “Thanks for saying it.”

He nods once. “Didn’t want to pretend like it didn’t happen.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You’re full of surprises today.”

He shrugs. “So are you.” He clears his throat. Scratches the back of his neck. “I was hard on you. I mean,” he rushes, “I gave you shit. A lot of it. I guess I just didn’t… expect you to keep up. And when you did, I didn’t know how to handle it.”

You stare at him. Long enough for him to shift uncomfortably. “I thought you hated me,” you say finally.

“I didn’t.” His voice drops a little. “I think I just hated that I didn’t get you.”

You huff softly through your nose. “Well. That makes two of us.”

He looks over. You glance back.

And for a second, just a second, there’s no smoke, no war, no secrets.

Just two exhausted cadets, finally leveling with each other.

Ahead, two Military Police officers wait near the stone archway.

Uniforms stiff. Posture tighter than their boots. Eyes unreadable.

One of them raises a hand.

Reiner straightens beside you. Shoulders back. Chin up.

You feel your face go blank. Reflex.

The moment between you disappears like mist.

You cross the final stretch in silence.

Chapter Text

The inside of the carriage rocks with every turn, but none of you speak.

Leather creaks.

Hooves clatter against the stone road.

The air feels wrong—too still for this early in the day.

Across from you, Armin clasps one hand in the other, knuckles white, like if he lets go, he might split in two.

Beside him, Mikasa sits rigid. Hands folded. Jaw tight.

You can feel the tension radiating off her like a hot stone.

Levi sits closest to the door. Back straight. Legs crossed at the ankle. Gloved hands folded over his knee.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him this close.

Captain Levi. Humanity’s Strongest Soldier.

He’s smaller than you expected.

But somehow, that makes him worse.

Compact, like a coiled spring. All calm control and quiet violence.

His eyes flick toward you, brief, sharp.

Your pulse jumps before you can stop it.

You look away, out the window.

The spires of Wall Sina are getting closer now, pristine and distant against the ash-stained sky.

Your stomach twists.

You haven’t eaten.

Can’t remember the last time you did.

Levi’s voice slices through the quiet. Low. Even.

“Don’t lie. Don’t hold back truths. Not up there.”

You flinch. It’s not the volume—it’s the precision. Like he’s cutting straight to the nerve. It reminds you of your dad.

Not during dinner.

Not even during arguments.

But after a bad hunt, when he’d slam the rifle down and stare. Not at you, through you.

Your spine locks up the same way now.

“They’ll twist your words if you give them room,” Levi continues. “So don’t. Keep your answers tight. Factual. No emotion. Especially not sympathy.”

No one responds.

You nod, barely.

So does Armin.

Then Mikasa speaks.

Her voice is low. Controlled. Like a blade she’s trying not to unsheath. “They won’t care what we say. They’ve already decided what he is.”

Levi doesn’t look at her. “Then make them undecide.”

You shift against the seat, jaw clenched.

Levi notices. His eyes narrow slightly—but he says nothing.

Wall Sina rises around you now—immaculate and ivory, untouched by fire or loss.

The carriage slows.

Outside: the sound of boots. Orders barked in clipped tones.

The Military Police are waiting. Their uniforms are too polished. Their eyes too clean.

You feel like you’re being delivered, not escorted. Armin shifts beside you, inhaling like he’s preparing for impact. Mikasa exhales through her nose, slow and steady.

You take one last breath too.

In.

Out.

Everything’s about to change again.

The doors groan open.

Light slashes across your face, you blink hard as you step into the courthouse’s inner chamber. Stone swallows sound. The air is cold. Vaulted ceilings loom overhead, strung with dust-heavy banners that don’t move.

Boots scrape behind you. Mikasa and Armin follow, silent. Their shadows stretch long across the tiled floor.

Two figures stand waiting.

One of them is unmistakable: Commander Erwin Smith. All sharp lines and stillness. His presence feels like iron—controlled, weighted, impossible to ignore.

The other is the opposite. Practically vibrating with energy. Their glasses flash when they grin.

“Welcome,” they say. “I’m Hange Zoë.”

The name lodges somewhere in your mind. Familiar. But faint. Like a name overheard in a dream, or found scrawled on a letter you weren’t supposed to read. You squint, but the memory won’t form. Slips through your fingers.

“I assume you know who I am,” Erwin says, stepping forward. “And why you’re here.”

You nod. Mikasa too. Armin tries, but his throat clicks. He’s halfway into a panic spiral already—his shoulders curled in, breath shallow. You don’t reach for him. Not here. But you angle yourself just slightly toward his side. A silent tether.

Erwin begins outlining what to expect—the trial’s timing, who will be present, what kind of questions you’ll be asked. How to speak. How not to speak.

You try to focus.

But you feel it.

Eyes.

You glance up.

Hange is staring.

Not rude. Not aggressive. But watching. Their smile’s gone now, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful. Maybe even… sad?

It’s not fear that crawls under your skin. It’s something older. Something hot and hollow. Like recognition without context. You look away before it can settle.

The stairs down to the cell block are steep. Cold. You follow Levi’s boots. Count each footfall like it’ll keep you steady.

Hange leads. You stay close behind them.

Armin stumbles once. Mikasa steadies him without saying a word. Just a hand to the elbow. A flick of her eyes.

The air below shifts. Thicker here. Metal and mildew. The smell of rusting silence. Eren is waiting. Caged.

He stands when he sees you. Slow. His face is drawn, but not blank. Just… searching. He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks. One to the next. Then finally, eyes on you:

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

It lands like stone in water. No splash. Just a sinking.

Armin answers first. “No,” he says. “You’re the one who stopped them. You sealed the gate. If it weren’t for you—Trost would be gone.” His voice trembles, but his words don’t.

You take a step closer. Your hand brushes the bars. Cool against your fingertips.

“We’ll prove it,” you say. “That you’re not the enemy. We’ll help however we can.”

Mikasa says nothing. Just steps forward. Slow. Measured. She places both hands on the bars and leans in until her fingers touch his.

That’s all.

Eren’s eyes fall. His shoulders loosen. His breath shudders out like he’s been holding it for hours.

“That’s enough,” Levi says, already turning away. “We’ll bring you back up when the court calls you.”

Hange stays a moment longer. Their eyes flick between Eren and you. Pause. Then they turn too. “Let’s go,” they say, gentle this time.

The stairs feel longer going up.

When the door opens again, light hits you hard. You squint against it.

“There’s a chamber set aside for the three of you,” Hange explains. “You’ll stay there tonight. Trial begins at dawn.”

You nod. Armin thanks them. Mikasa just watches. Quiet as ever.

The chamber’s small. Windowless. Clean enough. Three cots. Three blankets. One door.

No lock. But there’s a guard waiting just outside.

You sit. Your legs throb from holding tension too long. Your fingers twitch against your knees.

Tomorrow decides everything.

Not just Eren’s future.

But maybe your own.

The cots creak when you move. The walls don’t echo, but the silence between the three of you does.

A breath. Shallow.

The scratch of cloth shifting.

The muted rasp of Armin’s fingers running through his hair again and again, like he’s trying to pull the anxiety out by the root. He paces. Barefoot. Each step a thud swallowed by stone.

You’re on your cot. Knees drawn up, back pressed to the wall. The chill seeps through your shirt, but you don’t move.

Mikasa’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed. Her blades are gone, but her hands still move like they’re cleaning them—rags that aren’t there, polish that doesn’t exist. The habit’s wired in deep.

“What if they don’t care?” Armin blurts. The words hit sharp. Like he’s been holding them too long.

“What if everything we say… doesn’t matter?”

Mikasa doesn’t look up. “We say it anyway.”

Armin stops pacing. Turns. “But what do we say?” His eyes flick to you, pleading.

“They want a reason to get rid of him. One wrong sentence, and we give it to them.”

You stare at the wall across from you. Grey stone, unevenly cut. A tiny crack running like a vein near the ceiling.

You exhale. “We tell the truth,” you say. “But we don’t give them space to twist it. Just like Levi said.”

Mikasa nods. Just once. Sharp. Final.

“We stick to Trost,” you say. You sit up straighter, spine realigning as the plan takes shape. “What he did. What we saw. He plugged the gate. He followed orders. He didn’t attack anyone. That’s what matters.”

“He lost control once,” Armin murmurs, sitting down slowly. His shoulders curl inward.

You nod. “We acknowledge it. But frame it right—confusion, fear, not knowing what he was. Inexperience. He came back. He made the right choice.”

Mikasa finally looks up. Her eyes are steady. “And when they ask what he is?”

Armin opens his mouth, but nothing comes.

You answer. Voice low. Sure. “A soldier.”

Silence laps the edges of the room. Not empty. Heavy.

Armin finally folds in on himself, sitting cross-legged, hands still twitching. Mikasa leans back against the wall behind her, gaze dropping to the floor.

You look at both of them. “What happens after?” Armin asks. His voice has frayed.

No one answers right away.

Then you do.

“If they find him guilty and decide to execute him… We’ll have to get him out and run.”

Armin stiffens. His eyes widen. “Run where?”

You shrug. “Wherever they can’t find us.”

“That’s not a plan,” he says. His voice cracks halfway through.

“It’s the only one we’ve got if it goes south.”

Mikasa speaks without looking up. “If they try to kill him in that room, we won’t wait for orders.”

Armin goes pale. But he nods.

You don’t say it out loud.

But it’s there.

If one of us dies tomorrow, it’s not going to be him.

Eventually, the lights dim.

No goodnights. No sleep.

Just the rustle of blankets. The weight of breath that never settles.

You lie on your back, staring into the ceiling you can’t see. Fingers twitch against your ribs. One pulse. Then the next.

The trial begins at dawn.

By dusk, everything could change.

Sleep comes in fragments.

When it comes at all.

You drift in and out—visions bleeding through the dark, sliding loose from time. Sand dunes underfoot. Starlit skies stretched forever. Something ancient shifting beneath the surface, slow and massive, like it’s watching. Salt burns your throat.Neon pink.Your feet sinking deeper with every step.

You blink.

Stone ceiling. Cold air.

You sit up slowly, like waking too fast might break the thread between dream and world.

Your boots slide on with the ease of muscle memory. The others don’t stir. Armin’s curled so tight he looks folded in on himself. Mikasa hasn’t moved an inch. Breathing steady. Still clutching one of her scarf ends like a tether.

You ease the door open. Slow. Careful.

The hallway yawns beyond—quiet, still, grey.

Footsteps echo in the distance. A guard, turning the corner left.

You count. Wait. Then slip out.

The night bites the second you hit air.

You inhale too fast and cough into your elbow. It’s cleaner here—sharper. Not just cold, but clear. You hadn’t realized how thick the air was near Trost, how heavy the soot and rot had become.

You should’ve brought a blanket. But the chill wakes you.

You move along the edges of the building, keeping to the shadows. There’s a rhythm to the guards’ patrols. Two slow paces, pivot, pause. Repeat. It’s almost funny—how easy it is to move invisible once you learn the steps.

You don’t belong here but your body knows how to disappear.

The stone path curves around the courthouse.

You follow it, not straying far—just enough to breathe, stretch. Let your muscles unknot.

Inside Wall Sina, everything feels wrong in its quietness. Windows glow softly overhead, lined in perfect symmetry. Lanterns hang from hooks like set pieces. Trees line the path like decoration, not necessity.

You bet no one here has ever smelled burning flesh and recognized it. Or had to pick glass from their sister’s scalp before she stopped crying.

You shake the thought off. Tighten your jacket. Your breath fogs faintly in the air.

Then you hear your name being called.

You freeze.

Shit.

Levi steps out from behind a pillar, silent as always. Hange’s beside him, rubbing their hands together like they just crawled out of bed—or never made it there.

Levi tilts his head, unreadable. “Come with us.”

You don’t argue.

They lead you through a side door, down a stone corridor that smells like oil and cold iron. The kind of place built for secrets and steel. You follow their boots, your own footsteps careful. Small echoes.

No one speaks.

This isn’t friendly. This is… something else.

You know what they’re capable of. What power they hold. Yours and Eren’s future is balanced in the gap between what they believe and what they decide.

Levi stops. Turns.

“What were you doing outside the courthouse at this hour?”

You meet his gaze. Not stiff. Not flippant. Just… steady.

“I was just out for a walk,” you say. “Didn’t realize that wasn’t allowed.”

Levi raises a brow. “The guards patrolling the area didn’t give the slightest hint? How’d you even make it out?”

You shrug, a small one. Measured. “I snuck my way out. It’s not that hard once you find the rhythm.”

His face doesn’t move.

But the silence after lingers.

Then Hange speaks. Softer.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Their voice has that edge—too gentle to be casual. “You worried about your friend?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

“He doesn’t deserve to die,” you say finally. Your voice is low. Not shaking. “It’s not like he chose this. He’s not a threat to humanity.”

Levi’s voice comes back quieter. Like he’s not disagreeing, just reminding you. “It’s not us you have to convince.”

You nod once. You know that.

But somewhere in your chest, something twists. Because maybe you’re not just fighting for Eren. Maybe you’re fighting for the part of yourself that might be next.

Levi looks to Hange. “Walk her back.”

They nod. And without another word, the two of you head back the way you came.

Your boots thud lightly against stone. The night curls close again. Hange walks with their hands in their pockets, gaze flicking up to the sky like they’re mapping constellations through the haze.

“So… you really don’t remember me?”

You glance sideways.

“I know your voice,” you say. “Your name. It’s familiar. I just don’t know why.”

“I wouldn’t blame you,” Hange says, smiling faintly. “It was a long time ago. I wasn’t around much, always busy… Never heard the end of it from your dad.”

You stop walking.

Just a second.

Your spine straightens. Eyes narrow.

“What are you talking about?”

Hange’s smile softens. The kind that comes from somewhere else, older than the moment.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” A breath. Then, quieter. “Little fawn.”

You freeze.

The words hit like a drop of ink in water, spreading fast. Your breath catches.

Little fawn.

You remember your father’s scrawled letters. The ones he never let your mother read. You remember the way he used to say it—Han—half affection, half annoyance, like it was a name made of old grudges and soft spots.

Han. Hange.

Aunt Han.

Something in your chest tightens, and the pieces click into place all at once.

But you don’t say anything.

Not yet.

You keep walking.

Slowly. Like the weight in your chest hasn’t settled yet, just sloshing, just enough to keep you off balance. Hange doesn’t say anything. They just match your pace.

The silence between you shifts. It’s not awkward. Not empty.

But it’s too full.

You feel it in your arms, your shoulders, the back of your throat. It stretches tight under your skin. Your pulse won’t slow.

You clench your jaw.

You don’t want to feel anything right now.

“Why’d you call me that?” you ask. Quiet. Tired.

Hange exhales through their nose. Not quite a sigh. “It’s what your dad used to call you,” they say. “In his letters. You probably don’t remember that either.”

You don’t. Not really. Just flickers.

Your father sitting by candlelight, hunched over the desk in the kitchen. Mumbling to himself as he scratched pen to paper. You and Freya chasing fireflies outside. Muddy feet. Laughter echoing. The sound of the chair creaking when he shifted his weight.

“How often would he write?” you ask.

“Every couple months,” Hange says. “Sometimes more when things were bad. Not that he ever said it outright, but…” They rub at their neck. “I could tell. His handwriting got sloppier. The ink smudged more. He’d sign them all with this stupid drawing of a deer head. Antlers crooked. Like I wouldn’t know it was him.”

You almost smile. Almost.

You stop again, your voice coming out flat.

“So why weren’t you there?”

Hange looks at you. Eyes tired. Jaw tense. They don’t answer right away.

“Because I couldn’t be.”

You don’t say anything. The silence stings this time.

It settles beneath your ribs. Cold.

“I had the chance,” they say. “After it happened, the court gave me the option. I could’ve taken you and your sister.”

You look at them. You already know where this is going.

“But I didn’t,” they say. “I thought-” They shake their head. “I thought I couldn’t be that kind of person. Not the one your dad would have wanted me to be. My work was everything. Still is. And I knew… I wouldn’t have been able to take care of you. Not properly.”

You nod.

Once.

Slow.

No expression.

You feel cold again.

“Freya died a month later,” you say.

Hange flinches. “I know.”

“She was ten.”

You don’t know why you say it. Maybe just to make it real. To put it out there, where it can’t be ignored.

“She liked apples,” you add. “And fireflies.”

Hange turns away.

They drag a hand through their hair, rough and frustrated. They don’t look at you when they say, “I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

“I know.”

You start walking again.

The courthouse comes into view, edges glowing faintly under torchlight. You stop just short of the door.

“You could’ve lied,” you say. Voice low and steady. “About knowing me. Most people would’ve.”

“I know,” Hange says. “But I already did that once. I don’t like repeating mistakes.”

You don’t look at them when you go inside.

You just walk back to your cot.

You lie down.

You don’t sleep.

Chapter Text

The chamber smells of stone and oil and something older, like old sweat and rust. The ceiling stretches too high to see clearly. Shadows cling to the arches like roosting birds. Soldiers line the walls. Guns in hand. Uniforms stiff. Faces unreadable. You sit near the front, between Mikasa and Armin, trying not to breathe too fast.

Chains rattle. Heavy. Slow.

Eren’s being brought in. Shackled neck to toe, led by two guards like he’s some monster they found in the woods. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. He doesn’t look at anyone as they drag him forward—just keeps his eyes ahead, jaw tight. There’s blood crusted along the collar of his shirt. He walks like he’s daring someone to flinch first.

Levi follows behind. Silent. A shadow with teeth.

Erwin is already seated. Hands clasped, expression still. Watching everything. Measuring.

The rows behind you fill with people who’ve never known hunger. Nobles, merchants, officers. Hair combed back, lips pursed, cloaks drawn high around their shoulders like they’re afraid this trial might dirty them.

The Military Police sits off to the right. Nile Dok at the center—his uniform sharp, boots polished to a mirror gleam. Arms folded. Staring at Eren like he’s already dead.

Opposite him: Dot Pixis, hunched slightly forward, elbows on knees. Bald head catching the light. He doesn’t look concerned. Doesn’t look much of anything.

Then—

SLAM.

The sound echoes. Clean. Final.

“Order in the court.”

Dhalis Zachary’s voice cuts through the chamber like a drawn blade. He sits high above them all, robed, ancient-looking, but eyes sharp as glass. His chair is half-throne, half-executioner’s block.

“This tribunal is now in session. All parties take your seats.”

Shuffling. Boots scraping. Fabric settling. A silence falls like a blade about to drop.

A soldier steps forward. Unrolls a long parchment.

“The following charges are brought against the accused, Eren Yeager—former cadet of the 104th Training Corps, born year 835. Charges include: unauthorized transformation into a Titan within human-occupied territory; destruction of military property and structures; endangerment of civilian and military lives; and suspected treason due to undisclosed Titan affiliation and unknown allegiance.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Measured. Sharp enough to bruise.

You glance at Eren. He doesn’t even flinch.

Nile Dok stands. He doesn’t need the platform. His presence is enough. His voice is calm. Clean. As if this is already decided.

“The facts are simple,” he says. “The defendant is not human. He may appear so—but we’ve all seen the evidence. He shifts into a Titan. He fights like a beast. He destroyed infrastructure in Trost and endangered lives in doing so. We have no knowledge of where his powers come from, how they function, or when he’ll lose control again. For the safety of our people, I submit that he be executed immediately.”

Gasps. A few voices rise in protest. Others in agreement. Zachary does not flinch.

Nile adds, “Would you place a loaded cannon in the center of your dining hall and pray it doesn’t fire?”

Then Pixis speaks—without standing. Just tilts his head, voice dry.

“You’re right about one thing. The boy is dangerous. But danger, Commander Dok, is not the same as guilt.”

He lifts a finger slightly. “If we destroyed every soldier with a dangerous skill set, I doubt we’d have a military left. The fact remains—he sealed Trost’s gate. You can’t argue with stone.”

Another murmur. Some laughter. Mostly nervous.

Pixis glances toward Eren. “Until we understand what he is, we should consider what he might offer. After all… wouldn’t it be a shame to waste a perfectly good weapon?”

Dok bristles. Opens his mouth. Stops when Erwin stands.

Still. Calm. Commanding.

“Eren Yeager is not simply a danger to be feared—he’s an opportunity to be studied. Harnessed. Used.”

He steps forward once. Meets the gaze of the entire chamber. “The Scouts propose full custody of Eren Yeager. Under military watch. Under our supervision. With him, we can change the tide. Reclaim Wall Maria. Maybe more.”

He turns to Zachary. “But if you kill him here, we kill that chance with him.”

Zachary leans back. Steeples his fingers.

“We have three voices,” he says. “One for death. One for caution. One for action.”

He taps the gavel once.

“Then let us see what the boy is really worth.”

Zachary taps the gavel twice.

“Bring forth the first witness.”

Armin steps out from the row beside you. His hand brushes briefly against your sleeve—cold, shaking—and then he’s gone. Into the center of the chamber. Small in the space. But he straightens his back, plants his feet. Chin up. The fear doesn’t vanish. He just talks through it.

“State your name and rank.”

“Armin Arlert. Cadet. 104th Training Corps.”

“And your connection to the accused?”

“He’s my closest friend,” Armin says. “I’ve known Eren since we were children.”

A few chuckles in the upper tiers. A scoff. Armin doesn’t blink.

He goes on—clear and careful.

“He saved me and countless other cadets during the Battle of Trost. He pushed her,” He says, gesturing to you, “out of a Titan’s mouth—he practically died doing it. We thought he was gone forever. But then he changed. Became something else.”

He draws a breath.

“But even in that form… he wasn’t wild. He wasn’t mindless. He killed Titans. He fought for us. Plugged the hole in the gate. Burned himself out doing it. He followed orders where he could. He never hurt a comrade.”

There’s a murmur across the room. Rippled noise like wind over broken glass. Some nodding. Some squinting. Some already decided.

A noble leans forward from the gallery. Gold rings. Silver tongue.

“Is it not possible,” he says, too loud, “that this was all a calculated deception? That your friend became what he is long before Trost? That he lured you in for protection?”

Armin’s jaw tightens.

“If he wanted to kill us,” he says, voice rising, “he had every chance. He was strong enough. Fast enough. There were times we were unarmed. Cornered. I’m standing here because he didn’t.”

He steps back. Knuckles white at his sides.

Zachary motions without a word.

“Next.”

Your name is already on the parchment.

You walk forward. Straight-backed. Head high. No tremor in your step. The echo of your boots draws heads. You don’t look at them. You look at the council. Just the council.

“State your name.”

You do.

“Rank?”

“Cadet. Top ten of the 104th.”

“And your relation to the accused?”

“Squadmate,” you say. “He saved my life.”

The silence deepens.

You speak flatly. Factually. You explain how you were about to be eaten alive when he pulled you out, taking your place and being eaten instead.

“And when he returned,” you go on, “he didn’t attack humans. He didn’t run. He didn’t hide. He tore through Titans. He shielded Mikasa and Armin when the cannons fired. And when the wall needed sealing, he ran to it without hesitation.”

A pause.

“He chose to fight with us. Not against us.”

You let your gaze sweep the three in command.

Zachary. Nile. Pixis.

“If you kill him, we won’t just lose a soldier,” you say. “We’ll lose the only opportunity we have to fight back.”

Another voice cuts through. Thin. Nasal. Sharp.

A noble from the upper tier, pale as wax and twice as smug. “You speak with conviction, girl. And yet you say you saw him change. With your own eyes. That doesn’t frighten you?”

You meet his gaze.

“The only thing that frightens me as of this moment,” you say slowly, “is the sheer idiocy coming from this room. You want to kill the boy who saved an entire district from being lost to the Titans. That should be considered treason.”

That lands like a slap.

A few gasps. A chair scrapes. The noble recoils, offended—but not brave enough to push further.

Then Nile leans forward. Cold eyes. Arms crossed.

“You claim he saved lives. How many others did he endanger when he went rogue? Dozens of soldiers died in that battle. You want us to ignore that?”

“No,” you say. “But you should remember why they died.”

You don’t blink. You don’t soften.

“People died because of Titans. Not because of Eren. He bought us time. He gave us a chance to survive. That chance is the only reason many of us are in this room now.”

Zachary steeples his fingers. Eyes sharp. Studying.

“You speak well, cadet. Almost like you’ve rehearsed it.”

You lift your chin.

“No,” you say. “Just remembered it.”

Zachary’s gaze narrows.

“Tell me,” he says. “Do you believe he’s human?”

Your heart skips. You don’t show it.

“I believe that’s all he wants to be, your honor,” you answer. “And I believe if given the choice, Eren would give up this ability. If it were a burden he could put down, he would.”

Zachary nods once. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

“Return to your seat.”

You do.

Eren hasn’t looked away from you once.

Zachary lifts a hand. “Next witness.”

A scrape of wood as Mikasa stands.

She walks forward quietly, every movement smooth. Intentional. Nothing hurried, nothing showy. Just calm—the kind that draws eyes without asking.

She halts at the center.

Zachary doesn’t look up from his ledger. “State your name.”

“Mikasa Ackerman.”

“Rank?”

“Cadet. Top of the 104th.”

Zachary glances at her, curious. “Relation to the accused?”

Mikasa pauses. “He’s my family.”

Zachary gestures. “Proceed.”

Mikasa’s voice doesn’t rise. It’s quiet. Low and certain, like truth spoken in a whisper.

“Eren saved my life when I was nine. My parents were murdered. I was going to die. But Eren didn’t hesitate. He killed to protect me.”

A few nobles glance at each other. One makes a faint sound, something between surprise and distaste.

“He’s always been like that,” Mikasa continues. “He protects people. Even when it hurts him. Especially then.”

She doesn’t shift. Her arms stay at her sides. But her chin lifts.

“At Trost, he was eaten by a Titan. Then… he came back. Changed. But even then, he didn’t attack us. He stood in front of us when the cannons were aimed. He fought the other Titans. And when the gate needed sealing, he ran to it without hesitation.”

More murmuring. Some nods. Others—frowns.

“Eren isn’t a monster,” she says. “He’s a soldier. And he’s the reason Wall Rose still stands.”

Silence.

Then a voice from the right tier—sharper, silkier than the others.

“Or perhaps,” a noblewoman says, her smile razor-thin, “you’re simply blinded by loyalty.”

Mikasa doesn’t react.

The woman leans forward, gleaming rings on her fingers. “You claim he protects you, yet we’ve received reports that, prior to sealing the breach at Trost, Eren attacked you. Left a scar. That one”—she nods to Mikasa’s cheek—“right there.”

The crowd stiffens. Mikasa blinks once.

Another noble—a man, greasier in tone—adds: “We also have reason to speculate that the two of you are… involved. Intimately. That you may be breeding other Titan hybrids. Hidden threats.”

A gasp breaks loose.

Chairs shuffle. Outrage surges.

You sit up straight. Jaw clenched.

But Eren moves first.

“Leave Mikasa out of this!” he yells, struggling to stand. “She’s innocent! She has nothing to do with—!”

“Restrain him!” Nile snaps.

Too late.

Eren’s shouting. Eyes wild. Blood from his lip where he bit through it. “You’re all scared! You don’t even know what you’re talking about! She’s not—!”

The Military Police leap forward. Guns half-drawn. Nobles shouting now. One calls him a devil. Another demands immediate execution.

“ENOUGH!” Zachary slams the gavel, but no one listens.

Until—

Levi moves.

One second he’s still.

The next, his boot connects with Eren’s face. Hard.

Eren hits the ground. A cough bursts from his lungs—bloodied and stunned.

He tries to rise, but Levi kicks him in the ribs. Then stomps down on his chest. Again. And again. Bone and blood and silence.

Eren curls, breath wheezing. Doesn’t fight back.

Levi straightens. Eyes on the room.

His voice is cold and controlled.

“See?” he says. “He can be controlled.”

Gasps ripple out. You hear Armin whisper something, horrified.

“If he steps out of line,” Levi adds, brushing blood from his knuckles, “I’ll put him down myself.”

Stillness.

Not a single person breathes too loud.

Nile looks revolted. Pixis looks amused. Zachary just watches.

Levi steps back. Hands at his sides. “The Scout Regiment will take full responsibility.”

Erwin finally speaks, voice calm and firm. “We propose to use Eren Yeager for the benefit of humanity. Starting with a field test. Outside the walls.”

Zachary sits back.

The silence lingers for several beats longer.

Then:

“Very well,” he says. “Eren Yeager will be remanded to the custody of the Scout Regiment. Commander Erwin, the responsibility is yours.”

Nile stands, furious. “You’re making a mistake.”

“Perhaps,” Zachary says. “But if it’s a mistake, it will be our mistake.”

The gavel strikes.

It’s done.

The Military Police withdraw in bitter silence.

The nobles—some relieved, some fearful—begin to file out.

Eren’s hauled to his feet by two Scouts. Blood drips down his chin. His shirt is torn. His arms hang limp. But his eyes—his eyes still burn.

You don’t look away.

You watch until they lead him out of sight.

You don’t remember much from the ride back to Wall Rose. Not really.

You remember silence.

Not reverent. Not respectful.

Tense.

The kind that spreads like a stormcloud—dense, humming with static.

The barracks door creaks behind you as Armin and Mikasa trail in close. Heads lift from bunks. Cards paused mid-hand. Blankets stilled mid-fold.

And then, the murmurs begin.

“That’s her.”

“She defended him.”

“She called them idiots right to their faces.”

Then—familiar voices.

“Damn,” Jean leans against a beam. “Didn’t think anyone could out-stare a noble, but you pulled it off.”

“She didn’t just out-stare ’em,” Connie says, nudging Sasha. “She drop-kicked ‘em with her words.”

Sasha grins, food already in hand. “You did real good.”

Krista nods, eyes soft. “Really. I don’t think they would’ve given Eren a chance without you.”

You give a faint smile. Tired. Crooked. “Thanks.”

But not everyone smiles back.

At the far end of the barracks, a cluster of cadets speak just low enough to carry.

“She’s too close to that thing,” one mutters.

“Bet she’s one of them,” another says. “Or will be.”

You don’t turn your head. You don’t need to.

Armin steps beside you, a quiet presence at your shoulder. No words at first—just silence that feels safe.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “I don’t think they would’ve listened without you.”

You glance at him. The gratitude in his eyes is real. Heavy.

Mikasa appears behind him. Still, like a shadow. She meets your gaze and nods once.

That’s all.

But it feels like a medal pinned to your chest.

Then—

“Careful, Prism.”

Ymir flops dramatically onto Krista’s bunk, all gangly limbs and lazy eyes. “That spotlight’s hot. Burnout looks bad on you.”

You snort. “Guess I’ll shine while I can.”

“Try not to go nova.”

You smirk, but it slips a little as the ache sets in.

Everything hurts. Your boots feel two sizes too small. Your skull’s pounding like it’s got its own heartbeat. The past few days swirl—Trost falling. Being pulled out of a Titan’s mouth like meat from its teeth. Possible Titan powers. The trial. Hange’s face.

You stumble toward your bunk and sit hard. Dig your fingers into your temples, like you could squeeze the tension out. Then a voice comes from nowhere.

“We’re bunkmates again.”

The voice is flat. Familiar.

You blink up.

Annie.

She stands at the end of your bed. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable, like always.

You huff. “We must be soulmates.”

She doesn’t react. She never really does. But she listens. Always has. You talk. Annie… absorbs it. Quietly. Unwillingly. But she never walks away.

You kick off your boots. Lean back on your palms. Shoulders sag.

“He apologized. Kinda.”

Annie says nothing.

“I know, crazy, right?” you go on, dry. “He rambled. I think that’s the longest we’ve talked without trying to stab each other.”

“Reiner’s talkative,” Annie says at last, voice flat. “He likes to talk. A lot.”

You sigh. “Guess I’ll have to get used to it. I think we’re friends now, or something.”

Annie doesn’t argue. Which feels like confirmation.

You glance over. “You’re close to Reiner, right?”

She looks down at the floor. Quiet.

“Loud. Nosy. Clingy.” She finally says.

You raise a brow. “So… what kind of clingy are we talking here?”

She exhales through her nose. “He likes to put a hand on your shoulder. Your back. Ruffles your hair when he’s bored. He does it to Bertholdt all the time.”

You grimace. “Yikes. Yeah, no. I don’t know if I can do that. I’m weird about touch. Depends on my mood and the situation.”

Annie hums. Noncommittal. But listening.

“Especially in relationships,” you add without thinking. “I like them more… lowkey. Friendly in public. Private otherwise.”

A pause.

You glance sideways.

Annie’s watching you. Brow faintly raised.

Shit.

“Wait—no, hold on.” You sit up straighter. “It’s not like me and Reiner are involved or anything.”

Annie blinks. “I never said you were.”

“Really? ’Cause you gave me a look. A skeptical one. Like, ‘uh oh, she’s about to fall for Mr. Clingy.’”

She tilts her head. “Should I be skeptical?”

You pause.

“…Should you be?”

She shrugs. “I’m not your mother.”

She turns. Walks toward the door.

You call after her, “That’s not a no, by the way!”

No answer.

The door clicks shut behind her.

You flop back on your bunk. Eyes tracing the knots in the wood above.

“Clingy boys, Titan shifters, absent aunts, and cryptic bunkmates,” you mutter to no one.

“What a life.”

Chapter Text

The bell rings at 0500. Harsh. Unapologetic. A groan echoes from somewhere across the barracks. Maybe Sasha.

You’re already sitting up.

The cot creaks under you as you swing your legs down. You press a palm to your eyes, grounding yourself. It’s been a week since the trial. Since Levi made Eren bleed on the floor like a sacrificial dog.

They say he’s with Squad Levi now. Three months of experiments and titan tricks. You haven’t seen him since.

It’s quieter now at least. The stink of fear’s less obvious. You still catch stares when you walk into a room, but they’re slower to look away now. Not just scared. Curious. Cautious.

Roll call happens fast.

The officer’s voice cuts through the early haze. Sharp syllables and clipped names. Mikasa stands to your left, flawless as always. Ymir scratches at her neck like she hasn’t fully woken up. Sasha yawns behind you—loud, open-mouthed, like she doesn’t care who sees.

You glance over your shoulder.

“Ever heard of subtlety?”

She grins, wide and sleepy. “It’s too early for shame.”

You roll your eyes, lips twitching up into a small smile.

The morning run bites.

Mud sticks to your boots. Air stings your lungs. Jean and Connie argue about something behind you—probably which one of them is faster. Sasha’s already passed all of you twice. Reiner matches your pace without saying anything, his gait steady.

You don’t speak. But you don’t tell him to leave, either.

Breakfast is eggs. Barely. The yolks are pale and watery, but warm.

Desaturated lilac.

You sit across from Krista and Ymir, spooning your soup in half-hearted motions. Across the mess hall, someone mutters under their breath and glances at you.

You don’t shrink. You just meet their gaze and hold it.

They’re the ones who look away first.

Ymir leans over. “You know, your whole righteous-wrath thing is hot, but terrifying.”

Krista elbows her gently.

You exhale a quiet snort. “Good. I’m aiming for both.”

Combat training starts late. Reiner’s squad is assigned to spar with yours.

It’s all heat and grit and shouted commands. You trade hits with Jean, then with Sandra, then Connie—barely pausing for breath in between.

“Partner switch,” the instructor calls.

You blink. Turn.

Reiner steps into the ring. Casual. Confident. Heavy-footed. He rolls his shoulders like he’s just stretching, not squaring up.

You groan, low and theatrical. “Seriously?”

“You worried?”

“Worried you’re gonna crush me.”

He smirks. “I’ll be gentle.”

Your heart does a stupid thing in your chest. You ignore it.

The first hit catches your wrist. The second you dodge.

He’s strong, but slower than you. You’re fast, but not reckless. It’s an even match until he gets you in a hold. Your back against his chest, one arm locked under yours. Not tight, just controlled.

“You could break out,” he murmurs. “If you shift your weight.”

You try. He adjusts.

“Okay, now I’m just annoyed,” you mutter.

Behind you, he laughs. Warm. Low. You hate how good it sounds.

You jab his ribs with your elbow.

He lets you go.

Later, during ODM drills, you both get stuck on rope reset duty.

He sits on a crate beside you, wiping down a gas canister. You’re checking blades for stress fractures. The sun’s already dipping.

“I thought you didn’t hate me anymore,” he says.

You don’t look up. “I still might.”

He chuckles. “That’s fair.”

There’s a pause. Comfortable. Surprising.

Then Reiner says, “You’re good in the ring. Balanced. Clean form.”

“Thanks.” You glance at him. “Didn’t expect that from Mr. ‘me attack now, me think later’.”

“I think more than you give me credit for.”

You shrug. “I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

Evening settles slow.

Dinner’s stew again. You eat beside Mikasa this time. She says nothing. But she places a piece of bread on your tray without asking. You nod once. That’s thanks enough.

Across the mess hall, Reiner throws a bread roll at Connie. It bounces off his forehead.

You catch Reiner’s eye. He shrugs, guilty.

You smirk. Just barely.

Nightfall. Lights out.

You lie in your cot, staring at the ceiling. Muscles aching. Brain buzzing. The routine should dull everything, but it doesn’t. Not tonight.

You don’t sleep much these days.

Not because of the noise. Not the creaking beds or Sasha’s wheeze or the clatter of boots from the patrol rotation.

It’s the thoughts. The faces. The heaviness that settles somewhere behind your ribs and refuses to leave.

So you move.

The grass crunches under your boots, wet from the morning mist. Sky’s a shade too dark for dawn. The bell hasn’t rung. No one’s awake. Good.

You like it better this way.

You stretch slow. Ankles. Calves. Hips. One muscle at a time, easing tension from tendon and bone. Then fists. Fingers curled. Elbows loose.

Jab. Jab. Pivot. Duck. Strike.

The world narrows. Just you and breath and motion. The rhythm becomes your pulse.

Jab. Pivot. Again.

And then there’s a shadow.

You don’t stop.

You don’t look.

But you feel her.

Annie.

She steps into your peripheral. No words. No nod. Just drops into a squat, stretching her legs with the same deliberate control you remember from the ring. Compact. Coiled.

You keep moving.

She doesn’t leave.

Duck. Step. Pivot.

She mirrors.

Jab-jab-turn.

She adjusts.

You don’t talk. You don’t need to. The silence between you isn’t hostile—it’s surgical. Mutual understanding. A quiet truce.

Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty.

By the time sunlight filters through the upper branches, catching on dew-glass blades of grass, you’re both slick with sweat. Your shoulders ache, but it feels clean. Earned.

Annie finishes a set, rolls her shoulder, then walks off. Doesn’t say a thing.

You watch her go.

Next morning, she’s there again.

Same hour. Same stretch of dirt. Same unspoken rules.

You never ask why. You just move. And she matches you.

Evening comes, the mess hall buzzes like a kicked hive.

Forks scrape tin. Bread crusts crunch. Chairs screech against stone floors. Sasha’s arguing with Connie about a missing boot. Mikasa’s halfway through her tray already.

You sit with Ymir and Krista, elbow on the table, head in your hand.

“You’re gonna tip over,” Ymir says, voice dry.

You grunt. “Better than sleeping through another lecture.”

Krista covers a smile. “You didn’t snore that loud.”

“Did too,” Ymir says. “Sounded like a goose getting strangled.”

You roll your eyes. About to reply but you see Annie. Tray in hand. Eyes scanning the room like she’s scouting a battlefield. There’s a subtle shift in her shoulders—uncertainty. Maybe even hesitation.

You raise your hand. Not high. Not a wave. Just… there.

An offering. A permission.

She sees it and steps over, sitting beside you.

Ymir lifts a brow. Krista blinks. You don’t say anything. Neither does Annie.

There’s a beat of silence. Tense. Fragile.

Annie then tears her bread in half and slides a chunk across the table toward you. No eye contact. No explanation.

You stare at it, then at her.

“…Didn’t take you for the generous type,” you say, tone light.

“Don’t get used to it,” she replies. Still not looking at you.

But your mouth quirks. Just a little.

You eat the bread.

Ymir leans toward Krista, stage-whispers something that makes her duck her head, blushing. You pretend not to notice.

You all eat. Nothing more is said.

Next day, she sits beside you again.

And the next.

No one talks about it.

But it becomes a thing.

Yours.

You’re stuck on stable duty. Again.

You drag the broom behind you like it personally wronged you. Gravel crunches under your boots. The air thickens with the stench of hay, sweat, and manure the second you step inside. Warm. Damp. Ripe.

You scowl.

“What did I do in a past life to deserve this?”

Flies buzz around your head like they know you’re too tired to swat. You glare at one as it lands on the handle of your shovel.

“One day I’m killing Titans and defending war criminals, and the next I’m shoveling shit.” You jam the shovel into a stall and get to work, muttering under your breath. “A scouts honor my ass.”

The straw’s damp. The muck’s heavier than usual. Your arms are already sore from this morning’s drills. Halfway through the stall, your shoulders ache.

Then you hear the sound of boots. Heavy ones. Crunching behind you.

You straighten, already locking a glare into place. “Unless you’re a ghost or a promotion, go bother someone else—”

But it’s him. Leaning against the stall door like he belongs there. Like he planned this.

Reiner.

That grin’s already there—too sunny for a place that smells like piss and old apples. “Need a hand, stable queen?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“Not when entertainment like this exists.”

You jab the shovel into the straw. “Great to know you find my suffering amusing. Even the flies are more helpful than you.”

He chuckles, unbothered.

You go back to work. Grumbling. Cursing under your breath. Not at him; well, not just him. The stall’s too cramped. The horse inside, mean-eyed and twitchy, keeps tossing its head. You you don’t see the tail flick until—

SPLAT.

Something wet and foul smacks against your leg. Muck slaps up your side, slow and thick. You freeze.

Behind you, Reiner chokes then lets out a loud howl.

You turn slowly. He’s doubled over against the stall, hand on his knee. Laughing so hard he has to brace himself.

“Don’t,” you say, voice low. “Say a word.”

He gasps for air. “You… You look like you lost a fight with a cow’s ass.”

You grab the nearest pitchfork, pointing it at him.

“Keep laughing and I’ll show you a new use for this.”

He’s wheezing. Can’t stop. You lunge just enough to make him flinch.

Then you shove. Harder than you meant to.

He stumbles back—

whump

—and crashes into a stack of hay bales, legs sticking out like some broken scarecrow. For a second, the barn’s dead silent.

Then you snort, trying to smother it with your clean hand. You walk over and offer your hand.

“Are you done?”

“Never,” he says, grinning. And grabs your wrist.

You yelp as he yanks you down.

You land in a heap beside him—limbs tangled, hay in your mouth, something jabbing your ribs. You elbow him. He tries to block. You nearly knee him.

“HEY!”

A voice snaps through the stables like a whip.

You both freeze.

A pissed-off officer stands at the door, eyes narrowing.

“This look like nap time to you two?”

“No, sir,” you groan, untangling yourself from Reiner’s knee.

“Then get up and clean yourselves up. You’re on patrol in an hour.”

The door slams.

You and Reiner stare at each other. Covered in hay. Reeking of horse.

You dust off your shirt, grimacing. Straw falls from your hair in clumps. Reiner’s still grinning.

He nudges your shoulder.

“That counts as bonding, right?”

You scoff. “That counts as a concussion.”

He laughs again. You don’t smile back, but you don’t pull away either.

Before You and Reiner have to go on night patrol, you hang out with the group by a campfire in the middle of the courtyard. The fire’s already burning when you two arrive—low and crackling in the courtyard pit, light flickering across worn stone and tired faces.

You walk close. Closer than necessary. The kind of close that says we’ve been talking about something for ten minutes and forgot anyone else existed.

Whatever it was, it’s still clinging to the air between you. You’re grinning. A real one—loose, bright, unguarded. Reiner’s shoulders aren’t braced for once. He’s relaxed. Smirking. You nudge him with your elbow and he huffs through his nose, biting down another laugh.

Ymir clocks it instantly.

She watches the two of you like a wolf sniffing out something juicy. Her eyes narrow. Her grin spreads slow.

“Well, look who’s suddenly got sunshine in her orbit,” she drawls as you step into the firelight. Her arm snakes around your shoulders in an exaggerated hug. “You gonna tell us who’s your boyfriend, or should we all take turns guessing?”

You roll your eyes, already peeling her off. “You’re in my space.”

Connie jumps in. “Honestly, I don’t think I could imagine you with anyone besides Ymir.”

Sasha, mid-chew, mumbles, “More like… with any guy.”

You shove Ymir’s arm off gently. “I’d rather be Titan mush than Ymir’s companion.”

You look at how Ymir’s now latching onto Krista. “That’s all Krista.” You mutter to yourself.

The flick of Reiner’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by you. The way his jaw shifts, mouth tight. His fingers tap once, twice, against his knee.

Ymir shrugs. “Nah, I wouldn’t wanna carry her around everywhere anyway. She’s pampered enough as it is.”

Krista laughs. “Don’t give her any ideas. You still owe her after that bet you lost.”

Annie doesn’t look up. “You couldn’t carry her for very long anyway. You’d drop her in five minutes.”

You raise a brow. “Can’t tell if that’s an insult for her or for me.”

“Statement of fact,” Annie says, flat. “You’re too heavy. She’s too weak.”

Your mouth falls open. “I am not that heavy.”

Krista, too honest to save you, winces. “I don’t know… you’ve put on a few pounds lately.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I stress eat. Blame Sasha. She’s been helping me sneak extras.”

“Guilty as charged,” Sasha says, unapologetically. She lifts a half-eaten ration like a toast. “Everyone copes in their own way.”

Then Mikasa, who’s been quiet the whole time, looks up. “So you admit you’re getting fat?”

You freeze.

Sasha pipes in again, oblivious, “well, not fat fat. More like… curvaceous?” She glances around, still chewing. “At least more than the rest of us girls.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Armin stares at the dirt like it’s telling a sad story. Bertholdt looks at the sky like it holds answers. Reiner’s stiff as stone. His posture hasn’t changed, but his ears are red. Jaw locked. Hands fixed on his knees.

You want to melt into the ground.

“Please,” you groan, hiding your face, “just kill me.”

“Some people consider those two words synonymous,” Annie says, voice deadpan.

Ymir smirks. “Synonyms or not, if she drops out of the Survey Corps, at least she can marry rich.”

Reiner’s voice cuts through the circle—not loud, but sharp. Final.

“Please. Stop talking.”

Silence.

You drop your hands and glance at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

You nod, quiet. “For once, I agree with Reiner.”

Ymir makes a dramatic noise, flopping back against Krista like she’s fainting. “Ugh, you guys are boring. Learn how to take a joke.”

Someone throws a new branch into the fire. Sparks crackle. Light shifts. The conversation stumbles on—different topic, different jokes. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it stretches thin. Easier to ignore.

Across the fire, Reiner watches you.

Just for a second.

You don’t say anything. But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes anymore.

You walk side by side in the dark. Boots whisper over gravel, barely loud enough to notice. The torches from the courtyard are long behind you now, their glow swallowed by stone and shadow. Only the moon keeps pace—silver, cool, distant.

Reiner trails half a step behind. Close, but not too close. Close enough you can feel him watching.

You don’t look.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Stretched and full of all the things neither of you know how to say out loud.

Unexpectedly, Reiner’s the first to speak up. “You don’t look fat, by the way.”

You stop. Mid-stride.

Turn your head, slow.

“Wow,” you say flatly. “Thanks.” You look at him with an unimpressed face.

He blinks. “Shit. No, I meant-”

“You meant to start this conversation by complimenting my body after everyone made fun of it?”

“No! I mean, yes, but not like that. I just-” He runs a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath. “They were outta line. I didn’t like it.”

You squint at him. “So you decided to confirm I don’t look like a bloated corpse?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You know what? Forget it.”

Your lips twitch. You don’t smile, not quite, but it’s close. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I was trying to be nice,” he grumbles.

“You were trying to be smooth and ended up sounding like my grandmother.”

He mutters something you don’t catch. You glance sideways. His ears are red. His face isn’t much better.

That’s enough of a win to keep going.

“…It did get under my skin, though.”

Your voice is quieter now. Like you’re admitting a secret to the trees.

“Not the joke, really. Just… how easy it was. For everyone to laugh.”

Reiner’s head turns. Not fast, but enough. You keep walking.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “When you grow up with your body being some kind of… spectacle, it messes with you. You’re either praised for looking how people want, or judged for taking ownership of it. There’s no middle ground. No safe spot.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Thoughtful.

“Everyone copes different,” he says finally. “Some of us eat. Some of us train until we break something. Some of us… disappear.”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you, just ahead, like the words were pulled from somewhere distant.

“You really don’t see yourself the way we do, do you?”

You kick a loose rock down the path. It clinks off stone and vanishes into the brush.

“I’m not sure I see myself at all.”

Reiner slows. Just enough that your steps match again. The trees creak. The wind shifts through the leaves, stirring something that feels like memory.

“You don’t sleep much either, huh?” you ask after a while.

“Not when it’s quiet like this.”

You nod. Yeah. That kind of quiet. The one that creeps under your skin, fills the cracks, makes the world feel too still.

“What keeps you up?” he asks, voice soft.

You shrug. “Memories. People I couldn’t save. My mom’s voice. Gunshots.” You pause. “Sometimes it’s not even anything. Just… pressure. Like if I fall asleep, something bad will happen.”

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s one word. Simple. Low.

“Yeah.”

But it lands. Heavy. Honest. Like he understands all of it.

You glance sideways. The moon catches on his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes are shadowed but open. Listening.

“…Why do you keep showing up?”

You don’t mean to say it. But it comes out anyway.

He blinks and looks at you. Actually looks. Thinks. Then taps his temple lightly. “You make things quieter.”

You frown. “I’m not exactly loud.”

“Doesn’t matter. Presence is enough.”

Your frown softens. Nobody’s ever told you they like your presence. It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t feel good to hear it.

But it does.

You don’t know what to do with that. Not really.

So you don’t say anything.

But your arm brushes his as you walk. And for once, you don’t pull away.

“You sound crazy,” you say, attempting to deflect. But the words sound weak, even to your own ears.

Reiner doesn’t take offense, instead shaking his head in amusement. His soft chuckle fills the air, an unexpected sound in the heavy silence of the night shift.

Chapter Text

Tomorrow, the newly graduated scout recruits are doing a practice ‘camping out in the woods’ exercise. But before then, the courtyard’s alive with warmth and flickering light. Torches burn low in their sconces, casting long shadows over stone. A few cadets lounge near crates and benches, some sharpening gear, others just talking.

Ymir’s voice cuts through first. “So, anyone else notice my girl and Reiner have been joined at the hip lately?”

“Literally,” Connie chimes in. “I saw them walking earlier. Elbow to elbow. Suspicious.”

“They were talking and walking,” Sasha says, mouth half-full of rations. “That’s not suspicious. That’s called friendship, Connie.”

“Yeah, but it’s like…” Jean leans forward, squinting thoughtfully. “Their friendship has tone. You know what I mean?”

Krista tilts her head. “Maybe they’re just close friends?”

“Uh-huh. And I’m just Connie’s hairstylist,” Ymir replies.

“You are?” Connie gasps. “Wait, you’ve been holding out on me—”

“Friends don’t stare at each other like that,” Mikasa says, quiet but firm.

“She smiled at him, Krista,” Ymir says. “A real one. The rare kind. I think it changed the weather.”

“I did hear Reiner laugh yesterday,” Eren adds, like he’s seen a flying titan.

“Exactly,” Ymir grins. “Laughing? Bantering? That man hasn’t smiled since cadet graduation. And now he’s cracking jokes?”

“Love changes a man,” Connie says sagely.

Everyone throws something at him.

Then—your voices reach them first.

Low, half-laughing. Threaded with something unspoken. Reiner says something, and you elbow him—light, automatic. He mutters something back. You’re smiling. So is he. Quietly.

And then you step into the firelight.

Silence. Immediate. Like someone pulled a curtain shut. Everyone looks at you like you just walked into a punchline no one said aloud.

“…What?” you ask slowly.

Connie raises an eyebrow. “Nothing. Just… admiring the scenery.”

“Oh yeah,” Ymir adds with mock innocence. “Real nice view tonight. Moonlight. Stars. A girl giggling at a six-foot wall of muscle. Nature’s beautiful,” she smirks.

“If you’re jealous, just say so,” you quip in a deadpan tone.

“We’re just saying,” Sasha adds, “if we didn’t know better, we’d say Reiner was flirting.”

Reiner snorts. “You don’t know better.”

You roll your eyes. “If that was flirting, it’d be the worst attempt in history.”

“Exactly,” Reiner deadpans. “I have standards.”

You press a hand to your chest, mock-offended. “Ouch.”

Krista giggles nervously. Sasha glances at Mikasa, who says nothing. Just watches. Her eyes linger a second too long.

Ymir grins wide. “It’s okay, you guys. You can be cute and totally deny it. We’re not judging.”

“We’re not cute,” you and Reiner say at the exact same time.

Silence. Longer this time.

Then Annie stands without a word. Brushes her hands off on her pants. Turns.

“Where you going?” Connie asks.

“Somewhere quieter,” she mutters. “You’re all annoying.”

She walks off, boots snapping hard against the gravel.

You frown. Follow without thinking.

“Where YOU going now?” Connie asks again.

“I’ll be back,” you say, already halfway gone.

You find her near the barracks.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed like she’s been waiting for you. The light from the fire doesn’t reach this far. She’s just a silhouette in the dark.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gently. “That was kind of an abrupt exit.”

“I’m fine.”

“…You sure?”

Annie exhales. It’s not dramatic, but it’s sharp. Controlled. “I just think if you’re gonna flirt with Reiner, maybe don’t do it in front of everyone.”

You blink. “Flirt? I wasn’t-”

“It’s embarrassing.”

That stops you. You weren’t expecting her to say that. Not with that tone.

“You think I was flirting with Reiner?”

Annie looks at you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “I think you like Reiner. And I think you don’t realize how obvious it’s starting to look.”

You look away, jaw tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Annie pushes off the wall. Steps closer—not threatening, just direct. “Look, I get that you want to be discreet. But be mindful. The Corps loves gossip. You don’t want to be the center of it.”

Your lips twitch. “What’s that I hear? Almost sounds like you care.”

She gives you a tired look. “I’m trying to help. I don’t want you getting into trouble because you can’t keep your feelings to yourself.”

You scoff, defensive now. “I don’t know what feelings you’re talking about, but… okay.”

Annie starts to walk off, then pauses. “Just think about it.” she says’ over her shoulder.

And then she’s gone.

You stay behind. The air is colder now. The kind of cold that settles under your skin and lingers. You rub your hands together, though you’re not sure it’s just from the chill.

The woods stretch wide and dark ahead of you, thick with towering trees and the cool hush of morning mist. Behind you, someone stifles a laugh too sharp and nervous. Another cadet fumbles with the straps on their small pack. No one speaks above a whisper.

Then the whistle blows.

The sound slices through the quiet—and just like that, everything stills. Silence falls like a shroud. The exercise has officially begun.

You move.

You’re Squad Four. Assigned to operate as a three-person unit behind theoretical enemy lines. Seventy-two hours. Avoid simulated Titan patrols starting tomorrow. Survive with only what you’ve carried in.

The map is vague on purpose. The rations are a joke.

The stakes aren’t real—but the exhaustion, the stress, and the judgment will be.

Sasha bounces on the balls of her feet beside you, practically glowing. “This is gonna be so fun. Like camping—but with the looming threat of failing an assignment!”

“You’re not helping,” Reiner mutters behind her, eyes already scanning the tree line like something’s waiting to pounce.

You keep your voice calm, even. “Let’s find camp first. We need cover before sundown.”

That’s when the bickering starts.

“I’m telling you, we want the ridge,” Reiner says, pointing up a slope of mossy stone and brambles. “Elevation gives us sightlines. Strategic advantage.”

“And wind,” Sasha adds, nodding sagely. “Helps with scent tracking. That’s what animals do.”

You give her a look. “Okay, one—we’re not animals. And two, elevation’s great until you’re silhouetted like a signal flare. We need to think like prey. Dense cover. Water source. Low visibility.”

“Boring,” Sasha says with a groan.

“Effective,” you shoot back, already stepping off the trail toward a thick patch of trees.

It takes almost an hour to compromise. Voices rise, branches snap, and at one point Sasha threatens to climb a tree and live there alone. But eventually, you find it: a shaded hollow tucked between a wall of rock and a small rise. There’s a thin stream nearby, the soil is soft but dry, and the canopy is thick enough to mask light. It’s too quiet, which means it’s perfect.

You all stand there, catching your breath, surveying the space. No one says it, but there’s a shared nod.

This’ll do.

Camp construction begins… poorly.

“I read about this once during cadet training,” Sasha declares, proudly tying what you think is meant to be a support knot. It looks more like a chewed rope toy.

Ten minutes later, the entire thing collapses in on itself like an empty cocoon.

Reiner sighs and takes over. He builds like he’s laying siege to the forest—logs stacked with military precision, every knot double-checked, every angle reinforced like a fortress. It’s impressive. Methodical. Maddeningly slow.

He doesn’t talk while he works. Doesn’t look up. Just breathes and builds and tightens. You watch him for a moment, then shake your head.

You roll up your sleeves and get to work yourself.

There—two bent saplings that form a natural arch. You weave thinner branches between them, layering tension into the joints with your remaining rope. You anchor the base with stones, pad it with moss, and cover it in a blend of leaves and dirt. Not pretty. Not precise. But functional. Dry. Stable. Hidden.

When it’s done, you step back and wipe your hands on your pants.

Reiner eyes the structure, arms crossed. “Nice work.”

You shrug. “Grew up doing this. I remember it being easier when we were smaller.”

He nods once. Quiet. But there’s something like appreciation in his expression before he looks away.

Three hours later, Sasha reemerges from the forest like a wildling on a cooking mission. Her arms are full—roots, mushrooms, a tangle of vines, and somehow… a live squirrel.

“Don’t ask how,” she grins. “We eatin’ good tonight.”

You blink. “You kidnapped a squirrel?”

“I harvested opportunity.”

You eye her haul. “This one’s good. That one’ll kill you. These are fine if you boil them long enough. That,” you add, pointing to a dark gray lump, “is a wood root. Toss it.”

Sasha frowns. “That’s half my haul.”

You toss her a handful of wild onions and tart berries you gathered on the way. “You’ll survive.”

She reaches for a yellow blossom. “What about this one? Looks like celery.”

“Nope—Conium maculatum,” you say sharply. “Paralyzes you.”

“Is it tasty at least?” Sasha stares blankly at you. You stare back.

“I don’t know, why don’t you try?” You hold out the small bundle of the plant, but before she can grab it you quickly pull back, tossing it to the side.

At that moment, Reiner returns, soaked up to his knees, boots squelching, shirt stuck to his chest—a fish in one hand.

You raise a brow. “No line?”

“Caught it.”

“…With what?”

He shrugs, completely serious. “Timing.”

Sasha gawks. “You barehanded a fish?”

Reiner just nods. Like it’s obvious.

“…You might actually be a bear,” she says.

By nightfall, the fire crackles low between a ring of stones. Sparks pop into the canopy above. Dinner was better than expected—fish roasted over coals, mushrooms browned in the lid of an old canteen, wild onion rubbed into everything.

Sasha’s already asleep, curled up like a feral cat with one hand protectively resting on the squirrel. She’s named it Breakfast.

Reiner lies beside you, one arm tucked under his head. His shoulder brushes yours. Not enough to be intentional. Enough to not ignore.

You stare up at the lattice of branches, where silver light filters through the leaves. The air hums with bugs and the soft hush of the creek. The tarp rustles gently overhead.

Neither of you speaks.

But the quiet isn’t awkward. It’s close. The kind of quiet that hums just beneath the skin. The kind that makes your heartbeat feel too loud in your chest. You shift slightly.

Your shoulder stays pressed to his.

He doesn’t move away.

And that says more than anything else.

The woods feel different this morning.

Not silent, not still, but tense. A hush rides the wind through the trees, making the leaves whisper warnings you can’t quite understand. Dawn isn’t soft today. It’s sharp. Cold. The kind of dawn that cuts.

Somewhere deeper in the woods, two sharp whistle blasts slice the air.

You freeze mid-step. So does everyone else. Even Sasha stops bouncing.

Titan patrols have begun.

Somewhere out there, senior Scouts are moving—pretending. Acting like the real thing. They’ll stalk you. Hunt you. Try to catch you slipping. If they do, you lose points. If they tag you, it’s over.

The objective is simple: survive unseen until sundown. But camp’s too exposed, too small. If someone finds it, you’re cornered.

So you split up. Patrols. Constant shifts. Always rotating. Always moving.

You and Sasha go first.

She’s vibrating again, practically bouncing between roots, snapping twigs like it’s a contest. You hiss through your teeth, low.

“Can you not step on every branch in this forest?”

“I’m trying,” she whispers, dramatically offended. Her whisper is somehow louder than her normal speaking voice.

You’re about to snap back when something changes, some shift in the air, some break in the rhythm of the woods.

A grunt. Low. Guttural. Not human.

You freeze. Scan the thicket.

Then you see it—just ahead, almost hidden in the brambles: a boar nest. Sasha’s two steps from planting her foot straight into a predator’s breakfast.

You don’t think. You grab. Fist tight in her collar, yank her back like she’s weightless. She stumbles, wide-eyed, catching herself on you.

“…Thanks,” she breathes, stunned.

But you don’t let go. Not yet. You’re still listening—head tilted, pulse in your ears like war drums.

A twig snaps.

Then another.

You dive for cover, dragging her down into a thick tangle of brush. You land on your side, pressed into damp leaves. Sasha shimmies in beside you, eyes wide, chest rising fast.

Boots crunch nearby. Too close.

She shifts. You slam your hand down on her arm, fingers digging in. She stops breathing.

The patrol comes into view—two Scouts in cloaks, walking slow, careful. They pause just meters from your hiding spot. One turns his head. Your heart stops.

Then, finally they keep moving.

You wait three more heartbeats before releasing her.

“I thought I was gonna sneeze,” she whispers.

You don’t even look at her. “Don’t you dare.”

Later, it’s you and Reiner.

No words. No instruction. You just move. Together.

You crouch. He crouches. You signal. He mirrors. Back-to-back, you listen. He covers your blind spot without being asked. You pass a glance and know he’s already thinking what you are.

He points to a tree. You nod. He goes. Silent as breath.

You track faint trails, Scouts pretending to be Titans. You double back across their routes, reroute your own. Reiner proposes a plan. Clever, but reckless: retrace your path to confuse the trackers. You shake your head. Too risky.

He does it anyway.

You almost miss him—just barely spot him as he ducks behind a ridge, vanishing seconds before two cloaked figures pass overhead. You feel your stomach drop like it’s made of stone.

When he comes back, cheeks flushed, breathing hard, you round on him. “What the hell was that?” you snap, voice low but sharp. “You could’ve been caught!”

“I didn’t want us to get found,” he says, still catching his breath.

You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t about points—”

“It’s not,” he interrupts. “I don’t care about the points. I just didn’t want you to get caught.”

You go silent. Completely.

It hits you in the gut. Not his words—his eyes. Steady. Sincere. Like trying to keep you safe wasn’t even a second thought.

You turn away before you can say something stupid. Or worse, feel something stupid.

Later, all three of you nearly get caught again.

Sasha sneezes. Loud.

Before she can even sniffle, you grab her and shove both of them into a thicket of thorny brush and branches. You tumble together in a painful heap, limbs tangled.

She’s giggling. “Bless me—”

You slap your hand over her mouth.

More footsteps. Heavier this time. Closer.

You’re practically on top of Reiner. Your hand is braced on his chest. His hand’s somewhere near your ribs. His knee is pressed against your thigh, uncomfortably high. Your face is inches from his, his breath warming your cheek.

Then Sasha, voice barely a whisper: “Did I just see a deer?”

You both say nothing.

The rain comes in waves.

You duck beneath a thick web of roots with Reiner and Sasha. The soil’s damp. It smells like earth and ozone.

None of you speak. You’re soaked. Cold. Exhausted. But alive.

Then, of course, Sasha speaks. “Did you know Titans are afraid of squirrels?”

You blink at her, deadpan. “That’s not true.”

“They are. That’s why they don’t climb trees.”

You lean back. “Squirrels are Titans. That’s why their eyes are so full of rage.”

Then Reiner speaks up, dry as bone, “I used to date a Titan. She ghosted me.”

You stifle a laugh behind your sleeve. Sasha snorts.

And just like that, for the first time all day, you all just breathe.

The final day is still.

No whistles. No patrols. Just the quiet rustle of the forest breathing around you. A day to reflect, they said. A chance to rest, process, and simply survive the last day.

You don’t know what to do with the silence. But you like it better than the noise.

You and Reiner take the empty canteens and walk toward the stream. The forest is wrapped in pale gold light, dappled through the trees.

Neither of you speak for a long while. You just walk. The trail crunches under your boots. The world feels wide, unguarded.

At the stream, you kneel to fill the canteens, your sleeves rolled up, cold water biting your fingers. Reiner crouches beside you, watching the surface ripple.

“You like the quiet?” he asks softly.

You don’t look at him, you just screw the cap onto the full canteen.

“I like that it doesn’t ask anything from me.”

He glances over. Waits.

“When it’s loud,” you murmur, “I have to talk. Contribute.” You finally meet his gaze. “When it’s quiet… no one expects anything.”

His brow furrows,not like he’s confused, like he understands.

You finish filling the last canteen and stand. Reiner follows. Neither of you say anything else on the walk back.

You don’t need to.

The campfire’s crackling. Smoke curls into the sky.

Sasha has somehow acquired a suspicious pile of rations she definitely didn’t ask for, and is currently roasting them like a feast.

“You ever heard of a headless Titan?” she says, poking the fire with a stick. “Crawls at night. Real silent. Real fast. If you hear it coming, it’s already too late.”

“You made this up too,” Reiner says, barely holding back a grin.

“I lived it,” she insists. “I was six. Traumatized. Lost a sister.”

“You’re an only child,” you say.

“Exactly.” She points at you with a half-burnt biscuit. “My poor pig Francis, may she rest in pieces. Very delicious pieces.

Reiner snorts, half turning away.

You laugh. Out loud.

It startles even you. You’re not sure when you last did that.

Sasha grins like she’s won a medal.

The stars come out early, sharp and bright between the treetops.

The fire’s down to red coals. Sasha is passed out on a log, snoring softly, arms crossed over her empty ration pile like a dragon hoarding treasure.

You and Reiner sit nearby. A little apart. Close enough for warmth.

He’s leaning back on his palms, staring up. You’re curled with your knees to your chest, chin on your arms.

“You always this good at not sleeping?” you ask, voice low.

He glances over. “Only when I’ve got something to watch.”

You blink. He doesn’t elaborate. Just looks back at the sky.

You exhale through your nose. Let the silence stretch.

Then, unprompted, you speak. “My family’s gone.”

He doesn’t react much, no flinch, no pity. Just a soft nod.

“My mom, dad… brother and sister. All of them. One way or another.”

Reiner’s voice is quiet. “I’m sorry.”

You nod. It’s enough.

Another pause. Then he says, “Can I ask something?”

You glance at him.

“At meals. You whisper colors. Why?”

You half-smile. “Didn’t think anyone besides my close group would notice.”

“I notice a lot,” he says.

You pluck at a thread on your sleeve. “I had an accident as a kid. Head injury. Ever since, I see colors when I eat. Not on the food—just in my head. Flavors show up as colors. Salt is orange. Citrus is beige. Pork’s kind of a muted purple.” You look away. “Weird, I know.”

You brace yourself for a joke. A snort. Something.

Instead, he says, “That’s actually really interesting.”

You blink. “You think?”

He shrugs. “Better than my weird trick.”

You arch a brow.

He rolls his shoulder back then pulls it completely out of place.

You stare hard, you’re mouth slightly curling down at the edges. “Did you just dislocate your own shoulder?”

“Double-jointed,” he says casually, popping it back in. “Impressive, huh?”

You shake your head. “You’re a freak.”

He grins. “Takes one to know one.”

You smile. For real this time.

The fire crackles. Sasha snores.

The stars spin overhead.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

The outpost rises ahead like a shadowed shape against the dying sun. Orange light glows at the edges of the trees, stretching long shadows behind you.

You walk back with Reiner and Sasha in tired silence.

The trail is familiar now; each bend, each rise in the dirt. Your boots fall in rhythm. The forest behind you exhales.

At the gate, senior Scouts lean on clipboards, jotting down notes as cadets shuffle in. Some are mud-streaked. Others are limping. Everyone’s quiet.

But you made it.

Ymir leans against the side of the barracks, arms crossed. She spots you and Reiner arriving together.

She doesn’t say anything. Just quirks one brow. You know that look.

You roll your eyes. She smirks.

Sasha saunters up beside you, chewing something. You glance.

“…Is that pine bark?”

She nods solemnly. “Nutty. A little citrusy. Five stars. Would camp again.”

You shake your head, half-smiling.

People begin to scatter, breaking off in pairs or heading toward the mess hall. The sky goes from orange to deep violet. A star winks into view.

You turn to leave. So does Reiner. But then he hesitates.

“Hey,” he says.

You pause.

“If we weren’t pretending…” His voice is low. A little uncertain. “I’d still want to keep you safe.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t believe him.

But because your chest is too tight, and your throat won’t move.

So you just nod. Once. Slow.

Then you turn, and walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, like they’re carrying more than just your weight.

And maybe they are.

Chapter Text

Morning breaks sharp and bright, cutting across the courtyard in clean beams of gold. Boots scrape against worn stone. Harness buckles clink. Someone laughs lowly near the stables. The whole place hums with restless energy, buzzing for the light recon mission ahead.

You shift your gear on your shoulders, adjusting the stubborn strap that always slides crooked. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot him—Reiner, a few yards off, taut and deliberate as he tightens the chest plate across his broad frame.

You don’t mean to look for him. You just do.

And you’re not the only one paying attention.

“Need help with that?”

Ymir’s voice snakes in, teasing and lazy. She saunters up, her grin slow and wicked, before you can react, she tugs at the strap near your collarbone, fiddling dramatically.

“Or maybe,” she drawls, leaning in closer, “you just like being tied up wrong.”

You snort, shoving her hand away lightly. “Pretty sure you’re the one who needs help.”

Ymir’s grin widens. She leans in, low enough for her breath to warm your ear. “If you’re volunteering, I’m all yours.”

You shove her a little harder this time, laughing despite yourself. “Oh, get lost.”

A few nearby cadets snicker, casting amused glances your way.

Across the yard, Reiner’s hands still on his buckle. His jaw tightens, the muscle there ticking once, hard.

You pretend not to notice.

Before he can move, another figure cuts in—Austin. Loud, golden-haired, a perpetual troublemaker with a laugh that seems designed to be heard.

“Morning, trouble,” he calls, slinging an arm around your shoulders like you’re old friends. His grin’s easy and bright. “Well, don’t you look pretty tight in those straps?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him away with an elbow. “You’re about as smooth as sandpaper.”

Austin clutches his chest, reeling back in mock agony. “Ouch, brutal. And here I thought you liked me for my ‘rough around the edges’ charm.”

The group laughs again. The air stays light. At least, it would—if you didn’t feel the furnace heat of Reiner’s stare.

When you glance up, his eyes are locked on you. Not laughing. Not smiling.

Burning.

Contained only by sheer force of will, like something caged and straining.

Annie catches it too. She tips her head slightly, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Bertholdt shifts where he stands, awkwardly glancing between you and Reiner like he’s bracing for an explosion that hasn’t gone off yet.

You square your shoulders and turn your focus back to your gear; pretending you didn’t see. Pretending you didn’t feel the crackle in the air, sharp enough to raise the hair on your arms.

Minutes later, you’re crossing through the outer gates together, heading toward the rendezvous field. The grass, still damp from overnight mist, hisses under your boots.

You and Reiner fall into step without thinking.

At first, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that buzzes between two people holding too much in.

You flick a glance at him. His mouth is set in a tight line, his hands loose at his sides like he’s trying not to clench them into fists.

Finally, he speaks. His voice low, rough, with a snap buried inside it.

“You always so easy with everyone?”

The words hit harder a soft spot you didn’t know was there. You slow your pace, just a fraction.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Reiner exhales sharply through his nose, like the fire inside him is folding inward now, burning up his chest instead of the air between you.

His voice softens, but the edge doesn’t completely vanish. “Forget it.”

You don’t. But you keep walking with unsaid things trailing after you like shadows.

The field mission waits ahead—another test. Another line neither of you are ready to cross.

You’re still tightening your harness, leather creaking under your fingers, when a flash of movement tugs your attention sideways.

Annie steps directly into Reiner’s path without warning.

No warning. No hesitation.

Her arms hang loose at her sides, casual in that way that never actually feels casual with her. Her expression is as blank as stone—cool, unreadable—but her eyes say everything. sharp, cutting, impatient.

They’re just out of earshot now.

You pretend not to watch. Pretend you’re adjusting your buckle still, though you’re hardly touching it.

Annie doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at him. Looks through him.

Like she’s trying to figure out how someone that big and solid, could be so stupid.

Then, finally, with all the warmth of a cloudy sky threatening rain, she says, “Didn’t know you were competing for ‘Jealous Idiot of the Year’.”

Bertholdt, a few steps behind her, visibly flinches, like he just got hit by secondhand shrapnel.

Reiner stiffens—shoulders squared, chin tilting up a notch.

But he doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t even look mad.

He just looks… exposed. Like Annie cracked open a part of him he was trying hard to keep locked down.

Annie shifts her weight, boot scraping faintly over compact dirt. When she speaks again, her voice drops lower, meaner, flat and detached in that clinical way only she can manage.

“If you’re gonna sulk every time someone breathes near her,” she murmurs, “you’re gonna have a rough life.”

And then she’s brushing past him without another glance. Light on her feet. Barely bothered.

Like he wasn’t even worth the space she moved through.

Bertholdt hesitates in her wake, long enough to glance awkwardly between Reiner’s rigid form and your distant silhouette. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “She’s not wrong,” before hurrying after her.

Reiner stays where he is, heavy and unmoving. He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there a moment longer, gaze tilted slightly—staring after you without even realizing it.

The mission horn sounds in the distance, long and low.

And still, for a few seconds more, Reiner doesn’t move.

The mission’s easy. In theory. Light recon work—navigation drills, perimeter sweeps. Nothing dangerous. Nothing hard.

But the forest has a way of playing tricks on you.

The light shifts strangely between the trees. The ground softens in unexpected places. The wind slips past your ears, just wrong enough to raise the hair at the nape of your neck.

You’re crossing an open patch of grass when it happens— sharp and sudden, three cracks splitting the air.

Gunfire.

Distant. Loud. Sharp.

The world tilts.

You know it’s a drill. You know it’s just the other squads, practicing formation maneuvers near the outpost. You were briefed on it this morning.

But knowing doesn’t stop the way your body locks up. Doesn’t stop the way your vision narrows, edges closing in like a noose. Doesn’t stop the sound from slicing down your spine like a serrated blade.

Your breathing stumbles. Your knees threaten to buckle. You smell metal, blood.

Somewhere nearby, a few of the older cadets catch it. Not your fear—no, they’re not sharp enough for that. Just your freeze.

And they think it’s funny.

“What’s the matter, princess?” one drawls, chuckling under his breath.

“Forget what side you’re on?”

“Hope you don’t cry when the real ones show up,” another snickers, louder.

It’s not vicious. Not meant to be cruel.

But it is. And it burns.

Your fists trembling at your sides as you drag yourself back into your skin by sheer force of will. Trying not to let the old humiliation claw its way back up your throat. Trying not to break.

One of them reaches out, still laughing, fingers snagging casually at your sleeve—

—and then he’s just gone.

Reiner slams into him like a battering ram. No warning. No words.

The cadet hits the ground hard, skidding through the dirt with a choked yelp. Way harder than necessary.

The laughter cuts off instantly. Dead silence, heavy as a dropped blade.

Reiner stands over him, fists clenched so tight his knuckles are bone-white. Chest heaving. Eyes dark. Jaw locked.

There’s no joke in him. No restraint. No shame.

Just that raw, brutal protectiveness—too big, too sharp—edged with something almost violent. Something that feels old. Heavy. Furious.

It scares you.

Not because he hurt the other cadet. Not because he looks dangerous.

But because, just for a heartbeat, it feels like you’re staring at something ancient. Something monstrous. Something that would tear the world apart with its bare hands if it meant keeping you safe.

And it’s not Reiner that frightens you. It’s how you don’t hate it.

The squad leader’s shout snaps the tension like brittle wood. “Enough! Move out!”

Everyone scrambles, boots pounding over the grass, eyes averted. No one wants to be next.

You and Reiner fall into step behind the others automatically, but the silence between you is a taut, buzzing thing. Like a live wire stretched too tight.

Finally, you snap under your breath, voice sharp as broken glass, “You don’t have to protect me, Reiner.”

His head turns slightly, catching your glare with a look that smolders.

“Maybe I want to,” he says.

The words are rough. Hot. Uncomplicated in a way that makes everything worse.

You falter a step, breath catching, but you don’t look at him. Can’t.

The heat of it sticks between you, heavier than your gear, heavier than the air. Every step vibrates with things you aren’t ready to say.

Things you aren’t ready to feel.

The tension from earlier still clings to you like a second skin.

You move through the motions of the mission—launch, maneuver, land—but you’re not here.

Your body knows what to do. Your mind doesn’t.

It keeps slipping. Keeps snagging on him.

On the way he said Maybe I want to. Or the way he looked at you, like the world could burn down and he’d still find you in the ashes.

You shouldn’t be distracted. You know better. But you are.

Which is why you don’t notice the warning shouts fast enough. Why you don’t see the glint of tangled wires until it’s already too late.

A cadet up ahead, someone from another squad, fires their ODM gear wrong. A misfire, messy and dangerous. The cables whip out, slicing the air in wild, vicious arcs.

One of them streaks toward you, snapping low and fast like a striking snake.

You freeze. Half a second. Just long enough to register the danger—

And then he’s there.

Reiner.

Not graceful. Not heroic. Just desperate.

He crashes into you, knocking you sideways, sending you both sprawling hard into the dirt. His weight half over yours, his breath ragged against your ear.

You feel the rogue cable whip past, close enough to stir your hair. Close enough that your throat aches just from thinking about it.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and wild.

For a second you just lie there, stunned. Blinking up at the trees. Watching the dappled sunlight flicker and split across the canopy like broken glass.

And then you realize Reiner isn’t moving.

He’s braced over you, muscles taut, teeth clenched against some unseen pain. Dark blood already blooming through the torn fabric of his sleeve, sticky and heavy against your shirt where you overlap.

He shifts with a low grunt, and when he looks down at you, it guts you.

Because it isn’t the look of a soldier checking if his teammate is alive. It isn’t the look of someone acting out of duty.

It’s raw. Wrecked. Real.

A kind of aching, vulnerable relief that doesn’t have a name.

Your chest tightens painfully. You feel it, whatever this is, pressing up against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

Too much. Too close. Too soon.

Reiner finally pushes off you with a rough exhale, giving you space. You sit up, disoriented, brushing dirt from your palms and catch it.

Just for a second.

Steam, curling faintly from the tear in his sleeve. Soft and silver in the morning air.

You blink and it’s gone.

Just blood now. Just a normal wound.

Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you didn’t.

You don’t have time to chase it. The drill master’s voice cuts across the clearing, barking orders, and the rest of the mission shoves itself forward whether you’re ready or not.

Later, when the world has slowed back to a normal, miserable crawl, you find him near the camp perimeter.

He’s sitting on an overturned supply crate, a roll of bandages clutched in one hand, awkwardly trying to wrap his arm with the other.

Doing a terrible job of it. The bandages are too tight in some places, too loose in others.

You approach before you can think better of it. Before you can remember why you shouldn’t.

Reiner looks up, startled. Like he expected anger. Or worse—indifference.

Instead, you just kneel beside him and mutter, rough, “Give me that.”

He hesitates. Then hands the bandages over wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours. Hot. Tense. Braced.

You work quietly, your hands steadier than the rest of you. Each time you touch him, you can feel the strain under his skin. The way he’s barely holding still. The way something deeper keeps scraping against the inside of his chest, trying to get out.

He keeps sneaking glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

Noticing things. The way you shove your sleeves up when you concentrate. The way your fingers nervously toy with the thin chain around your neck. The way your mouth tightens when you’re biting back whatever’s actually on your mind.

You notice things too. How careful he’s being. How he doesn’t flinch from you. How he looks like he’d tear the world open barehanded just to keep you breathing.

There’s a moment, a breathless, stupid second, where you both almost say something real.

Your hands slow. His mouth opens, like he’s about to speak—

Something true. Something big.

But the world is still too loud. Still too broken. Still not ready for it.

So instead, you tape the last of the bandage down and say, rough and almost embarrassed, “Thanks.”

You brush his wrist lightly as you pull back. The contact barely there, but he jolts under it like you hit bone instead of skin.

You smirk faintly, trying to bury the heat in your throat.

“Don’t make me save your ass again.” Reiner huffs.

You catch the ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. Wounded. Grateful. Something more. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. Not yet.

Back at Scout Regiment HQ, you crash into sleep hard.

The kind that drags you under so fast it feels almost violent.

No dreams at first, just that newly familiar endless glow. The lattice of threads stretching into forever.

You walk barefoot across the light, and it hums beneath your feet like a heartbeat you almost recognize.

Something old. Something broken.

Something yours.

You could stay here. You almost want to. But then the dream tilts. The light frays. The lattice snaps into a thousand wild strands and you’re somewhere else.

An open field under a sky that stretches forever. The grass brushes your ankles. The air tastes like morning, clean and sharp and gold at the edges.

And he’s there.

Reiner.

Moving toward you across the field like he belongs there. Like he’s something the dream built out of your missing pieces.

You don’t move. Don’t flinch. Don’t run.

You just stand there and let him come closer. Close enough that you feel the slow, steady heat rolling off him. Close enough that the back of your hand almost brushes his.

He leans in. Careful. Steady. Unshakable.

And when he says your name, it’s a whisper against your ear. Low. Rough. Reverent. Like he’s saying a holy prayer he doesn’t know how to stop, the sound so close his lips barely brush the shell of your ear.

The sound of your name on his lips dances through you, sending a shiver down your spine that settles in the hollow space behind your ribs, finding purchase in the very center of your heart.

You know it’s a dream. You know how to wake yourself up when you don’t like what you’re seeing. You’ve done it before. Hundreds of times.

But this time, you don’t.

You stay. You let him say your name again, soft like a secret. You let yourself want it.

Want him.

The dream curls warm around you like a net, tightening and tightening until you jolt awake—

You sit up too fast, chest heaving. Your neck damp with sweat. Your hands twisted hard in the blanket like you’re still trying to hold something down.

For a moment, you feel violated. Like something got inside you while you were sleeping. Pried something open.

But not just violated. Not just that. You feel…

Longing.

Loneliness.

A need so raw it burns the back of your throat. So sharp you could bite your own tongue just to keep it from escaping.

You can’t stay here.

You throw on your boots, grab your jacket, and slip out into the cold. The night air knifes into your lungs, sharp and unforgiving. You don’t care.

You walk without thinking, cutting behind the supply shed, leaning your weight against the rough fence hidden deep in the shadows. You tilt your head back, letting the cold press against you. Trying to bleach the dream out of your skin.

Footsteps.

You stiffen. Half-expecting Ymir’s swagger. Maybe Annie’s slow, heavy tread. Maybe even hoping.

But when you open your eyes, it’s Krista.

She pauses when she sees you, concern knitting her brows together.

“Hey,” she says, soft and steady, stepping closer. “You okay?”

For some reason—maybe the late hour, maybe the splinters of the dream still lodged under your skin—you don’t lie.

You don’t deflect.

You just exhale, sharp and shaky, and say,

“I had a dream.”

Krista leans her hip against the fence next to you. Close enough to feel, but not smothering. Space without distance.

“What kind of dream?” she asks, voice careful. Gentle without being fragile.

You stare at a knot in the wood, your throat working around the words. They taste like shame. But you say them anyway.

“It was… about Reiner,” you admit, low and halting. “And it wasn’t bad. It should’ve been. It should’ve scared me. Or pissed me off. But… I didn’t want to wake up.”

Krista pauses, processing this. A slight frown creases her forehead. “So… it was a good dream, then? But it felt weird?” She pauses a half a second, then adds, “Even though it was about Reiner.”

You nod slowly, shifting uncomfortably. Her question cuts closer to what you feel than you’re ready for.

“Yeah, it was… good. But it still weird.” You shake your head like you’re trying to get the memory to make sense. “Because I don’t even…” You trail off, searching for the right word. “I don’t even like Reiner.” You insist, but there’s something about the way you say it. It feels like you’re arguing with yourself more than her.

Krista doesn’t rush you. She just listens, her silence warm and heavy and real.

Finally, she says, “You don’t seem to sure. it’s more like you’re trying to convince you’re self.” Her voice is soft, but firm like the ground under your feet.

You want to protest, but you let the silence grow. Her words feel like a finger slowly tracing every crack in your walls. And she’s right. And you hate it.

“Dreams pull things out of us we’re too afraid to say out loud,” Krista continues. “It doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong. It just means you’re feeling something real.”

You press the heel of your hand against your forehead. Feeling suddenly too seen. You feel your bottom lip begin to quiver, but you quickly push the instinct to let your emotions flow.

Krista smiles gently, a little sad, a little knowing.

“Reiner’s not easy to read,” she says, shrugging. “But you don’t have to decide anything right now. You’re allowed to be confused. You’re allowed to want something and be scared of it at the same time.”

You blink hard, and something loosens in your chest. Something painful, maybe even relieving. Almost a breath again.

Krista nudges your shoulder lightly, conspiratorial.

“And hey, if he’s stupid about it, you’ve got me. And Ymir. And probably half the regiment ready to knock some sense into him.”

A huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it.

Small. Grateful.

Something lighter than guilt.

Krista grins and straightens up, offering you her hand.

“Come on. You’ll freeze out here.”

You take it.

As you walk back toward the barracks, her hand steady in yours, you feel the confusion still coiled under your ribs, but also something else. Something quieter. Something not so lonely.

Chapter Text

You’re on lunch duty. Not the glamorous kind. The peeling-potatoes, boiling-gruel, sweat-down-your-back kind.

A rotating punishment disguised as a team-building exercise.

The kitchen is a mess of noise; chatter, clattering cheap metal utensils, the wet thud of knives on cutting boards. And somewhere near the stove, Armin’s trying to explain soup ratios to Connie like he’s teaching physics to a particularly stubborn wall.

You’re hunched over a battered wooden prep table with a paring knife, a half-peeled potato, and far too much on your mind.

Reiner. The dream. The way he’d said your name like it mattered. Like you mattered.

You slice, mechanically at first, until the rhythm dulls your thoughts.

But only a little.

Your grip tightens. Your mind slips.

The knife bites into your finger. A sharp little bloom of pain.

You hiss, jerking back on instinct.

Connie looks up from his butchered carrots. “You good?”

“Fine,” you mutter, clutching your hand. “Just stupid.”

But even as you say it, you feel it. The heat. The low, steady burn at your knuckle. That telltale prickle.

Steam.

Already starting to curl at the edges of the cut. No. No, no— Too fast. Too visible.

Before you can panic, a hand closes around your wrist.

Ymir.

“Hey, Connie, can you take over chopping for her?” she says casually, already tugging you toward the door.

“Wait, what? From a finger cut?” Connie blinks.

“Have you seen how much blood she loses in battle? Girl runs out like a faucet. This is normal.”

Ymir doesn’t wait for a response. She drags you out the back door at a pace that means she’s not joking.

The sunlight outside is brutal after the dim kitchen, baking the gravel into a blinding sheet. You stumble, still holding your hand tight to your chest.

The second you’re in the clear, Ymir spins on you.

“Show me.”

You do.

The cut is almost gone. Just a faint red seam where the knife had caught you. Already fading.

Ymir exhales hard, dragging a hand over her face.

“You’ve gotta be more careful, Prism,” she says. Her voice low, tense. “You can’t let people see this stuff happen. Not here.”

You scowl, curling your hand into a fist. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Exactly,” she snaps, sharper than you’re used to hearing from her. “You don’t get to stop thinking. Not when one slip like that could give everything away.”

You stare down at the scar line vanishing against your skin. It didn’t even sting.

“…I didn’t think it would heal that fast,” you murmur. “Didn’t know it would steam.”

“It always does,” Ymir says, voice cutting off a sigh. “Smaller cuts? They’ll still heal quick unless you control it. You can stop it, but it takes practice. Like breathing through a cramp or holding a scream in your throat. You can slow it down if you know how.”

You glance at your hand again. Flex your fingers. It looks normal. Too normal. Like nothing happened at all.

And that’s the problem.

“I don’t wanna have to train anything that has to do with titan abilities,” you say quietly. “I wanna stay as normal as I can.”

Ymir’s eyes narrow slightly, sharp with something that’s not quite anger. “You’re already not normal,” she says, voice even. “You don’t get to pretend that line hasn’t been crossed.”

You don’t answer. Not right away.

Because you don’t want to be reminded of the line. Of how close it’s gotten. Of how easily your body had listened to something that isn’t entirely yours anymore.

You reach for the chain at your neck instead. Fiddle with it. Pull it tight like a grounding wire.

“I don’t want to stop being human just to survive,” you say.

Ymir’s face softens, just a little.

“Too late for that,” she says softly. “But that doesn’t mean you stop being you.”

You swallow hard. The air feels too thin all of a sudden. Too bright against your skin.

Ymir claps a hand on your shoulder, solid and unceremonious. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get back before Armin burns the pot.”

You’re elbow-deep in potato skins when someone taps you, hard, on the shoulder. You turn, already tense.

A sergeant.

“Message for you,” he says. “From Captain Levi. He wants to see you.”

You stiffen. Every nerve in your body shrills bad, bad, bad.

You nod stiffly as you wipe your hands on your apron. Your stomach’s already halfway to your boots. The whole walk across HQ feels like marching toward a firing squad.

They know. They have to know.

You’re about to get dragged into whatever they’re doing to Eren. Experimenting. Interrogating. Dissecting.

You’re taken to a building you don’t recognize—tall stone, quiet halls. Probably where the higher-ups hold their oh-so-secret meetings.

Your boots scrape against the cold floor. Your mouth is dry. You almost turn back twice.

But you don’t.

You find the door. You knock once.

“Come in,” Levi’s voice calls from the other side.

You push it open and freeze.

Not just Levi. Hange.

Relief hits so hard you almost sag against the frame. You’re not in trouble. Not like that, anyway.

But it’s immediately followed by irritation.

Family shit. Of course.

Levi’s the first to speak, arms crossed, tone flatter than the floor. “I’ve been informed about your… familiar ties.”

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. Want me to knit a family tree for you too?”

Levi stares at you for a beat too long. It’s like being skinned alive, slowly, with no anesthetic.

“You don’t have to like it,” he says. “But Hange’s still your superior officer. Act like it.”

He pushes off the wall, strides past you, and shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

You and Hange are alone.

And suddenly the room feels too small. Too bright. Too much.

You shift your weight awkwardly. Cross your arms. Uncross them.

“So,” you say. Your voice has a little bite. “This is cozy.”

Hange chuckles under their breath, a little sheepish. “I figured it was time we talked properly.”

You shrug. Noncommittal. Guarded.

Hange tilts their head, studying you the way people study wounded animals they’re not sure won’t bite.

“How’s the Scout Regiment treating you?”

You blow out a breath.

“It’s… fine. Same as everyone else. Bleeding, sweating, trying not to die. You know. The dream.”

They smile, but it doesn’t reach all the way up. It lands soft. Almost sad.

“Yeah,” they say quietly. “I know.”

A silence stretches between you. Heavy. Expectant. You break eye contact. Look at the floor. The wall. Anywhere but them.

Hange shifts, leaning against the table behind them. “You remind me of your father, you know.” Their voice is quieter now. “Stubborn. Sharp. Always thinking a hundred steps ahead, even when you’re pretending not to care.”

Your jaw tightens.

You don’t want this. You don’t want anything from them.

You shrug again. Sharper. Meaner.

“Guess it runs in the blood.”

Hange sighs. Like they know they’re losing you but can’t stop trying.

“I’m not trying to replace anything,” they say. “I just… I missed a lot. I don’t want to miss any more.”

The words scrape something raw inside you.

You clamp it down. Fast.

You shift toward the door. The conversation burning a hole in your back.

“Are we done?” Your voice is low. Flat.

Hange nods.

But just as your fingers brush the handle—

“I’m sorry,” they say.

You pause.

You don’t turn. Don’t give them that.

You swallow. Your throat feels like it’s full of gravel.

“Thanks for your apology.”

It’s not forgiveness. But it’s something.

A sliver. Carved out of the wreckage.

You leave before you can second-guess it.

Evening folds over the stables in a hush. Sunlight filters through the slats in the wall, golden and soft, catching in Honey’s mane as you run a brush gently down her side.

She nickers when you pause too long, her tail flicking. You chuckle under your breath and lean in to press your forehead lightly against her neck.

“You’d never throw me out,” you murmur. “Even if I did turn out like them.”

Your voice is barely more than breath.

You’re not even sure who you’re talking to—Honey, your father, the ghost of the person you used to be.

“Still me. Still me,” you whisper, like if you say it enough, it’ll become true again.

A silence answers. But not a lonely one.

Boots crunch behind you.

You don’t turn right away.

“Didn’t know we were doing monologues now,” Ymir says.

You turn your head just enough to see her leaning lazily against the stable post, arms folded. Her smirk is there, but muted. The edge dulled.

“Giving your horse a name like Honey is kinda ironic, don’t you think?” she adds, nodding toward the animal.

You snort, half-amused, half-exhausted.

“What, you think I can’t be sweet?”

“I think if you tried, it’d end up more sour than sweet,” Ymir says, pushing off the post and walking closer.

Honey huffs as Ymir steps into the stall. You keep brushing. Neither of you says anything for a while.

Eventually, you swallow and speak—quiet, but certain.

“You said I could learn to slow it down.”

You still don’t look at her. “Can you show me?”

Ymir doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t joke.

She just nods once.

“Yeah. I can. But not here.”

You follow her.

Through the rear gate of the stables, across a patch of old pasture, into a grove where the trees hang low and the light is thinner. The quiet here feels insulated—thicker.

“Start with breath,” Ymir says, dropping into a crouch. “Not the kind they make you do in training. Not ‘combat breath.’ Something deeper. Slower. Like pulling yourself back from the edge of a cliff.”

You copy her. Knees bent, spine curled a little.

Inhale. Count to four.

Exhale. Try not to think about bleeding.

The ache in your chest—the tight, high-up kind—eases just a little.

Ymir pulls a short blade from the side of her boot. Her voice stays calm.

“Let’s test it.”

You flinch before she even moves.

“I’m not gonna flay you, Prism. Just trust me.” The cut she makes is shallow—a thin, diagonal line across the back of your forearm.

You hiss through your teeth.

“Ow. That hurts.”

“Just because you regenerate at stupid speeds doesn’t mean you’re immune to pain.”

You watch as your skin reacts. Too fast. The red line starts steaming, curling smoke like a match strike.

“Don’t force it to stop,” Ymir says, tone even. “Just… hold it. Let it sit. Let your body remember it’s allowed to bleed.”

You breathe in. Out.

Watch the steam slow.

“Not enough. You’ve gotta focus on not healing, not just staying calm.”

She taps her chin.

“You know how you hold back a sneeze? Like your whole body wants to do it, but you clench something inside? That’s what this is.”

You frown.

“I’m trying. It’s-”

“Hard,” Ymir finishes. “I know.”

You try again, The steam stops. Not all the way, but enough that you notice. It’s still there, but it doesn’t rush.

“Good. Do it again.”

She cuts again. Palm, this time. Then elbow. Knuckles.

Each one small. Each one its own lesson.

You don’t stop them from healing. You delay them.

Your skin listens, hesitantly, but it listens.

“You’re not learning how to be a monster,” Ymir says, voice quieter now. More grounded. “You’re learning how to stay in control.”

You stare down at your hand. The latest cut closes too fast. You grit your teeth. Fight it. Push back with something you can’t name.

It hurts, but it’s not the cut, it’s the resisting.

“Same thing, isn’t it?” you whisper. “Control. Monster. The difference is just who’s looking.”

Ymir’s expression shifts, just enough.

“That’s not true,” she says. “Monsters don’t care about control. You do.”

You don’t answer. You just look down at your palm. The seam of the cut is nearly gone. Faint and pink. Like it was never there.

You press your hand flat against the wooden fence beside you. It’s solid. Splintered. Real. You close your eyes.

Breathe. “I don’t want it,” you say, voice low.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to need to know how to do this.”

“I know that, too.”

“I don’t wanna be scared of it anymore,” you murmur.

Ymir watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re getting there,” she says.

You nod, just a little, It’s not peace. Not yet. But it’s something.

Early morning. The yard is quiet, the sky still pale, smudged lilac and orange. You move on instinct. Drills. Footwork. Dodge, pivot, strike. Again. Again. Sweat beads under your collar in minutes. You welcome it. The sting in your muscles. The ache in your lungs. It’s something to focus on. Something to drown out the static.

Footsteps behind you. You don’t stop. Don’t even glance over your shoulder.

“Took you long enough, Annie. Thought you-”

You turn mid-step.

It’s not Annie.

Reiner stands a few feet off, arms crossed over his chest, golden hair shining in the morning light. His brow lifts slightly.

“Didn’t know I looked that tired.”

You blink. The words stick a little. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” His tone is dry, but there’s a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth. A hint of something warmer than you’re used to.

He glances around the empty yard. “You always train this early?”

You nod, swiping your forearm across your brow. “Usually with Annie. Helps clear my head before the day starts.”

Reiner tilts his head, studying you. “You two… friends?”

You pause. Consider. “Not sure I’d say friends. More like… two people existing in the same space.”

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Sounds cozy.”

You arch a brow. “Mind if I train, or are you just here to give unqualified relationship advice?”

“Actually,” he says, stepping forward, “I was gonna ask if I could join.”

You hesitate, but just a second. “Sure. Don’t slow me down.”

“I won’t.”

He doesn’t.

You fall into rhythm faster than you expect. Reiner’s surprisingly light on his feet for someone who could probably break boulders with his fists. He keeps pace. He doesn’t talk too much.

He starts to point things out—quiet, firm corrections. The angle of your pivot. The drop in your shoulder. His hand brushes your wrist once to steady it, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

“Don’t overextend,” he murmurs. “You’re fast, but your center’s all over the place.”

You scowl. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Coach.”

But you don’t move away when he steps behind you.

Hands on your shoulders. Warm. Steady. He adjusts your posture slightly. Just a shift. Just enough. Then, his palms slide to your hips, grounding you there. Not rough, but not necessarily soft either.

“Here,” he says, close to your ear. “Square up. You’re leaving your whole left side open.”

Your breath catches. Something flutters violently in your chest. Stupid. Unwanted.

You stiffen, but nod. “Okay.” You shake it off, or you try to.

You spar again. This time with purpose. Faster. Sharper.

He drives you back with a feint and a sharp step in. His foot hooks behind your heel, his shoulder knocks into your ribs—and you fall.

But you twist.

Reflex takes over. You swing your legs, grab momentum, and shift your weight.

In a blink, you’re on top of him, knees locked against his sides, hands braced against his chest.

You both freeze. Breathing hard. Staring.

You’re close. Too close. His chest rises beneath your palms. His hands hover, not touching, but close enough to feel. Your heart is hammering. You don’t know if it’s adrenaline or-

“Oh, wow.”

Ymir’s voice cuts in like a guillotine.

You jolt like you’ve been slapped. Reiner stiffens beneath you.

You twist your head, Ymir’s leaning against the fence like she’s been watching for hours, grinning ear to ear. Arms crossed, one brow lifted.

Behind her, Annie looks vaguely annoyed, like you’ve wasted her time by being human.

Mikasa just blinks. Stone-faced. Neutral.

“Should we give you two a tent, or…?”

You scramble to your feet so fast you nearly trip over your legs.

Reiner coughs, awkward, brushing dirt from his back.

“It’s not what it looked like,” you mutter quickly, voice tight with mortification.

“Uh-huh,” Ymir says, slow and smug. “Sure.”

Reiner clears his throat, glancing down. “Back to training?”

“No,” you snap, already turning. “Breakfast.”

Ymir jogs after you, still cackling.

“Mounting technique was solid, though. Ten outta ten.”

Breakfast is too quiet. Suspiciously quiet. You, Reiner, Ymir, Annie, and Mikasa sit clustered at the end of the mess hall table like five ghosts pretending to be alive.

The only sounds are the metallic clink of cutlery, Sasha chewing like she hasn’t eaten in a month, and your own heartbeat, louder than it should be.

You don’t look at Reiner. Reiner doesn’t look at you. Ymir looks at both of you, with all the smugness of someone who’s already decided on your wedding colors.

The tension is thick. It pulses beneath the table like a second heartbeat. Everyone can feel it. No one dares mention it.

Until—

“Alright,” Connie finally blurts, breaking the silence like a cracked plate. “Who did something they weren’t supposed to?”

Ymir hums, slow and wolfish. “More like someone.”

You kick her under the table.

Not hard. Just enough to say: Shut up before I end you.

She yelps anyway, milking it.

“No, yeah,” Sasha chimes in around a mouthful of bread. “You guys have been acting weird. Not you two—”

She waves vaguely at Mikasa and Annie.

“—but you three.” Her spoon lifts like a loaded gun, pointing between you, Reiner, and Ymir.

A slow conspiracy is forming in her brain, and unfortunately, she’s not the only one catching on.

Reiner looks like he’s calculating the fastest route to the exit.

Ymir’s practically vibrating. Her grin could power the walls.

“Don’t tell me the walking color palette and Reiner finally got together,” Jean says, far too casually, like he’s announcing cloud coverage. He bites into his bread. “Called it. Eren, you owe me three dinners.”

The table explodes.

“What?!”

“Seriously?”

“No way!”

“Finally?”

Heat rushes to your face so fast it stings. You glance at Reiner. He’s wincing.

You snap before someone else can.

“Shut up. We were just sparring.”

Your voice is flat, sharp. A deadpan dagger.

The disappointment of the table the room is palpable. Groans rise like a wave crashing against your pride.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Reiner mutters beside you, dry—but with just enough of a lilt that you can feel the smirk in it.

“Wait.” Connie squints, suspicious. “What do you mean ‘just sparring’?”

Annie stands, completely unbothered, tray in hand like she’s delivering the evening news.

“Me, Mikasa, and Ymir found Rea sitting on top of Reiner this morning.”

Silence. Dead. Suffocating. Even Sasha stops chewing.

“Hold on,” she says slowly, placing her spoon down with reverence. “On top of him… how, exactly?”

You resist the urge to throw your head against the table.

“I pinned him.” You speak through gritted teeth. “We were sparring. They walked in at the worst possible moment.”

You don’t meet anyone’s eyes. You don’t even look at your plate. You just want to dissolve into it.

Jean whistles, low and impressed. “Damn. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Be honest,” Connie leans in, eyes wide, eyebrows waggling. “Did you let her, Reiner?”

Reiner sighs like a man who’s accepted his fate. “You’re all ridiculous,” he mutters, but it’s not annoyed—just tired. Fond, even.

He rises with his tray, ready to escape before anyone brings out a chalkboard and red string.

Ymir lifts her cup in mock salute. “To morning workouts. May they always be that eventful.”

You drop your face into your hands.

Someone claps. You don’t know who. You don’t care.

You’re never training before dawn again.

Chapter Text

The air in the courtyard unit is taut, waiting to snap.

Not the usual morning quiet—this one’s heavier. Sharper. The kind of silence that comes after something bad.

You’re near the supply shed, tightening the strap on your thigh harness, when the rest finally gather—Jean, Connie, Sasha, Mikasa, Ymir… even Annie, arms crossed, hovering like she might vanish if you look away for too long.

“They got Sonny and Bean,” you say flatly.

Connie’s brows crease. “Wait, what?”

“They’re dead.”

You don’t soften the blow. “The Titans Hange was researching. Someone killed them last night. Cut out the nape.”

That lands like a stone in water.

Faces shift—confusion, disbelief, something darker brewing underneath.

You exhale slowly, voice tightening with it. “We’ve been ordered to do a full ODM gear inspection. Captain Levi says if one of us is slacking, we’re all dead.”

No one argues. They don’t have to.

The silence agrees.

Later, during an unexpected briefing, you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with your squad, Reiner just a few seats down. The room’s dim, windowless, every breath wired with tension.

Erwin stands at the front, hands behind his back, voice cool and clear as steel.

“Eren Jaeger’s control has stabilized,” he says. “His next assignment is field-based.”

The room holds its breath.

“The operation to retake Wall Maria begins in seven days.”

Gasps ripple. Eyes widen. Jean mutters something under his breath that sounds like “no way.”

Some scouts look around with raw, wide-eyed hope.

Others—Annie included—don’t flinch at all.

You blink. Twice. Try to shake the weight from your brain.

The rest of the briefing blurs—formation routes, flares, fallback points, objectives. None of it sounds simple. None of it feels survivable.

But you nod anyway. Because what else is there to do?

Seven days.

Your chest tightens with the number. You’ve been on the walls. You know what’s out there.You know what you are. You know what you’re not supposed to be.

After dismissal, the squad breaks apart. Jean ranting about terrain logistics, Mikasa pulling Armin aside, Reiner heading off without a word.

You make a straight line for the stables.

“Just a quick check,” you mutter to yourself. “Never hurts to be sure.”

Honey lifts her head when you approach, ears twitching. You rub her snout, fingers trailing along the bridge of her nose. Her breath is warm. Familiar.

You check the saddle. Reins. Hoof wraps. All clean. Prepped. Perfect.

Still—

“You can never be too ready,” you whisper, brushing straw from her mane like it matters.

Footsteps behind you.

Not loud, but intentional.

“You’re restless,” Ymir says, leaning on the stable beam like she’s been there a while. “Takes one to know one.”

You glance over your shoulder. Shrug. “Figured I’d check on Honey. Clear my head.”

Ymir doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

There’s something unreadable in her eyes—too still.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this expedition.”

You pause. Straighten. “Bad how?”

She shifts her weight, arms folded tighter. “Don’t like how fast they’re moving. Or how Erwin skipped over details. Something’s off.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know something?”

Too long a pause. Then—“No. Just instinct.”

But it doesn’t sound like just anything.

She stays quiet for a beat. “I’m worried about you,” she says, voice lower now. “If something happens out there, you can’t shift. You can’t. No matter what.”

You blink, caught off guard. “We don’t even know if I can,” you say. “And I’ve been in danger before. I’ve never felt the urge.”

Ymir pushes off the beam like she can’t stay still anymore. Her voice sharpens.

“That doesn’t matter. You have to promise me. No shifting. Not once. Not even if you think it’ll save someone. Even if—”

She cuts herself off. Her jaw’s tight. Hands clenched.

You stare at her. She looks like she’s seen a future she’s trying to claw her way out of.

You nod, slowly. “Okay.”

“No.” She takes a step closer. “Say it.”

“…I promise.”

Only then does she back off. Only then does she breathe.

She turns without another word and walks away, her silhouette swallowed by the stable’s shadow.

You stand alone with Honey, the promise burning on your tongue.

A few minutes after Ymir disappears into the shadows, Reiner rounds the corner like he’d been waiting for just the right moment.

He doesn’t say hello. Just smirks like he always does when he’s trying to seem more casual than he feels.

“Ymir’s been rejected by you what—hundred times now?”

He leans against the wooden stall opposite Honey’s, arms crossed, shoulder braced like he belongs there.

You glance at him, smile faintly as you run your fingers through Honey’s mane. “Practically.”

A beat passes. Quiet stretches between you, but not the brittle kind. It’s soft around the edges.

Still, you feel his eyes on you. Not the way some people look—distant, or curious. Reiner watches like he’s memorizing. Like he’s trying to look at every pore on your face.

The weight of it settles on your shoulders like sunlight through a window: warm, steady, impossible to ignore.

“You have a major staring problem, my friend.”

“Do I?” he says, shifting his weight. A little caught. A little self-conscious.

“Yeah. But don’t worry.” You flash a crooked smile. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

He laughs—low and easy. Not loud. Not forced. It hums through the space like it’s needed there.

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s just there, you’ve gotten used to that, too.

After a moment, you say, “I thought about what you said last week.”

Reiner hums, a noncommittal sound. “I said a lot last week.”

“About Hange.”

He straightens slightly, the edge of his smirk fading. “Oh. Right.”

You don’t turn around. You keep your focus on the knot in Honey’s mane, fingers moving slower now. “I thought about it. And I’m still not sure what to do.”

Reiner doesn’t jump in with advice. He never does when you let the drawbridge down like this—rare, careful and temporary.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says eventually. “I’m just trying to see it from both sides. Hange’s family… yeah, they messed up. Their mistake caused problems for you, and maybe you’re not ready to let it go. That’s fair.”

You nod slightly, but your hands still.

“I don’t know all the details,” he adds, quieter now. “But it must’ve been bad if you’re still holding the grudge.”

You scoff under your breath. “Seems like you know a lot about betrayal.”

To you, it’s just a sarcastically tossed line, a reflexive jab, not meant to land.

But it does.

Reiner goes silent. Not in a defensive way, just still. The air changes. Thicker somehow. More aware.

“If I do try to reconnect with them,” you continue after a moment, voice softer, “how would I even go about it? We’re not exactly alike. Same reason my dad never really got along with them. They don’t think the way I do. And I don’t… speak their language.”

Reiner uncrosses his arms, shifting to face you more fully. “You do it in whatever way you can. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s one word. A nod. Just showing up.”

He pauses, then adds, “You don’t have to be like them. You just have to make the effort. Be honest.”

You nod slowly, not really seeing him—eyes somewhere far away. “I’m not good at that.”

“Being honest?”

You shake your head. “Being… open.”

Reiner breathes out a short laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

There’s a pause, and then—

“But hey, I mean, you have one thing in common. You’re both out here killing Titans.”

“Barely,” you mutter. “You should’ve read the letter I got after Sonny and Bean were killed. Could’ve sworn there were dried tear marks on the paper.”

Reiner makes a face like he’s been defeated. “Alright, I give up.” He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

But when his hands fall back to his sides, something lingers in his expression—something softer than usual. A quiet intensity that catches you off guard.

He’s not looking at you like a rival. Not like a sparring partner. He’s looking at you like he sees something real.

“Thank you,” you say suddenly.

It comes out easier than expected. Not reluctant. Not buried in sarcasm like it usually is. Just… real.

Reiner blinks. Then gives a small shrug, lips tilting into something gentler.

“Anytime.”

The quiet settles again, soft as dust in the stable air. Reiner doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift. You can tell he doesn’t want the moment to end, but he also doesn’t seem to know what to do with it.

“So, uh…” he starts, fidgeting slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “How’ve your morning workouts been going with Annie?”

You quirk an eyebrow, closing the gate to Honey’s stall with a low creak. “It’s been good. She still kicks my ass when we spar—but yeah, good.”

“She kicks everyone’s ass.” He grins faintly. “But you,” he gestures vaguely, eyes on you again. “You definitely seem like you’re improving. Not just with combat. You’ve seemed more focused lately.”

You pause, fingers brushing straw from your sleeve. That surprises you more than it should. “Oh really? You’ve noticed?”

He shrugs with a half-smile. “Like you said, I’ve got a staring problem.”

That earns a real laugh from you—short, involuntary, bright. Something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn with something unnameable. And maybe it’s the rush of it, the confidence creeping in uninvited, or maybe it’s just a lapse in judgment.

Because the next words slip out before you can stop them.

“Is that a problem you have for the whole corps or… just for me?”

The moment they leave your lips, your brain screams. You try to play it off—turning away, pretending to busy yourself with a bit of loose hay near your boot—but the silence that follows is damning. Loud, thick, and impossible to backpedal from.

You feel your cheeks burn, the heat crawling up your neck and into your ears.

No answer.

Just the sound of boots shifting over hay. A step. Then another.

You close your eyes, bracing, about to blurt some kind of damage control, but then you hear it.

A soft chuckle. Low, amused. Unbothered.

You exhale slowly, tension bleeding from your shoulders as he steps closer. You can feel it, the heat of him behind you, close enough that the back of your arm nearly brushes his chest. Close enough to feel his breath touch your skin like warmth from a campfire.

He doesn’t speak right away.

But when he does, his voice is low, rough around the edges, like he’s peeling it straight from the center of his chest. He leans down just slightly, enough that his lips are near your ear, and murmurs, “Does it matter?”

Your heart skips, races like a wild mouse darting through your ribs.

You whip around, brows drawing slightly together. You cross your arms—not defensively, but because you need something to hold onto, something to ground you.

You’ve never stood this close before. Not like this. Not with him looking at you like that.

You have to tilt your chin up just to meet his gaze, and it makes you suddenly hyperaware of how much bigger he is. Of how easily he could crowd you, pin you, undo you.

And maybe some foolish part of you wouldn’t mind.

“Should it matter?” you ask, voice low, steady.

It’s not a challenge. Not really. But you refuse to look away first.

Something flickers in his eyes then. Like the flash of a match in the dark. His voice comes like a rumble, like gravel breaking open beneath a heavy truth.

“It could.”

Your heart stammers.

Panic and hope wrestling inside your chest.

Your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “Are you gonna let it?”

You don’t mean for the words to sound so vulnerable, so raw. But they come out that way anyway. Quiet and questioning and completely unarmored. For a split second, your gaze drops to his mouth, just a second too long, and then you snap back up, heat flooding your cheeks again.

Reiner’s jaw tightens. His expression shifts like something inside him just cracked—like some gear in his chest is grinding the wrong way. He looks at you like he wants to say something, like he needs to.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows. Then speaks softly, like it hurts to say the words. “I probably shouldn’t.”

It doesn’t sound like the truth. Not really. It sounds like something he’s repeating from someone else’s mouth. Something he was told. Something expected.

Not something he wants.

He lingers for half a second longer—just long enough for you to think maybe he’ll change his mind.

But then he turns.

And walks away.

Each step is steady, purposeful… but heavy. Like he’s dragging something with him. Like leaving costs him more than staying would.

You stay where you are, fingers curling gently into the hem of your shirt.

Your chest still buzzing with the echo of him.

And the worst part is—you already miss him.

And that terrifies you more than anything else.

It starts subtly.

You don’t notice right away—at least, not consciously.

But Reiner’s absence creeps in like a draft under a door. Not at lunch. Not in the gear shed. Not at training or roll call. No eye contact across the sparring ring. No quiet shoulder brushes when you both reach for a ladle in the mess hall.

By the third day, the quiet becomes deafening.

A Reiner-shaped space follows you around like a missing tooth. one you can’t stop tonguing.

You’re jumpier than usual. Sloppier. Not enough to raise eyebrows from the instructors. But enough that the people who actually know you, the ones who care, notice.

Ymir eyes you from across the dinner table, spoon half-raised, frozen in mid-motion.

Krista glances between you both, her concern soft and well-worn like a favorite blanket.

Jean makes a joke that doesn’t land.

Connie shrugs it off.

But the knot in your stomach keeps twisting tighter. Coiling. Sharpening.

It happens after morning cleanup. You’re walking toward the barracks alone, the smell of saddle oil and cold dirt still clinging to your clothes, when a shadow peels itself off the side of the barn.

“Well, well,” Ymir drawls as she falls into step beside you, her hands in her pockets and a lopsided grin playing on her lips. “You’ve been mopey as hell. Got kicked by Honey or something?”

You keep walking. Don’t answer.

Krista trails just behind her, expression apologetic, not complicit. “We just… noticed you’ve seemed kind of off lately.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

Ymir snorts, slow and derisive. “She says with the exact tone of someone ghosted by a guy with a jawline sharper than ODM blades.”

You stop.

“Ymir.”

“No, seriously.” Her grin falters, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You and Reiner have been circling each other for weeks. Then poof, he’s gone. Classic. You really gonna let that slide?”

“I’m not—” You falter. Your hands ball into fists at your sides. “It’s not like that.”

Krista doesn’t speak. Just carefully watches, like she’s waiting to catch the pieces when you break.

Ymir’s gaze stays locked on yours. Sharp. Knowing. Too sharp.

“Guys like him?” she says, her voice quieter now but laced with something bitter. “They feed you a fantasy they know you’ll take. Stoic. Loyal. Safe. Except none of it’s real. It’s armor. You get close, and then they slam the door shut.”

You stiffen. It hits harder than it should. “You don’t know what this is, and it isn’t what you’re thinking.”

She doesn’t blink. “No. You don’t know what it is.”

There’s something behind her words. Something darker than teasing. But she reins it in with a scoff and a casual toss of her head.

“But go ahead. Be my guest, prove me wrong.”

Krista steps forward, her hand brushing your elbow in a peacekeeping gesture. “I think what Ymir’s trying to say is… just be careful. You’ve been through enough. You don’t have to let someone in just because they almost see you.”

You bristle. Your lips press into a tight line.

“I’m not doing this again. Not after Sheamus.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

And the silence it leaves in its wake is immediate.

Krista looks down.

Ymir’s jaw tightens like she’s chewing back something angry.

You shake your head, already regretting it. “You think I don’t know about the façade guys put on? I know it’s all performative. But it’s not like that this time. I’m not getting pulled in again. Okay?”

But the doubt is already there. A hairline fracture splintering beneath your ribs.

Ymir and Krista exchange one last look before Krista steps closer, laying a hand gently on your shoulder.

“We just don’t want to see you hurting again,” she says, her voice warm with that stubborn patience of hers.

“And I don’t want another suspension and week-long cleaning duty when you inevitably punch someone,” Ymir adds, her smirk returning—almost—but the edge still lingers in her eyes.

You let out a breath. Almost laugh. The tension drains slightly from your shoulders.

“I know you guys care for me, but I promise—Reiner and I weren’t anything. Aren’t anything.”

The lie sounds flimsier when you say it out loud. But no one calls you on it.

Later that day, you’re elbows-deep in supply checks—coils of wire, spare buckles, metal fittings. You’ve counted the same set of straps three times already and still can’t remember the number.

Then you feel it.

The quiet shift of weight behind you. Like a wolf stalking prey.

Annie.

“Missing a count?” she asks flatly.

You don’t look up. “No. Just focused.”

“You sure?”

You glance over your shoulder. She’s standing there with her arms crossed, eyes unreadable but locked onto you like she’s hunting something.

“What?”

“Is this some kind of game to you?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

She steps forward. There’s no emotion in her face, but the tension in her jaw speaks louder. “With Reiner.”

You feel your stomach drop.

“Are you serious?”

Annie’s eyes narrow, colder now. “I’ve seen the way he watches you. Like he’s waiting on you. And you?” She tilts her head, gaze burning. “You’ve been reckless. Soft. Distracted. If this is some kind of stupid crush, cut it off now.”

You scoff, shocked, and a confused laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. “It’s none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Her voice lowers, sharp as wire. “He’s not just some guy with good instincts. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

There’s something in her tone.

Not warning you off because of jealousy.

Not out of spite.

Like she knows more. Like she’s not just talking about you.

You step forward, closing the gap between you. “So what, you think I’m a liability now?”

Annie doesn’t flinch. “I think you’re not thinking straight.”

The air between you tightens. The kind of stillness that trembles on the edge of a shove. A snap. A punch thrown too close to bone.

But it doesn’t come.

Annie straightens instead. Her expression shutters back into its usual stone.

She turns.

“Get your head on straight,” she says over her shoulder. “Before it costs more than just you.”

Then she’s gone, footsteps silent.

Leaving you alone.

Surrounded by ropes. Metal. And far too many questions.

Questions you weren’t supposed to ask.

Questions no one is supposed to answer.

Classic.

Chapter Text

It’s three days until the operation to retake Wall Maria. Three days until Eren risks everything on some new Titan power no one fully understands. Three days until the next inevitable bloodbath.

You’ve gotten good at dodging Reiner.

Not just physically, though you’ve perfected the subtle art of ducking out of the mess hall line just in time, but emotionally, too. You’ve stopped wondering where he is. Stopped counting the hours since he last looked at you like he meant it. You’ve convinced yourself it doesn’t matter.

It works.

Until it doesn’t.

Ymir notices. Of course she does.

You’re brushing hay off your sleeves outside the stables, the sun just beginning to set in a pale orange haze, when she corners you by the troughs like a nosy older sibling with a death wish.

“You’re acting like a kicked dog again,” she says, arms crossed. “What gives?”

You don’t even look at her. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit again,” she snaps, sharp and unrelenting. “You’ve been tight-lipped and sulky ever since Big and Broody started ghosting you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the change in your eating habits either.”

“I said I’m fine,” you bite out, louder than you meant.

Ymir doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. “You think this makes you look strong? This isn’t strength, Prism. This is you being scared.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

Your mouth moves before your brain can stop it. “I don’t need you bossing me around like I asked for it. Just because you know about the Titan thing doesn’t mean you get to play life coach every time I flinch. Stop acting like you’re my older sister!”

Silence.

Ymir freezes. Her face shutters. And suddenly, you feel like you’ve kicked a pressure plate you didn’t know was there.

Regret hits, late and heavy. “I didn’t mean—” You rub your eyes, your voice cracking. “I just… I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? Everything feels like it’s spinning out of control. I just want things to be simple again.”

Ymir doesn’t touch you. Just listens.

“I’m tired of losing people,” you say quietly. “I still see Elias and Freya when I sleep. Hange… they don’t feel like family anymore. And Reiner, he’s like… he’s like everything solid, and then suddenly he’s gone, and I feel stupid for even caring.”

Ymir exhales, slow and low. “I get it,” she says softly.

You look up.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” she admits. “But dying meaningless? Without having done something that mattered? That scares the hell out of me. But my biggest fear? It’s Krista sacrificing herself for me. She’s so stupidly selfless, she’ll run into a burning building with a smile.”

You stare at each other for a long moment, the fire in your chest finally cooling.

“Maybe you do need someone else’s perspective,” Ymir adds, her voice gentler now. “Someone who won’t be biased.”

You knock twice on the door to Hange’s office.

They look up, startled. “Kid?”

You shift awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

Hange stands so quickly their chair squeaks. They pull out a second chair with too much urgency. “Come in. Sit. Sorry, I was in the middle of paperwork.”

“What kind?” you ask, searching for something neutral.

“Oh. Uh. Confidential.”

“Oh.”

The silence is… dense. You hate it.

“Look,” you finally blurt, “I know we’ve had our differences and mistakes were made. But you’re one of the only family members I have left.”

“Kid, I—”

“I don’t want apologies. Or guilt speeches. I’m not here for Commander Hange. I’m here for Han. My aunt Han.”

That stops them. They blink behind their glasses, then nod slowly. “Alright. I can do that.”

You fidget. “Okay… I have boy issues.”

A pause. Then Hange’s mouth twitches. “Boy issues. Wow. That’s… not the icebreaker I expected, but okay. Please. Continue.”

You do. Hesitantly at first. Then all at once.

“In early scout training, I met a guy. Sheamus, a bit older. I thought it was love. I was naïve. I was manipulated. No one knew—not my friends, not my instructors. He kept it secret, and he got mad when I so much as looked at him in public. It was mostly emotional and verbal abuse. We were both smart enough to not let it get physical.”

Hange listens without interrupting, face unreadable.

“You’re speaking in past tense. I’m assuming this isn’t ongoing?”

You shake your head. “No. I ended it in our second year—with Ymir and Krista’s help. I finally grew the balls to tell them. They confronted him for me because I couldn’t.”

You swallow. “It was quiet for a while. Then one day he cornered me when it was just me and Krista. I guess he was too scared to try anything in front of Ymir. He got physical. Krista tried to help and got hurt. So I punched him. Hard. Kicked him too. He got suspended for a week.”

You pause. “But Ymir heard what happened. She lost it. Beat the hell out of him when he came back. She got suspended. Cleaning duty. Eventually, after we told Shadis the full story, Sheamus left the Scouts. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Hange asks, calm, but with an edge.

“Somewhere far. Doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

Silence again.

“So,” Hange says carefully, “if that’s done… what’s the problem now?”

You hesitate. Then: “There’s… someone else. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Hange lifts a brow. “Okay. Start from the top.”

“From the beginning of training, I’d catch him looking at me. But when I was with Sheamus, it stopped. After Sheamus, it started again. We didn’t talk for a long time. Just glared. Rivals. I hated him.”

You breathe. “Then we started getting paired up. Coincidentally, at first. We stopped hating each other. Became… friends. Everyone joked it was more. We brushed it off. No big deal. But eventually, something shifted. There was this one time the teasing got too real and—yeah. I started wondering.”

You look down. “There’ve been times we’ve saved each other. He’d say these things that made me feel like he’d tear down the world to keep me safe. And the other day…”

You trail off, then smile faintly. “The other day, we had a moment. At least I thought we did. He was so close. It felt like standing in front of a giant brown bear. Warm. Intense. I was scared and thrilled all at once. Like something was about to change.”

Your smile fades. “Then I said something—something wrong. I don’t even know what. And he left. He’s been avoiding me ever since. And I’ve been avoiding him too.”

Hange leans forward. “Does this boy have a name?”

You swallow. “Reiner Braun.”

Hange exhales like someone just hit a nerve and pinches the bridge of their nose. “Of course it’s Reiner Braun.”

You scowl. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking! I’m processing,” they say, hands up in surrender. Then their voice softens. “Alright. Here’s my read: You’re scared. For good reason. Because Sheamus taught you not to trust what feels good. Reiner’s scared too—for reasons I can’t guess. And now you’ve gone from enemies to friends to something neither of you knows how to name. It’s giving you both emotional vertigo.”

You stare, speechless.

“You like him,” Hange says plainly. “And he likes you. But neither of you know what the hell to do about it.”

You sit there, stunned, like they’ve just held up a mirror to all the mess inside you.

“As your section commander, I can’t exactly encourage this,” Hange continues. “Too many distractions. Too many risks. But as your aunt? If he makes you feel seen, and safe, and like maybe you’re not entirely alone in this garbage fire of a world—then maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You nod. Just a little. But something inside you feels a little lighter.

Hange leans back, smile tired but real. “Just don’t let this be another experiment you never run.”

You smile. “Thanks, Hange. I should probably head back before someone thinks I’ve defected.”

Hange nods, watching you go.

You close the door behind you. Pause. The hallway’s quiet.

You don’t know if you feel better or worse.

But something’s changed.

And damn it… you might actually want to see him again.

The barracks are dim when you push the door open, the last scraps of daylight bleeding through the windows. The air smells faintly of polish and old wood. Most bunks are empty—everyone’s either at dinner or cleaning gear for tomorrow’s drills.

You freeze halfway through the doorway.

Annie’s crouched by her bed, methodically packing a worn satchel. No wasted movements. Just quiet, deliberate folding.

“Annie?” Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. “What are you doing?”

She doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even look up. Just glances at you over her shoulder for a second before returning to her bag like you’re a passing breeze.

“Hey.” You step closer, reaching out. You grip her shoulder lightly—not rough, just enough to turn her around.

Her hand snaps up and grabs your arm before you can even react. The speed makes your heart lurch. You brace for her to twist, shove, break—something.

But she doesn’t.

She lets go slowly, eyes unreadable.

“I’m leaving the 104th,” she says, voice level. “Joining the Military Police.”

You blink. “You’re what?”

“I’ve been offered a position. I’m taking it.”

It’s so casual, like she’s telling you her coffee order.

“You can’t be serious.” Your voice rises. “What about your friends? You’re just gonna walk away when we need you most?”

Annie stills, her hand hovering over the buckle of her satchel. There’s a pause that feels heavier than it should.

“Listen,” she says finally, her tone soft but firm, carrying an edge of something you’ve never heard from her—concern. “You need to grow up. Realize things aren’t going to be the way you want them to be. Some things are just… out of your control. If you don’t figure that out soon, your whole world is gonna crumble.”

The words land like stones in your chest.

You just stand there, mouth slightly open, no sound coming out.

Annie slings the strap over her shoulder. Her boots thud softly against the floorboards as she walks past you. For a split second, you think she’ll shoulder-check you like she always does. But she sidesteps instead, avoiding even the brush of contact.

You’re back-to-back when she stops.

“Don’t let people control what they can’t understand,” she says, voice low but clear.

And then she keeps walking.

You don’t turn around right away. You wait. One second. Two.

When you finally do, the room is empty. Annie’s gone.

Your brows knit together, heart still thudding.

“…What the hell is she talking about?”

The chill of the barracks wakes you before the sun does. It seeps through the thin blanket like cold fingers, dragging you out of the shallow sleep you barely managed. For a long moment, you just stare at the wooden ceiling above you, your breath clouding faintly in the dim light.

The day is here.

Your body feels heavy as you sit up, but your mind is already somewhere else—half-hoping, half-dreading the sound of boots coming down the hallway. Heavy steps, confident, familiar. Maybe he’d come to talk. Maybe to apologize. Maybe just to argue again, the way he always did when words failed him.

Anything would be better than this silence.

You pull on your uniform piece by piece, fingers working automatically—shirt, belts, jacket, the small motions of preparation that you’ve done a hundred times. But every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the door, expectant. Waiting. Hoping.

He doesn’t come.

Around you, the others are already stirring. The murmur of voices drifts through the room—half-hearted jokes, the rustle of straps being tightened, the metallic clink of buckles and gear. You can hear Sasha complaining softly about the morning rations while Ymir tells her it’ll be better if this expedition is successful and they come back alive. No one laughs.

When you finally step outside, dawn is still just a faint gray on the horizon. The camp is alive with movement—horses stamping hooves against the frozen ground, steam rising from their muzzles as handlers tighten reins. Soldiers are running last-minute checks on their ODM gear, some with the sharp focus of experience, others with trembling hands that betray their nerves.

You spot Mikasa a short distance away, her red scarf stark against the pale morning light as she adjusts it with steady fingers. Armin paces nearby, lips moving as if rehearsing something only he can hear.

You drift toward them, grateful for familiar faces. “What do you think?” Your voice is quiet, uncertain even to your own ears. “About… all of this. The plan. Eren.”

Mikasa’s answer comes first, her gaze fixed ahead like the horizon owes her something. “We’ll succeed.” Her voice is as unshakable as stone. “We don’t have a choice.”

Armin hesitates. His blue eyes flick toward you, then down again. “I believe in him,” he says softly, almost as if he’s reminding himself. “In all of us. But…” His words trail off as he looks past you, toward the gate that waits like a gaping maw. “I can’t stop thinking about what’s waiting for us out there.”

Their words knot in your chest, heavy and tangled—hope and dread twisted too tightly to pull apart.

The call to mount up cuts through the noise like a blade.

You find Honey where she’s tethered, her dark coat glinting faintly in the cold light. She whickers softly when she sees you, nudging your shoulder as if she already knows. Your hand runs down her warm neck, fingers curling into her mane for just a second longer than necessary.

“You and me, girl,” you murmur, voice too low for anyone else to hear.

With practiced ease, you swing into the saddle. The world narrows to the feel of the reins in your hands, the creak of leather, the chill biting at your cheeks.

The formation begins to move.

Your eyes scan the camp one last time, foolishly hoping—just for a glimpse of blond hair, for the sound of his voice cutting through the morning air. Maybe he’d ride up behind you, say something—anything—to bridge the gulf that’s grown between you.

But Reiner isn’t there.

The gate groans as it opens.

Then hooves strike dirt, a steady thunder that swallows everything else.

You ride out with the others as the sun finally breaks over the horizon, painting the world gold and red—too beautiful for the day that waits ahead.

Reiner notices you the moment you step back into the courtyard. Your hair is a little mussed from the wind, and there’s a faint crease on your cheek where you must’ve rested your face in your hand. You’ve just come from Hange’s office—he knows that much.

A small flicker of pride hums through him, unbidden. You’ve always been bold, always willing to step into a room and get what you want. He’s seen it before, but with Hange, he knows that’s a soft spot. Yet, seeing you with you’re head held high makes him also want to stand tall.

But the moment doesn’t last.

“I’m packing my stuff.”

Annie’s voice cuts through the air, flat and cold. Reiner turns just in time to see her brushing past him, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“The change has already been approved,” she says, barely sparing him a glance. “Didn’t think you could pull it off.”

Her shoulder grazes his arm as she passes, but she doesn’t stop.

Reiner’s chest tightens. He freezes for a split second, jaw flexing, before instinct kicks in.

“Annie—”

He moves as if to follow, boots scuffing against the dirt, but a firm hand lands on his shoulder.

“Reiner.”

Bertholdt’s voice.

Reiner snaps his head around, glaring at him. “What the hell are you doing? Let me go.”

Bertholdt doesn’t flinch. His grip doesn’t waver. “We need to talk first.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Reiner jerks against his hold, frustration rising hot and fast. “I need to go after her.”

Bertholdt’s eyes narrow, something sharper than his usual hesitance flickering there. “And do what?” he says, voice low but steady. “Tell her not to go on the mission tomorrow because Annie is going to turn into a Titan and possibly kill her?”

The words land like a blow.

Reiner flinches, the fight bleeding out of him all at once. He looks away, jaw tight, throat working.

Because Bertholdt is right.

And it makes him sick.

Bertholdt’s grip eases, but his hand stays on Reiner’s shoulder, grounding him. His expression softens just slightly, sympathy flickering across his face.

“I know you care about her,” he says quietly. “But you can’t change anything right now. You just have to hope she’s smart enough not to try and fight Annie.”

Reiner’s hands curl into fists at his sides. He knows Bertholdt is right. He knows there’s nothing he can do. But the thought of you standing across from Annie tomorrow, unknowing, unprepared for what’s really coming twists in his gut like a knife.

Bertholdt’s voice softens further. “Trust her. She’s strong. She can handle herself.”

“I know she can,” Reiner mutters, staring down at his hands as they clench and unclench of their own accord. His voice is tight, low. “But it’s Annie I worry about. Her refusal to see her as anything different from the rest of them.”

Bertholdt’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I know,” he says quietly. “But we can’t change the way she thinks.”

Reiner nods stiffly, but the movement feels hollow.

Because knowing you’re strong doesn’t stop the fear. It doesn’t stop the guilt.

It doesn’t stop the image already forming in his mind—your face, twisted in shock and betrayal, when the truth finally comes out.

Chapter Text

You ride in formation, Honey’s hooves thudding steadily against the dry earth as the morning wind tugs at your cloak. Ahead, your unit captain, Anais Harper, guides her horse closer to yours. Her boots sit steady in the stirrups, posture as sharp as her voice. Dark hair is pulled into a tight braid that doesn’t sway even in the gusts.

“You, Robert, Alice, and Shawn are with me,” Anais orders, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Let’s get into position.”

You nod silently, adjusting your reins as Honey shifts beneath you. Out of the corner of your eye, Ymir is already smirking lazily from her saddle, like this is just another training drill. Alice rides beside her, quiet and tense, focus narrowed to the horizon. Krista—small, golden-haired Krista—sits a little too straight in her saddle, face set with determination that can’t quite mask the strain in her jaw.

The four of you fall into formation around Anais, horses weaving into a tight wedge as you approach the towering shadow of Wall Rose. Ahead, the Scouts are a restless sea of green cloaks, the Wings of Freedom snapping with each gust of wind.

The ground vibrates faintly beneath the thrum of hundreds of hooves. The only other sounds are the occasional whistle of wind or the distant cry of a bird.

The wall looms larger with every stride, its vast stone face blotting out the rising sun.

Erwin rides at the front, his posture straight, gaze locked on the gate ahead. He raises one arm—a single, sharp signal—and the Scouts begin to file through in a long, unbroken line.

One by one, they pass beyond the safety of the wall.

Your unit follows, hooves clattering on packed dirt as you ride under the massive open gate and out into Wall Maria’s expanse.

The change is immediate.

The air feels heavier. The silence deeper. The vast openness presses in from all sides, and even the wind seems sharper somehow.

The regiment spreads outward into its strict long-range formation, scouts branching into neat columns that stretch far across the grasslands. Your team holds position near the inner circle—the safest place, farthest from where Titans are most likely to appear.

Every so often, a green flare arcs high into the sky, its trail of smoke curling against the pale blue. Cleared areas. Proof, however brief, that the plan is working.

Anais rides at the front of your wedge, eyes constantly scanning the horizon, one hand always close to the hilt of her blades.

Then a red flare cuts across the sky.

Your heart sinks. “A red flare…” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

Anais twists in her saddle, eyes following the rising smoke. Her mouth hardens into a grim line. “Titan at the front,” she says sharply. “Everyone stay sharp. We’re in Titan territory now.”

Almost immediately, another red flare shoots up from the opposite direction.

“Damn,” Alice mutters, her voice tight.

Anais’s brows knit as she flicks her gaze from one flare to the other. “Looks like we’ve got Titans closing in from both sides…” Her voice dips as she calculates, tone steady despite the grimness. “We’re in a tight spot. Stay close. No one breaks formation.”

You lean forward slightly in the saddle, eyes scanning the barren horizon. “Commander Anais… if one of them comes for us, what are we supposed to do? ODM gear’s useless out here without trees or buildings.”

“Avoid engagement unless absolutely necessary,” Anais replies without hesitation. “Our mission is to protect the formation. We only fight if we’re attacked first. Understood?”

You swallow hard and nod, tightening your grip on the reins.

The group presses onward.

The steady clop of hooves against the parched earth grows deafening in the tense silence that follows. Every rider is stiff, shoulders tight, eyes darting ceaselessly across the open grasslands. There’s no cover here. No walls. No rooftops.

Nowhere to run if things go wrong.

The wind picks up, hissing through the tall grass like waves over a restless sea.

Then—

A faint vibration runs through the ground. A rhythm out of sync with the horses.

Shawn stiffens, head snapping toward the horizon. “You feel that?” he mutters.

Suddenly, a black flare arcs into the sky.

The trail of smoke spirals upward, dark and heavy against the bright blue morning.

Your whole body tenses, jaw clenching tight.

An abnormal? Already?

Anais’ head whips toward the direction of the flare, her eyes widening for the briefest heartbeat before she masks it. An abnormal this early is bad news—very bad news.

The formation keeps moving, but everything feels different now. The air grows heavier, each breath tighter. Every rider’s posture stiffens, hands tightening on reins as if that alone will keep them steady. Even the pounding of hooves feels too loud, too exposed.

Then—

Without warning, a horse sails through the air.

Its body twists mid-flight before crashing to the earth in a broken heap just ahead of the formation.

Gasps rip through the Scouts.

“What the—?!” Shawn jerks his horse back, eyes wide.

Anais’ eyes widen too, but only for a split second. Her voice snaps sharp and commanding, cutting through the panic.

“Stay together! Prepare for an attack!”

Your gaze snaps to the horizon—and you see it.

A Titan.

Running.

But it isn’t like any Titan you’ve seen before.

Its shape—its proportions—are wrong.

It’s lean, defined, disturbingly human. Feminine.

Your stomach drops.

“Anais!” you shout, pointing straight at it.

She follows your gaze—and for the first time, you see genuine shock flash in her eyes.

“What the hell…?” she mutters under her breath, voice tight. “It’s… shaped like a woman?”

The Titan’s speed is terrifying. Each stride eats up the ground like it’s weightless, eyes locked on your team with the razor focus of a predator that’s already chosen its prey.

“Anais—it’s coming this way!” you yell, blades already drawn, sunlight glinting off cold steel.

Anais curses under her breath, drawing her own blades in one fluid, practiced motion.

“Everyone, prepare to engage! That thing’s not normal—it’s fast, and it won’t go down easy!”

Horses rear nervously, ears flat, nostrils flaring as the Titan barrels closer.

Anais shifts in her saddle, posture tense but controlled.

“Alice! You’re with me!”

Alice’s quiet focus sharpens instantly. Her stance mirrors Anais’, both women already half-standing on their horses as if preparing to launch.

“Shoot the black flare!” Anais barks.

You snap your flare gun up and fire. The hiss of compressed gas gives way to the spiral of black smoke, the warning cutting across the open field for everyone to see.

Anais gives Alice a curt nod, her face set with grim determination.

“Follow my lead. We can’t let that thing reach the others. Got it?”

“Got it,” Alice answers firmly, blades gleaming as she grips them tighter.

Then both women move as one.

They whip their horses around, charging straight for the oncoming Titan.

With a synchronized hiss, their ODM gear fires, grappling hooks biting deep into the scarce trees nearby.

They swing forward in perfect rhythm, momentum carrying them high as they strike from both sides. Blades flash silver in the sunlight, slicing deep into the Titan’s legs and arms, forcing it back step by step.

The Titan stumbles—

—but recovers unnaturally fast.

It twists with horrifying agility, movements deliberate. Too deliberate.

Anais and Alice don’t falter. They weave around it like twin blades of the same weapon, attacking relentlessly, darting in and out of its reach.

Then Alice sees it.

An opening.

The nape.

She fires her hooks, grappling onto the Titan’s shoulder and launching herself upward, blades poised to strike—

—but in an instant, the Titan’s hand snaps back, covering its nape.

Protecting itself.

Before Alice can react, its other hand seizes her wires.

“Alice—!” Anais’ voice cracks with horror.

The Titan yanks hard.

Alice flies through the air like a ragdoll, her body slamming into the ground with a sickening crack.

You can’t breathe.

Your brain stalls, vision narrowing, every sound warped and distant—except for Anais’ sharp, horrified gasp.

Because Titans don’t do this.

They don’t cover their napes.

They don’t fight like this.

They don’t choose to kill without eating.

A chill rips down your spine, cold as ice, as the thought hits you—terrible and undeniable.

It can’t be.

Another shifter.

Anais stares at Alice’s broken body, disbelief flickering across her face. Her closest comrade—gone in an instant.

The shock lasts only a heartbeat. Then rage takes its place.

The abnormal Titan stands eerily still for a moment, its cold, unnervingly human eyes fixed on Anais—and on all of you.

You, Shawn, and Robert remain frozen, holding position, hoping distance will be enough.

But Anais moves.

Her ODM gear hisses as hooks bite deep into the nearest tree. Fury carves hard lines into her face.

“You’re gonna pay for that, bitch!” she spits, launching herself forward with deadly precision.

Her blades flash silver as she swings around the Titan, striking deep into its flesh with the speed and skill of a veteran Scout.

But the Titan matches her—fast, deliberate, terrifyingly aware.

It counters her strikes with brutal swipes, forcing her to retreat, then dart back in, again and again.

Then Anais swings low. Her wire snaps taut.

The Titan’s foot comes down hard, pinning the wire to the earth.

Anais’ momentum vanishes. She crashes violently to the ground.

You hear it—

—the sickening crack of her legs breaking.

“Anais!” you scream, yanking Honey’s reins to turn back.

But you’re too late.

The Titan raises its foot.

And stomps.

Anais is crushed instantly, her body flattened like she was nothing.

The world goes still.

The three of you freeze, horror rippling through the group like lightning.

Your leader is dead.

Just like that.

No hesitation, no mercy.

Your mind blanks for half a second—then sharp focus crashes in.

You wrench Honey around and bolt, heart pounding as Shawn and Robert follow close behind, their faces pale with shock.

The Titan’s head tilts slightly, gaze shifting to follow.

“Shawn! Robert!” you shout over the thundering hooves.

“What the hell just happened?!” Shawn yells back, voice breaking.

“I don’t know—but it’s killing without eating!” you answer, forcing your voice steady, trying to hint at the truth without saying it outright.

“Do Titans even do that?!” Robert shouts, eyes wide.

“Look at it!” you snap, glancing back. “It’s not looking at us—it’s looking ahead. Like it has a goal!”

Their eyes widen as the implication sinks in.

“You’re saying… this Titan isn’t just mindless? It has a purpose?”

“I think so!” you reply, the words tumbling out with urgency. “It’s too strong for us to kill. Someone has to warn the others!”

They both nod grimly.

“You two go!” you bark, pulling Honey to a slower pace. “I’ll stay and keep an eye on it.”

They hesitate, panic flashing across their faces.

“I’ll be fine!” you insist. “As long as I don’t attack it, it won’t attack me!”

The words feel hollow, even to you.

“Go!”

Shawn and Robert exchange one last look—and ride off.

The moment they’re gone, dread seeps in, heavier than before.

Am I going to die here? Should I try to shift? Should I listen to Ymir?

The Titan still hasn’t looked at you.

Its gaze stays fixed on the distance, unshaken, almost… focused.

And that, more than any roar, is what terrifies you.

Another group of Scouts approaches, eyes going wide at the sight of the abnormal.

“What the hell is that thing?!” a young man shouts.

“I’m not sure,” you answer tightly, voice clipped with tension. “It’s an abnormal—but it seems… smarter.”

“Smarter?” a sharp-eyed woman snaps. “How?”

“Look at it!” you say, gesturing toward the Titan. “It has a woman’s build and it’s protecting its nape! It killed Anais and Alice—but it didn’t eat them.”

Gasps ripple through the group.

One of them starts to say, “Could it be—”

The Titan’s head snaps toward you.

Its eyes—icy blue, unnervingly familiar—lock on the group.

Cold recognition slams into your gut.

“Holy shit—it’s looking at us!” the young man blurts.

“What do we do?!” the woman shouts.

Before anyone can act—

The Titan leaps.

Its foot crashes down on the woman, crushing her instantly.

The shockwave sends you and the man flying.

The world becomes a blur of green, brown, and red.

You hit the ground hard. Pain detonates through your legs like fire.

To your left—bloody remains of the woman.

To your right—the Titan, holding the man in its massive hand.

Then it squeezes.

He bursts.

Blood and gore spray outward—some splattering across your face.

You look down.

Honey lies unmoving, her massive weight pinning your legs. Crushed.

The adrenaline numbs some pain—but not enough.

You couldn’t heal even if you wanted to.

The Titan drops what’s left of the man and stares down at you.

Panic claws at your throat as you push desperately at Honey’s body, trying to free yourself.

Tears sting your eyes—not of fear. Not of grief.

Anger.

“Damn you!” you choke out, shoving against Honey’s weight. “I didn’t survive all of this—just to die because ofwo a damn horse!”

Your voice breaks into a sob of rage.

“Damn you, Ymir!” you scream, fury and desperation twisting together as the Titan towers over you—

Silent.

Watchful.

The pain is worse now—sharp, white-hot agony that makes your vision swim. Your breathing comes in shallow gasps, panic flaring as you realize what your body already knows.

Your legs are broken.

Panic claws at your chest as you shove uselessly at Honey’s unmoving body again, but she’s far too heavy.

“Help! Someone help me!” The words tear from your throat, ragged, small—too small for the vast emptiness around you.

Your mind jolts into focus, latching on to one thought.

The satchel.

With trembling hands, you fumble blindly at Honey’s saddle, fingers finally closing around cold metal. You rip out the flare gun, pulling a yellow round from the pouch with shaking hands.

The shot cracks through the still air.

Yellow smoke coils upward, bright and desperate—a signal for help that feels both too loud and not loud enough.

The abnormal Titan doesn’t move.

It just stands there, watching you.

Its head tilts ever so slightly, as though considering something—something it has all the time in the world to decide.

The seconds stretch too long.

Every breath feels like it might be your last.

Hoofbeats.

A hiss—ODM gear firing.

The sharp twang of wires slicing through the air.

Through the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, you hear shouts, the rumble of approaching horses, and see flashes of silver cutting across the sky.

The abnormal finally moves—its head snapping toward the new arrivals.

Then it bolts.

Scouts swarm after it, blades flashing as they harry it into the distance until it’s gone from sight.

Relief barely registers before the world begins to blur.

The darkness pulls at you—

—and then a voice cuts through it.

A voice you once hated.

Not so much anymore.

Your name.

Soft, warm sand.

You push yourself upright, blinking at a sky filled with endless lights. Your legs—whole. Unbroken.

You glance to your right.

She’s there.

The tall, blonde woman. Silent, watchful as always.

“Am I dead?” you ask, voice sounding strange—muted, like it’s underwater.

For the first time, she answers. “No. But there is a part of you that’s forever gone.” Her voice is calm. Steady.

She can speak.

“Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. Do not let fear overcome you.” Words you never thought you’d hear from her—of all people. “Your time will come. You will shake the earth and waken anew.”

The world begins to crumble around you—

—and you wake.

Sound comes first.

Soft murmurs. The shuffle of boots. The rhythmic clop of horses. Then pain—dull, stabbing, bearable but still raw. Your legs ache with every shallow breath.

“Mh…” It’s all you can manage.

Hands grab your arm instantly.

“Hey—hey, come on. You’re okay.”

That voice. Soft. Familiar.

“Why are you always dying?”

There’s the snide remark—worry wrapped in sarcasm.

“…Hurt,” you rasp.

“Don’t talk,” Krista says gently, her tone dipping even softer. “You’re okay now. We’re retreating.”

“You really had us worried—coming back limp as a sack of potatoes, bleeding out enough blood to supply a hospital,” Ymir mutters, almost too casually.

Time blurs after that.

You’re vaguely aware of the wagon beneath you, Krista sitting close, Ymir within arm’s reach, other wounded Scouts groaning around you.

Flashes return—the weight of Honey crushing your legs, the flare, the Titan—

Then nothing.

“…Is Eren okay?” you manage finally, voice hoarse.

Krista glances at you, her expression tight. “He was captured by that Female Titan when he transformed to fight it. But Mikasa and Captain Levi got him back. There’s speculation it’s another shifter.”

Your suspicions. Confirmed.

Your gaze darts to Ymir.

Her expression doesn’t change.

“How many dead?”

“We lost almost sixty percent of the fleet,” Ymir says grimly. “Levi’s squad too.”

A breath hitches in your throat, escaping as a sharp, frustrated sigh.

So much death. All for the single truth you already knew. Another shifter walks among you. The return to Wall Rose is quiet. Grim.

Once inside the gates, everything feels muted—like the world itself has dulled to gray.

You focus on healing—just enough that you’ll seem to make a speedy recovery.

Not so much that anyone will notice.

Because for now…

All you can do is wait.

Chapter Text

The infirmary smells like rubbing alcohol and overripe peaches—someone left their lunch too close to the open window. You’ve memorized the ceiling cracks, the pattern of the peeling paint. The rhythm of the nurses’ footsteps. The dull, heavy pulse of your body, slowed by medicine and something heavier than that.

You’re healing. Just not quickly. Not visibly.

You’re making yourself stay broken.

People visit. Ymir kicks her boots up like she owns the place, but doesn’t meet your eyes. Still, she talks. “Almost got my leg bitten off,” she says, gesturing to a half-wrapped thigh. “Krista wouldn’t shut up after. And Connie’s high off his own near-death experience. Again.” She glances at you. “You didn’t shift. That’s impressive.” She says it like she’s teasing. But she’s proud.

“I know how hard it is. Sitting there with all that power and choosing not to.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

“You’ll heal when you’re ready,” she says after a moment, and flicks your forehead gently. “Just don’t make a habit of scaring the shit out of me, okay?”

Krista brings food every time she visits. You tell her the staff feeds you just fine. She brings it anyway. “You need the strength,” she says. “Just a little. Please?”

You thank her.

And she smiles like that’s enough.

Then there’s Hange.

They show up like a storm, rain still caught in their hair, glasses pushed up on their forehead, eyes wild. The guilt hits you first. On them. You feel it before they speak.

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say before they even open their mouth. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

They hover at the foot of your bed, wringing their hands. Their eyes can’t stop flicking to the bandages.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really,” you lie. “I’ve had worse.” No you haven’t.

They sit with you anyway. Say nothing. Just listen to the rain against the window until their shoulders finally relax.

Eren comes one evening, dragging a chair to your bedside.

“You look like shit,” he says with a half-grin.

“Thanks,” you mutter. “You’re glowing.”

He laughs, but his eyes are sharp. “We thought we were gonna lose you.”

You reach up and flick his forehead—like Ymir did. Like something passed down. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

He stays the longest. You talk about the expedition, the silence of the woods, the sound of your bones breaking. You don’t say the real thing. But you feel it between you. The thread. The fracture you both carry. You’re mirrors. Even if you’re cracked in different places.

He promises he’ll come back.

And you believe him.

Still—

Even with all of them, even with the kindness, the company, the warmth…

There’s only one person you’re really waiting for.

But he never comes.

He lies flat, unmoving, fists clenched beneath the blanket. The others think he’s out cold, but his eyes are wide open, staring at nothing. Listening.

He hears whispers about you.

“She’s stable.”

“She might be walking again soon.”

“She was brave.”

He sees your door open and close a dozen times a day. People flow in and out like it’s a chapel.

He keeps his distance.

He watches from the shadows.

And he hates himself for it.

He wants to go in. More than anything.

But he’s afraid of what he’ll say.

Afraid of what he won’t.

One afternoon, he’s leaning against a wall when Eren, Mikasa, and Armin step out of the infirmary. They clock him instantly.

He looks… off. burned around the edges.

Eren says something to the others, then steps toward him, arms crossed.

“What’s up with you?”

Reiner shrugs. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that. You know what.”

“If you’re talking about her—”

“Of course he is,” Mikasa cuts in, her voice a blade. “We saw it. The way you were with her. The way she was with you. Then you disappeared.”

“It’s hurting you both,” Armin adds gently.

“There’s nothing between us,” Reiner deflects. A lie. He folds his arms across his chest, defensive.

Eren narrows his eyes. “I can’t tell if you think we’re stupid or if you’re a moron. You’ve been acting like someone kicked you out of heaven.”

Mikasa steps forward. “You carried her. Remember? Now you act like she doesn’t exist.”

Reiner flinches, jaw tight.

Armin tries again, softer. “Every time the door opens, she looks up. Like she’s hoping it’s you. Whether you think you deserve that or not… she’s waiting.”

They turn to leave.

But Eren pauses.

“Don’t be a coward,” he says. “Don’t miss out on something good just because you’re scared.”

Reiner is left alone. The silence presses in like punishment.

After about a week in the infirmary, you are bored out of your mind. you could easily heal your legs right now and have this be over and done with, but you have to wait. You’re finally asleep. The meds help this time. They’ve lulled you into something dreamless, breath slow and steady.

You don’t hear the door open.

Don’t hear the chair drag softly across the floor.

But Reiner’s there.

He sits beside your bed, elbows on knees, shoulders hunched like they’re carrying something they shouldn’t have to. He doesn’t look at you. He can’t

At first, he just sits.

Then—

“I’m ashamed,” he says, almost unsure if he’s allowed to speak.. “Of what? I don’t even know if I can say out loud. But I am.”

He swallows. Breathes.

“You scare me,” he says. “Not in a ‘you’re intimidating’ way. In a ‘you make me feel things I didn’t think I was allowed to feel’ way.”

His fingers lace and twist together.

“I’m scared for you. And that’s worse. Because if I let myself get close… really close… I don’t think I’d ever want to live in a world without you in it.”

A long pause.

“But that’s not an excuse,” he whispers. “Not for what I did. Not for disappearing.”

He finally looks up.

At your wrapped legs.

Your still hands.

The slow, steady rise and fall of your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry the world is cruel to you.”

He stands. His shadow lifts from the chair, from the bed, from your side.

He leaves before dawn.

Before he does something selfish.

Before you can see him.

Before you can forgive him.

You wake with a dull ache in your legs, stretching as far as your battered body will let you.

Your eyes blink open to warm, early morning light filtering through the infirmary windows. It casts long shadows and makes everything seem washed-out and soft—like an old photograph. A warm familiar feeling sets in the core of your soul, soft memories of an early childhood filter through your mind.

The nurse comes in quietly, places a bland, half-warm tray of breakfast on the small table beside your bed, and offers a polite nod before leaving without a word.

It tastes like crap. It looks like muted, grey-pink. It’s interesting.

You’re halfway through choking it down when there’s a knock on the door.

“Krista, I told you, I’m fine. They already brought me fo—”

But it’s not Krista.

It’s Mikasa.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Mikasa. I wasn’t really expecting you.”

She doesn’t respond. Just steps inside, closes the door behind her, and takes the seat beside your bed without a word.

You sit up slightly, concerned. “Mikasa? Is something wrong?”

She’s always quiet, but today she feels… heavier.

“No,” she says finally. “Just wanted to come see you.”

“All by yourself? Are you sure?”

She’s silent again, just for a second. Then, “Me, Eren, and Armin talked to Reiner yesterday. After visiting you.”

Your body goes still. Her words sink like stones into water.

Your face tightens. You don’t want to hear his name. Not right now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” Mikasa says, reading you effortlessly. “But there are some things you should know before you erase each other completely.”

You hesitate.

Then, with a slow breath, you nod.

Mikasa looks toward the window. “He’s been standing outside the infirmary since the day you were brought here. Watches who comes in and out like a hawk.”

You blink. “What.”

“He wasn’t there when I came,” she continues. “I think we might’ve scared him off. Which is surprising, considering he was strong enough to pull Honey off you and brave enough to stay with you, unconscious, in the middle of a battlefield.”

Her voice is level, as if she’s talking about the weather. But every word feels like it’s hitting you square in the chest.

Your pulse skips.

“You’re joking.”

“You know I don’t joke about things like this.”

Mikasa’s tone doesn’t waver. And that’s how you know she’s telling the truth.

Something shifts in your chest. Your breath sharpens.

In a flash, you’re throwing the covers off, grabbing the crutches by your bedside.

“Wait—should you be standing right now?” Mikasa’s voice finally cracks with alarm.

You ignore her.

The floor is unforgiving. Every hop, every limp, shoots pain up your legs like knives. But you don’t stop. You can’t.

“Miss, wait!” the nurse shouts. Mikasa follows quickly. “You’re not cleared to walk yet—!”

“Damnit,” Mikasa mutters under her breath. “I shouldn’t have let Ymir and Krista talk me into this…”

You barrel out of the infirmary, ignoring the chaos behind you. It’s still early. birds chirp, clouds shift over a pale sun. You almost eat shit when you try to avoid someone walking past you, yelling to ‘watch where you’re going’ but you don’t care.

The world tilts with every hop and step. Your legs scream with each movement, sharp and hot like lightning, gripping the crutches harder. You hobble past the mess hall just in time to run into Connie, Sasha, and Jean.

“Woah, color pallet?” Connie nearly drops his bread roll. “Are you supposed to be up right now?”

“Easy, killer,” Jean says. “You’re gonna give yourself permanent damage.”

“You look like you’re on a rampage,” Sasha adds, unsure if she should be worried or amused.

“Where is he?” you demand, almost falling over trying to keep yourself up, breath shallow.

They all go quiet for a moment. Then, wordlessly, point in the same direction: toward the edge of the forest, where the river sits.

“He didn’t come to breakfast. Again,” Jean says.

You don’t thank them. You don’t need to. You just go.

People glance at you as you pass—some confused, others concerned. You don’t care. You only stop when the buildings disappear behind the trees, when the world finally quiets.

That’s when you see him.

Blond hair, slumped shoulders, broad back turned to you. Heavy heart hanging in his stance.

A breeze tugs gently at your hair.

Almost like he feels you, Reiner turns.

And when his eyes land on you, they go wide with disbelief. You see the moment it hits him: you walked here. Limped. Hobbled. Dragged your broken body through camp just to find him.

He says your name, and it’s not a word. It’s a wound. A melody. A memory. It shatters something in you. It sounds like the cry of morning doves. It knocks the air right out of your lungs.

You don’t answer.

He takes a slow step forward. Hands half-raised like he’s ready to catch you.

Your heart lurches painfully in your chest.

“Is it me?” you ask, voice raw. “Am I too much? Not enough? Was I too mean?”

You can’t stop now. Everything that’s haunted you every night he stayed silent comes rushing out. “Just tell me. I hate being left in the dark. I hate guessing if I did something wrong. If I was the problem. Just tell me.”

You never thought you’d beg. Not for a man. But here you are, begging for answers. Begging to understand what it was about you that pushed him away.

Reiner’s face twists in pain.

“I’m a coward,” he says quietly.

“You stayed with me while I was unconscious. On an active battlefield.”

“Not that kind of coward,” he says. “I’m afraid.”

You stare at him. “Of what?”

“Of you. Of myself. Of us.”

It guts you. It hurts. It hurts in a way that’s almost healing.

“You’re not making sense,” you whisper. “Open up to me. I’ll open up to you. Just—don’t shut me out again. I can’t handle losing more people.”

Reiner looks at you like he’s memorizing the lines of your face for the last time.

“You challenge me like no one else ever has. You make me want to be better. Not just as a soldier. As a person.”

His voice wavers.

“And I don’t know what to do with these feelings. I’m scared of hurting you—so I tried to avoid it. And I hurt you anyway.”

You blink rapidly.

“You don’t get to make those kinds of decisions, especially ones that you think ‘won’t hurt me’.” You quietly scold him.

“I realize that now.” He looks down.

“I’m not some fragile stained glass window in a church. And what are you talking about ‘us’?”

“I want there to be an ‘us’.” He admits it like it costs him the world. “I don’t want just ‘you’ or ‘me’. I want us. But I think I ruined my chance to have that.”

The silence between you is unbearable.

He looks like he wants to disappear.

You want to punch him in the face.

Instead, you lunge.

Your crutches fall away with a clatter. It takes a second for you to register what you’d done. A second longer to prepare for the sound of your busted legs snapping under you again.

But it never comes.

You don’t make it far before Reiner catches you, arms grabbing hold of yours before you collapse. You’re close. Closer than you’ve been in weeks. He’s holding you up. Your forehead nearly rests against his chest, your breathing ragged. You’re eyes land on the ground below you, grateful you didn’t crash.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” he snaps, voice sharp but worried.

You sniff. Once. Then again.

He says your name. Gentle now.

You look up at him. Eyes glassy, lips trembling.

“I want us, too,” you whisper.

Reiner exhales sharply, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Then, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you more than he already has, he wraps his arms around you—firm but gentle.

You cling to him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. You can feel his heart beat heavy and fast against your chest—it feels like a lifeline. His hand slips into your hair, holding the back of your head like a fragile thing, like something precious.

“Asshole,” you mumble into his neck between soft sobs.

Reiner laughs—low and warm. You feel it vibrate through his chest and into you.

And for the first time in a long time, the static in your body quiets.

You don’t know what comes next. But for now, there’s him. There’s you.

And maybe, just maybe, you have an ‘us.’

Later, Reiner carries you back to the infirmary, your crutches awkwardly hooked in one arm while his other wraps securely around your waist. You try to keep your steps light, but his grip is firm—steady in a way that makes you feel both clumsy and safe.

The courtyard is still alive with the soft hum of evening routines—boots scuffing against stone, laughter spilling from open windows, the metallic clink of gear being cleaned. But the sound dulls under the low buzz of attention. People slow their pace when they see you. Some stare openly. Others trade whispers behind cupped hands. A few giggle.

You focus on the ground, cheeks burning hot enough to rival a forge, ears prickling with every hushed sound. But Reiner walks as if the world itself is watching him for a good reason—head high, jaw set, posture tall and sure. He carries you like he’s just won a medal from the king himself, like there’s no shame in this moment, only certainty. Somehow, that steadiness bleeds into you, softening the edge of your embarrassment.

Ymir, Krista, and Mikasa are waiting near the bed with two nurses in the infirmary.

The nurses move first, their practiced hands gentle as they check you for any new injuries. Reiner lowers you carefully onto the cot, his palm lingering against your back for half a heartbeat before he steps away. His gaze never leaves you.

The girls notice. Ymir raises one brow. Krista’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile. Even Mikasa glances between the two of you before all three exchange a silent what was that? look and slip out without a word.

Once the nurses are done—and after a stern warning not to push yourself—they leave you alone with him. He sits in the chair beside your bed, broad frame hunched forward slightly, hands resting loosely on his knees.

“You don’t have to stay in here,” you murmur, shifting under the covers.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

“Aren’t you needed out there?”

“There’s not much to do right now.” His eyes soften. “Besides, if there was, I doubt I could focus knowing you’re in here alone.”

Warmth unfurls in your chest, creeping into your throat until you have to look away. “Well… if you insist,” you say, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself.

The hours slip past quietly, almost unnoticed. The conversation flows easier than you expect. You talk about little things—food you miss, books you’ve read, the ridiculous rumors you’ve overheard. Somewhere in the middle of it, you realize it’s been months since you’ve spoken to him like this.

When Connie appears with a tray, it’s obvious the lunch is for Reiner. Connie grins like he’s caught someone skipping training, but one look from Ymir in the hallway is enough to kill any teasing before it starts. Reiner thanks him, then returns his full attention to you.

It’s like old times, only quieter. Gentler. Like something new growing in the space between you, familiar and yet strange.

A nurse pokes her head into the room. “Braun, visitation time is almost over. The patient needs her rest.”

You groan softly. “There’s no actual ‘visitation time.’ They just don’t want people hanging around because it gets noisy.”

Reiner tilts his head, half-smiling. “Oh really? Who told you that?”

“No one. I get bored and wander. I hear things.”

His laugh is low, warm. It rolls through you like the memory of summer sun. He doesn’t say he’s missed you, but the way his eyes linger on your face says it for him.

“Still—nurse’s orders,” he says, rising to his feet.

“The saying’s doctor’s orders. And they’re not doctors.”

He smirks, reading you loud and clear. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You better be,” you say, “or I’ll break my legs again just to kick your ass.”

“I’m sure you will.”

He heads for the door. Just before it closes, you say quietly, “Goodnight.”

He pauses, the softness of your voice catching him off-guard, the slight tremor in the last syllable rooting him in place.

“…Goodnight,” he says, almost to himself, before pulling the door shut.

You lie back, eyes fixed on the closed door, half-expecting, half-hoping, it will open again. It doesn’t.

Outside, the sun sinks low behind the treeline, the sky melting into streaks of pink and purple. You let your fingers toy absently with the chain of your necklace, the cool metal a grounding weight against your skin.

You don’t know what the two of you are now. Not yet.

But you know you could get used to it.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria hums with the usual low chaos—cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, laughter echoing off stone walls.

Reiner grabs his tray, moving down the line on muscle memory, not really looking at what he’s piling on. By the time he’s done, he’s already angling toward the door.

“You going to the infirmary again?” Bertholdt asks, tone mild but eyebrow arched.

“Damn, I guess gals come before pals now,” Connie sighs, all tragic performance.

Ymir’s boot connects with his shin under the table. He yelps, bending halfway over in his seat.

Reiner doesn’t flinch, doesn’t answer. His expression is unreadable.

“We’ve all been meaning to ask, but—” Sasha starts.

Another kick.

Sasha’s yelp is sharper. The table falls quiet in that awkward, fragile way that makes you suddenly aware of your own chewing.

Reiner exhales slowly, the sound barely audible over the background chatter. Instead of heading for the exit, he pulls out the chair beside Bertholdt and sits.

“I guess I owe some explaining… but I’m not sure how much or even what to say.”

“There’s no pressure,” Armin says quickly. “Your business is yours.”

Reiner stares down at his tray for a long moment before speaking. “We talked things out. We made up. We’re… friends? I’m not too sure yet. We haven’t worked out the details.”

“Well, what has she said?” Mikasa asks from across the table.

“Nothing yet, really.”

Mikasa’s voice stays even. “Then maybe talk to her about it.”

Later, you’re cross-legged on your bed, half-heartedly picking at a bread roll. Your tray sits beside you, the smell of the still-warm soup filling the small room.

The door opens.

Reiner steps in with his own tray, and the exchange is automatic—how you miss sparring, how the group misses you—but your words drift off into quiet before either of you realizes.

You both start at the same time.

“You first.”

“No, you first.”

A small laugh slips between you.

“Alright, me first,” he says, setting his tray on the nightstand. “What… are we? What are we telling people? Are we telling people?”

You blink, turning to face him. “Telling them what?”

He shrugs, gaze skittering away from yours. “That we’re… something.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “Like a formal announcement? A parade? Screaming it from the Wall?”

He groans, head dropping. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

You laugh—light, not mocking. “Okay, no parade. But I don’t know. Feels like the second we say it out loud, it’s everyone’s business. And I kind of like that it’s just ours right now.” Your fingers fidget with your necklace, the cool metal shifting against your skin. “People talk. They always do.”

“They already talk,” he says. “And by ‘they,’ I mean our deeply normal and well-adjusted friend group.”

That earns a snort. “Right. Our main threat.”

Silence again. A softer one.

“What do you… wanna be?” you ask, the words coming out quieter than intended, edges dipped in a vulnerability you don’t usually show. You search his face for an answer you already want.

“You already know my answer.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, warmth rising to your cheeks. You glance away. “I guess so.”

“So?”

You glance back. “You have to say it.”

“You want me to say it?” You can hear the smirk through his words. he’s enjoying this side of you.

“Mhm.” You nod.

He says your name—slow, deliberate, grounding. “Will you do me the honor of being in a relationship with me?”

Something in your chest catches. “Yes. I will do you the honor,” you say with a softness that feels unfamiliar on your own tongue, even to you.

Reiner’s smile stretches wide, shoulders straightening, eyes shining like midnight stars. Slowly, he rises from the chair, gesturing for you to move over.

You lift a brow but scoot left to the other side of the bed. “What are you—”

Your words cut off as his arms wrap around you. You go still, unsure, confused—then your head tilts into his chest almost without thinking. The steady drum of his heartbeat fills your ear, grounding you in the moment. His scent, warm musk, dry pine, something earthy, pulls you further in.

His cheek rests against the crown of your head. Slowly, your arm comes up, hand resting lightly over his chest.

For the first time in weeks, neither of you moves. Neither of you fights.

You just stay—until this moment, like all good things here, vanishes into the air.

You’re halfway through stuffing your spare shirt into the duffel when the door creaks open.

“Reiner, I told you I didn’t need—”

The rest dies in your throat.

Ymir is leaning against the doorframe like she owns the place, a slow smirk curling one corner of her mouth. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, voice dripping with amusement. “If it isn’t Mrs. Lovey-Dovey herself.”

You exhale through your nose, turning back to your bag. “Good afternoon to you too.”

“You look good,” Ymir says, pushing off the frame to stroll inside. Her boots scuff against the floor. “And not just your legs—though I do see you’re finally back on them. I mean overall. Less corpse-y.”

“You think so?” you mumble, keeping your gaze on the shirt in your hands.

“Yeah,” she says easily, dropping onto the edge of your bed like it’s hers. The mattress dips under her weight. “Blond boy’s really had an impact on you.”

That makes you glance up. “What? Did he tell you something?”

She snorts. “No. It’s just obvious. Honestly, I think you’re the only one who hasn’t realized yet.”

You pause mid-fold, staring into the duffel like the answer might be tucked under the fabric. “…Oh.”

Ymir shrugs, like she’s delivered the weather report and it’s not her problem anymore. “Don’t worry, though. Me and Krista have been keeping the group in check. Threatening anyone who bothers you.”

A laugh slips out—soft, surprised. “Our very well-adjusted friend group.” You zip the duffel shut and reach for your crutches.

Before you can move, Ymir snatches the bag without asking, swinging it over her shoulder. “In all honesty,” she says, her tone dipping just a fraction, “I’m jealous.”

You nearly catch the crutch tip on the floor. “Jealous? I mean, yeah, you’ve always been… flirty with me, but I thought that was just you projecting because you couldn’t be that way with Krista.”

She freezes mid-step and stares at you like you’ve sprouted antlers. “What? No. Not that kind of jealous—don’t insult me like that. I mean he’s going to take up more of your time.”

It’s only then you catch it—the slight droop in her shoulders, the faint line between her brows.

You sigh, leaning forward on your crutches. “Hey… you and Krista will always be my number ones. No man’s gonna replace you two, okay?”

Her face doesn’t soften right away. There’s still a guarded edge in the set of her jaw.

“I mean it,” you add, letting your mouth curve into a faint smile. “You two mean a lot to me.”

Ymir finally meets your eyes. Her eyebrow ticks up, but you can tell she needed to hear it. “Okay,” she says, voice neutral—though you know her well enough to hear the weight beneath it.

She helps you haul your things to your old bunk—only now it’s the bottom one. You didn’t ask for the switch; Annie’s absence left it open. Still, the change feels strange. You sit there a moment, staring at the empty space above. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you miss her. The early-morning spars. The quiet nods before dawn. No one else gets up that early. No one else ever matched your rhythm like she did.

Later, the Scouts are gifted something rare—a whole afternoon of free time. The courtyard hums with voices, sunlight spilling in warm patches across the stone.

You make your way in on your crutches, Ymir trailing you like a bodyguard. Heads turn.

“Hey! Look who’s back from the dead,” Connie calls from a nearby bench.

“How are the legs?” Eren asks, leaning forward with elbows on knees.

“Still messed up for now,” you say, lowering yourself onto the bench with Ymir’s help. “But the doctors say I’m making a speedy recovery. More so now than before.”

Ymir’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder—steady, grounding. When you glance up, you catch her looking across the circle toward Reiner. His gaze is locked on her like she’s holding a blade to his throat. Ymir answers it with a slow, smug smile.

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Sasha mutters to Connie, the implication dangling in the air like a signpost.

“You didn’t get hit in the head too, did you?” Jean asks, trying for casual but with the faintest thread of concern. “Still a walking easel?”

You chuckle, tapping the side of your head. “Nope. Still the same color palette up here.”

The group laughs lightly, the sound folding into the courtyard’s warm air. It’s been too long since everyone sat together like this. Well—almost everyone. Bertholdt’s missing. You realize you haven’t seen him all day.

Krista tilts her head. “What do we do with all this free time?”

The group trades glances. Silence stretches.

“Oh! I know!” Sasha throws her hand in the air like she’s answering a teacher’s question. “We should tell stories around a campfire tonight. We can grab firewood, sneak snacks from the mess hall after the staff’s gone, and take it down to the lake. Close enough to HQ so we don’t get yelled at, but far enough to feel like we’re not here.”

There’s a beat of consideration, then a chorus of “sure” and “why not” rolls around the circle.

By sunset, the plan’s in motion.

Eren, Mikasa, and Jean disappear toward the treeline with Ymir to gather firewood. Connie, Sasha, Krista, and Armin vanish in the other direction—toward the mess hall, whispering like thieves in a heist film.

Reiner stays with you, keeping his pace easy as you limp toward the lake ahead of the others. The grass is damp, springy under your boots. The air bites faintly at your cheeks, the kind of cool that promises dew by morning.

He’s carrying more than you realized—a folding chair slung over his shoulder and a blanket tucked under his arm.

Without a word, he unfolds the chair for you and drops the blanket onto the grass for himself.

“You have a story you’re gonna tell?” he asks as he settles down.

You shrug. “Hmm… not sure. Don’t really have anything interesting.”

“That’s not true.” His tone is easy, like he’s certain. “All those dreams you’ve told me? They’re more interesting than half the things people here have actually done.”

You smile faintly. “Those are dreams, not stories.”

“Still worth sharing.”

You’re about to answer, but voices carry through the dusk—laughter, shuffling boots, the clunk of wood on wood. The others arrive in a loose cluster, dropping the firewood into a heap.

Ymir sparks the first flame. It catches quickly, the glow licking shadows across everyone’s faces.

Sasha somehow claims the food stash without protest from anyone, which is… questionable. You watch her carefully as she hands you yours.

Once everyone’s settled, the stories begin.

Sasha starts.

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes glinting with mischief.

“This is a legend from my village,” she announces. “About a mysterious thief who stole from the baker every week. The crust…” She closes her eyes reverently. “It was like the surface of the sun. And the steam? Hit me in the face like an angel breathing.”

Halfway through, her voice shifts—and suddenly it’s less about the ‘mysterious thief’ and more about her personally outrunning a guard dog while carrying five loaves stuffed into her shirt.

Connie interrupts. “Wait—why didn’t you just buy the bread?”

Sasha glares. “Connie, if you have to ask that, you’ll never understand.”

Ymir takes her turn.

“This happened a long, long time ago, in a village far away…” she begins, but the ‘distant’ details sound suspiciously like herself.

She spins the tale of a clever girl cornered in the forest by a bear, only to trick it into chasing a rabbit instead. The rabbit is described with Krista-level detail—small, golden, “so pure the bear couldn’t bear to harm it.”

By the end, Ymir smirks toward Krista. “And that girl lived happily ever after—because the rabbit stayed close.”

Krista’s cheeks pinken, and you catch the way Ymir watches it happen.

Armin’s story comes soft and measured, like unspooling silk.

He paints a city of white stone towers on the ocean’s edge. Streets paved in glass that reflect the sky. Ships shaped like birds gliding over waves. A library so vast you could wander for days without repeating a book.

He finishes with a quiet confession: “I don’t know if it’s real… but I like to think someone will find it one day.”

Eren mutters, “We’ll find it.”

Mikasa just nods beside him.

Your turn.

You clear your throat. “It’s… a dream. From before the Walls fell.”

A cloaked woman runs through a storm, rain turning to glass midair, slicing her hands as she shields her face. She’s carrying something wrapped in cloth. Voices shout in a language you don’t know. Boots pound after her. She slips into an alley, disappears through a doorway—and is gone.

“They searched every street, every cellar,” you finish softly, “but they never found her… and they never found what she carried.”

There’s a beat of silence. The fire crackles, spitting sparks into the dark.

“What happens to her? What was she holding?” Krista asks.

“I don’t know,” you admit, rubbing the back of your neck. “The dream ended before I saw.”

Sasha groans. “Well, make something up!”

You hesitate, then say, “She made it home—deep in the forest. Two children ran to her, clinging to her legs. Then a man appeared, hugging her tight. He looked down and saw the bundle in her arms… a baby, sleeping soundly. She was home.”

A collective “aww” rolls through the group.

The fire dies to embers. Sheets are folded, trash tucked into bags. One by one, they head back toward HQ—except you and Reiner.

“Gonna take me longer on these crutches,” you tell the others.

But really, you just want the walk to be slow. To stretch the quiet between you and Reiner for as long as the night will allow.

The next day, everything goes to hell.

Hange calls you to their office. You limp your way there, assuming it’s just a check-in about your recovery or maybe a new assignment you can’t take yet. But the moment you step inside, your stomach drops.

Armin.

Levi.

Commander Erwin.

All waiting.

Your hands tighten on your crutches before you even think about it. The air feels heavier—like someone just shut a window in your chest.

You’ve been found out.

“What is this?” The words come out sharper than you mean, suspicion already coiling in your gut.

“We’ve received new information about the Female Titan from the last expedition,” Hange says quickly, hands raised in that exaggerated calming gesture of theirs. Relief flares in your chest, but it’s thin, brittle—ready to crack.

“Similarly to you,” Armin starts, his tone measured, “the Female Titan hesitated to kill me. She lifted my hood—almost like she wanted to see my face—and then let me go.”

Your mouth moves before you can think. “Like how she just stared at me while I was stuck under Honey.”

“Precisely.” Erwin’s voice cuts through the air like a clean blade. He stands off to the side, not looming, but somehow his presence swallows the room whole. “I’ve had my suspicions about a traitor for some time. The Female Titan’s identity may confirm them.”

Levi steps forward, eyes cutting into you like he’s trying to peel back your thoughts. “She’s skilled with ODM gear. Too skilled. She’s been trained within the Walls—probably in your own cadet corps. During the expedition, she used it to kill soldiers. Human-level precision.”

Your chest tightens. You know that skill. You’ve seen it—up close, across training fields, in sparring matches that left your arms numb. The timing. The stance. The way she moves.

And that face.

“…Annie.” The name leaves you before you can swallow it down.

Armin nods, grave. “I have a plan to confirm it. One way or the other.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because,” Hange says, stepping closer and laying a warm hand on your shoulder, “you were the only other person she refused to kill. Your cooperation could be the turning point.”

You look away. Annie’s face flickers in your mind—stone-eyed, unreadable, a wall you’ve never been able to see past. “…What’s the plan?”

Armin outlines it: lure her with a false story about Eren being in danger of execution, get her to agree to help, and lead her into an underground tunnel in Stohess. If she transforms, she’ll be trapped or crushed. Scouts hidden above and below to close in. Erwin commanding the seal.

You shake your head. “She won’t bite if it smells like a trap. Annie’s sharp. If anything feels wrong, she’ll cut her losses.”

Levi’s gaze is unblinking. “Then what?”

“Move fast. Make it feel urgent. Give her a goal she can’t ignore. If she’s locked on the target, she won’t notice the snare until it’s too late.”

The room goes still.

“When?” you ask finally.

Erwin’s eyes find yours. “As soon as possible—before she has a chance to disappear.”

“I’m not sure how much use I’ll be with both my legs still not fully healed,” you admit.

“The doctors say you’re making a speedy recovery,” Hange asserts firmly. “You should be able to walk with just one crutch in about a week. That’s when we execute.”

“Hange—” Levi starts, but Erwin cuts him off.

“Hange is right. There’s no use if she can barely walk.”

Silence settles again.

“Who else knows?” you ask.

“Trusted section commanders and skilled individuals—including your graduating class,” Levi answers.

You nod once. “Am I dismissed?”

“Yes,” Erwin says, sending you off with a single nod.

The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You fall into step beside Armin as you both head back through HQ.

“Do you have any idea why she might have spared us?” you ask, keeping your eyes forward.

“Not really,” Armin says after a beat. “We didn’t interact much before she left for the Military Police. A few words here and there. As for you—” he glances over, “—you two were closer. Especially with those early morning spars.”

You hum, half in agreement, half in thought. “Guess we just got lucky we never got on her bad side.”

Armin huffs a short laugh. “I guess so.”

Reiner catches up with Bertholdt outside the mess hall, throwing a glance over his shoulder before lowering his voice.

“Where’d she go?”

“She was called by Hange.” Bertholdt’s reply is flat, almost clipped.

Reiner blinks. “What’s with the hostility?” he asks, raising his hands in mock surrender, trying to keep things light.

Bertholdt doesn’t bite. “Reiner… we really need to talk.”

They walk until the noise of HQ dulls behind them, finding a quiet stretch by the entrance gate. Bertholdt turns, his expression caught between disbelief and anger.

“So, you two are…?” His brow arches, his tone both questioning and accusative.

Reiner exhales, shoulders slumping. He knew this is coming. “We’re together,” he admits, voice low, almost ashamed.

Bertholdt’s eyes widen. He lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Reiner says quickly, earnest. “I know what you’re thinking. But if I keep pushing her away, it’ll raise suspicions.”

Bertholdt’s mouth tightens. “Raise suspicions—or hurt her feelings?”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Reiner has no defense.

Bertholdt steps closer, his voice rising despite himself. “Are you forgetting why we’re here? Who we are? Who she is?” His words strike like blows, each heavier than the last. “When she finds out—and she will—do you think this little relationship is going to survive? Do you think you’ll survive any of this?”

Reiner’s jaw clenches. He looks away, eyes burning with the weight of Bertholdt’s truth. “…No,” he admits finally. His voice cracks at the edges. “But it can’t hurt to try.”

The words leave him gutted. Still, he can’t let them go.s

Bertholdt presses a hand against his forehead, massaging his temple as though trying to ease away the headache this conversation has become. His voice softens, not with forgiveness but fatigue. “…Just don’t let this get in the way of our goal. Alright? Home, Reiner. Remember?”

Reiner echoes the word under his breath, almost hollow. “…Home.”

Coming back from that suffocating meeting, your chest feels tight, but the moment you spot that familiar shock of blond hair rising above the crowd, something inside you lifts.

“Reiner!” you call, relief bubbling in your voice.

He turns. But something is wrong. His face—it isn’t his. It looks like him, but it doesn’t. Your steps falter, your pulse hammering so hard it feels like your ribs might splinter under the pressure.

Then the skin begins to melt away. His eyes, his nose, his mouth—all dissolving until there’s nothing left but smooth, faceless flesh.

Your blood runs cold. Every instinct screams at you to run, but your body betrays you. The world narrows to silence, the faceless Reiner stepping closer. Your skin crawls. You try force your legs to move—but when you look down, they’re gone. Just bandaged stumps where your knees should be.

Your breath catches. Panic roars in your chest. You try to will your body to heal, to fix itself, but nothing happens. When you look back up, he’s right in front of you, faceless-face-to-face.

And then—her voice. Freya’s voice, dripping from his body like poison.

“Sister, why’d you let my hand go? Why’d you let me die?”

Tears streak down your face. You open your mouth to scream, to fight back, but no sound comes.

Another voice replaces hers—Elias. Small. Weak. “Sister, why couldn’t you watch me? Why’d you let me die?”

Your heart wrenches, bile rising in your throat. Their voices echo and overlap, clawing into your skull—

Your eyes snap open.

Sweat clings to your forehead, damp strands of hair sticking to your skin. Your chest heaves in ragged gasps, like you’ve sprinted through snow with lungs full of glass. Slowly, carefully, you sit up. It’s been a while since the nightmares last hunted you. Two whole weeks. A record. But they’ve found you again.

The world tilts as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. You grab your crutches, hands trembling, and haul yourself upright.

The barracks are silent. Everyone else is still asleep. You need air.

You hobble through the still-dark compound until you reach your usual refuge behind the supply shed. But when you turn the corner, you stop. Reiner is already there, leaning against the wood, broad shoulders catching the pale moonlight. His eyes widen at the sight of you, surprise flashing into warmth. A small smile tugs at his lips, softening everything.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

You sigh, hopping to settle beside him, your back against the rough planks. “What gave it away?” you mutter, a half-laugh escaping you—thin, shaky, more like an exhale than a joke. “What’s keeping you up?”

“Oh, you know. The usual,” he says lightly.

“Ah, yes,” you reply, deadpan, “the never-ending thoughts about how our time here isn’t guaranteed and could end in an instant.”

Reiner huffs a laugh. “Something like that.”

The two of you sit in silence, staring at the pinprick stars littered across the dark sky. But silence isn’t peace—it’s weight. Your chest tightens, memories clawing at the edges of your mind. Finally, you break.

“I had a dream,” you whisper. “Well, more like a nightmare.”

Reiner doesn’t press, doesn’t rush. He just waits, eyes steady, shoulders squared toward you.

“I’ve never told you the full story of my family,” you continue, your voice trembling. “No one knows. Not really. Just Ymir, Krista… and Hange. But I’m tired of carrying it all alone. I think that’s why the nightmares won’t stop. I ignore it. I bury it. And it just comes back stronger.”

Reiner steps closer, his hand settling gently on your shoulder. His hazel eyes are endless, patient, searching. “Talk to me,” he says softly. “Let me carry what you’re willing to give. I’ll be fine, promise. My arms are big enough.”

The corner of your lips twitch, a small giggle breaking through despite yourself. “Always with the muscles,” you murmur, looking away.

“First… it was my brother, Elias.”

The words spill out. You tell him how you weren’t watching, how a hunting rifle went off, how his small body crumpled.

“Then my mom went crazy.” You describe the screams, the blood, the madness that swallowed her whole—the way she murdered your father before turning the blade on herself.

You talk about your grandmother, about Freya, about the frantic escape from Shiganshina. The stampede. The push and pull of desperate bodies. Your grandmother’s iron grip on your arm. Freya’s hand in yours—until it wasn’t.

“I lost her,” you choke out. “One second, she was there, screaming my name, and then she was gone. I let go. I let go, and she was gone.”

Tears burn your cheeks, hot and unstoppable.

Reiner’s hand covers yours, firm, grounding. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

You force yourself through the rest—the head wound, the hospital, waking up without Freya. The color-seeing condition. The doctors. Their voices all dull compared to the screaming in your memory.

When the last word leaves your lips, silence stretches long. Reiner doesn’t try to fill it. He just lets it breathe, holding space for you, shoulders broad enough to bear it.

“All my nightmares are about them,” you whisper finally. “But tonight… you were there too.”

Reiner blinks, surprised. “Me?”

You nod.

He hums, thoughtful. “Maybe it’s your fear spreading. Losing people. Maybe your mind’s pulling me into that cycle.”

“I never dream about Ymir or Krista.”

Reiner tilts his head, considering. “It’s different,” he says slowly. “You love them, sure. But there’s a difference between friends and… us.” He searches your face, careful. “The subconscious knows it. So maybe your mind is just… trying to scare you more. Our brains are cruel like that.”

He reaches out, thumb brushing away a tear. His touch lingers only a second, but it sends heat flooding your chest.

You exhale sharply through your nose, rolling your eyes. “My worst enemy being something I can’t escape is just… patronizing.”

“I can’t help you escape your mind,” Reiner says quietly. His hand slips from your cheek to your arm, steadying you, warm and firm. “But I can distract you from it.”

Your gaze lifts to his. You’re so close your neck cranes back to meet his eyes. You search them, flicking between one and the other, unable to stay still. His, though—they don’t move. They’re fixed, intense, unreadable.

Finally, he speaks. “You should get some sleep.” His hand drifts back up to your shoulder, gentle. “You need to heal.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, but you nod, gripping your crutches tight. “I’ll see you in the morning.” You sigh.

“I’ll probably be back here tomorrow night,” you add as you start to limp away.

“Then so will I.”

His chuckle follows you into the dark, low and warm, echoing in your chest long after he fades from sight.

“I’ll come back…”

Chapter Text

You’re walking the perimeter again, one crutch tucked under your arm, testing your weight. The gravel shifts beneath your boots, the muscles in your legs burning with each step. You grit your teeth, willing them to obey, willing yourself forward.

“I can walk,” you mutter when heavy footsteps fall into rhythm beside you.

Reiner’s shadow swallows yours as he matches your pace. “Doesn’t look like it,” he says, reaching out instinctively when your foot slips on a stone.

You wave him off, jaw set. “I’ve been doing this on my own for days.”

“And yet…” His hand snaps to your elbow when you stumble again, his grip steadying you, firm but not forceful.

Your pride sparks hot in your chest, a familiar burn. This time, though, you don’t shake him off. “Fine,” you breathe out through clenched teeth. “A little help.”

He smiles, small and almost smug. “That’s all I was asking for.”

Eventually, you both collapse under the shade of a tree just outside the courtyard. The bark presses rough against your back, cool relief seeping through your shirt. Wind hums through the branches, filling the silence between you.

Reiner leans forward on his knees, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the training field like it holds answers. “What about after?”

You blink. “After what?”

“After the Titans. After all of this.” His voice is quiet, as if saying it too loud might shatter the illusion of possibility.

The question catches you off guard. After isn’t something you’ve ever allowed yourself to imagine. Your throat tightens. “I… don’t know. Honestly, I don’t think there will be an after.”

A humorless huff leaves his chest. “Me neither.”

He doesn’t look at you. That silence that follows is heavier than the words, heavier than the both of you, a weight neither dares to lift.

That night, when the camp finally quiets, you slip past the rows of bunks and into the trees where the air is cool, damp with dew, cicadas buzzing in the dark. You stretch your legs, pushing further, harder, healing in sharp little bursts you’d never risk in daylight. Each step burns, but you keep going.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

The voice slices through the dark. You whip around, heart in your throat. Ymir leans lazily against a tree trunk, arms crossed, eyes sharp even in the shadows.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that,” you hiss.

“Don’t sneak out like this, then,” she shoots back without missing a beat. “You’re being reckless again. If someone else had caught you—”

“I need to be ready,” you snap, voice low but fierce. “I need to be healed enough for this mission. And I need to know if I can shift, if I’m—”

“Not now.” Her voice cuts like stone. Flat, firm. “Not with Annie hanging over everyone’s heads. You’d only paint a bigger target on your back. Wait until the dust settles.”

Your fists curl tight, nails digging into your palms. “And if the dust never settles?”

She doesn’t answer. Just stares at you with that half-knowing, half-pitying look, like she sees further ahead than you ever could. Then she turns, melts into the shadows, leaving the weight of her silence behind.

The day before the plan to expose Annie, the mess hall buzzes with forced chatter. Nervous laughter. Forks clattering against tin. Everyone’s wound tight, pretending they’re not.

Jean spots your limp as you ease yourself down with your tray. He smirks, biting into his bread. “If Armin, Mikasa, and Eren have to drag you along, you’re just gonna slow them down. Maybe sit this one out.”

You look up from your bowl, eyes flat. “I’m more than capable, thanks.”

His brow arches, like he’s ready to throw another jab, but something in your expression makes him think better of it. The table falls into an awkward quiet before conversation resumes, louder, faker than before.

After lunch, you linger by the door, waiting out the crowd. Reiner finds you there, his shadow blotting out the light.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You really okay with this?”

You arch a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re still hurt.” His voice drops lower, meant just for you. “You don’t need to put yourself in that kind of danger.”

You cross your arms, chin lifted. “If Annie wanted me dead, I’d already be dead. The fact I’m still here means she’s likely to hesitate again.”

Reiner shakes his head, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You don’t know Annie like I do.”

Your gaze sharpens, lingering on the crack in his composure. “And how exactly do you know her?”

For a heartbeat, something unspoken flashes in his eyes. Then he looks away. “Just… enough to worry.”

Unease coils low in your stomach, crawling into your chest. You can’t name it, not yet. But it lingers long after the conversation ends.

The air is sharp, biting against your cheeks, heavy with the weight of what’s about to unfold. No one’s speaking much. Just the scrape of boots against stone, the metallic clink of steel as gear is checked, re-checked, adjusted again. Every movement feels like it matters too much—like the sound alone could splinter the thin edge everyone’s standing on.

You’d already met with Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Erwin, and Levi earlier. The plan had been laid out in careful, precise strokes: find Annie, lure her, disarm her, take her in. Simple in words. Nearly impossible in practice.

HQ is alive with the churn of preparations. You thread through it, keeping your limp small, each step a careful balance of grit and denial. At the edge of the courtyard, you find him—Reiner, strapping on his harness with slow, deliberate motions. His stance is solid, squared like he’s bracing against the weight of the whole world, but when he glances up at you, you catch it—the quiet strain bleeding through the cracks in his expression.

“Morning,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

His eyes flicker down your frame, lingering on the abandoned crutch leaning against the wall, then on the way your weight shifts—uneven, but stubbornly held. “You sure you’re ready for this?” His voice is low, tight. “It’s not too late to stay back.”

You shake your head, firm, chin tipped high. “I’m ready. If I can stand, I can fight. I’m not letting Annie walk all over us. Not again. And besides—” you gesture toward the harness at your hips, the canisters gleaming, “—I’ve got my ODM gear if things get out of hand.”

Reiner studies you, jaw tight, like he’s weighing whether to push back. The silence between you stretches, taut. Then he exhales, shoulders easing just a fraction, his voice dipping softer. Warmer. “Then I have faith in you. More than anyone else.”

Something stirs in your chest, too sharp, too much. The silence sits between you again, not empty this time but full—thick with things neither of you want to name just yet. You should move. Armin, Mikasa, and Eren are waiting. You should walk away.

But before you can second-guess it, your body moves first. You step forward, sliding into him, arms curling around his middle in a quick, reckless hug. Your forehead brushes the hard line of his chest, the fabric of his uniform warm against your skin. His hands freeze at your back, caught in shock.

And then just as suddenly, you pull away, heat flooding your face. You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But when you look up, his eyes are on you—burning, wide, like he’s trying to communicate without words. Like you’ve just carved something into him he’ll never be able to scrub out.

It’s almost enough to stop you from turning away. Almost.

Instead, you square your shoulders, offer the faintest flicker of a smile, and move toward the others. Behind you, Reiner stays rooted to the spot, watching you go like you’re carrying the only truth left worth holding onto.

“Just come back to me in one piece,” He whispers to himself.

The four of you move in a careful line through Stohess, boots muffled by the morning bustle of the district. Green hoods hang low, disguising your faces from the soldiers and civilians threading past. Merchants shout over one another, carts creak along the cobblestones, children dart between legs with laughter that feels almost cruel in its normalcy. None of them know what’s about to happen—that the calm in their streets is a fragile glass about to shatter.

The weight of the mission presses down heavier than the cloak around your shoulders. Each step feels measured, rehearsed, like you’re balancing on the edge of a blade. Mikasa edges closer, her shoulder brushing yours beneath the cloak, her voice barely audible over the din.

“So,” she whispers, eyes never leaving the street ahead. “You and Reiner. What’s going on with that?”

You falter for just a moment, pulse spiking. The question isn’t sharp, but it cuts anyway. Part of you wants to lock it away, keep it safe where no one can pick it apart. But Mikasa has always been able to read you too easily. She doesn’t need you to answer—she already knows.

“We’re close again,” you say finally, forcing steadiness into your tone. That’s all you give. No more.

Through the shadow of her hood, Mikasa studies your face. Her expression is as unreadable as ever, but her silence speaks louder than anything else. She just nods once, quiet acceptance, and the group turns down a narrower street where the noise of the city thins into something tense and waiting.

The air tightens when Armin halts. His eyes flick to a narrow alley, sharp and assessing. There—blonde hair gleaming faintly in the strip of sunlight, Annie stands like she’s been waiting all along. Her posture is loose, casual, but her eyes are anything but. They sweep over the four of you with detached calm, unreadable, almost bored.

“Annie,” Armin calls lightly, his voice steady in a way that almost fools you. “We were hoping you’d help escort Eren. Covert transfer—through the underground passages.”

Annie’s brows lift a fraction, the barest flicker of curiosity crossing her face. “Why me? Don’t you have plenty of capable soldiers?”

Armin’s mouth opens, but you step forward before he can stumble through the explanation. Your legs tremble, but you plant your feet firm. “Because you’re the one we trust,” you say, louder than you mean to, but the words hang in the air anyway.

For a heartbeat, her gaze sharpens on you, searching your face like she’s peeling it apart for lies. Something in her expression wavers, almost imperceptibly, before her eyes flick down—catching the bandage peeking from your boot. They linger only a moment before rising back to your face. You can’t tell if she saw weakness or a vulnerability she didn’t expect.

The walk toward the tunnel is suffocating. The sun feels harsher, shadows deeper, and every step Eren takes rattles with nerves he can’t hide. You can hear the rhythm of his breathing falter, sharp exhales betraying how close to the edge he already is. Annie notices too—of course she does. Her lips curl faintly, not quite a smile.

“What’s wrong? Afraid of the dark, Eren?” she teases, her tone dry, humorless.

Eren stiffens but doesn’t answer, jaw locking tight. You want to step between them, but the group is already reaching the tunnel’s mouth.

The descent yawns before you, the steps carved into stone disappearing into thick shadows. Annie stops at the edge, her feet planted, gaze flicking into the darkness. The shift in her tone is subtle, but you hear it—the edge of irony wrapping around something much heavier.

“Strange,” she murmurs. “Feels too much like a cage.”

The silence that follows is brutal. The sound of your boots on stone as you, Armin, Eren, and Mikasa step into the stairwell echoes far too loud. The shadows swallow you whole, the walls pressing in. Behind, Annie hasn’t moved.

You glance up toward her silhouette against the light. “Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic, Annie,” you say, forcing a wry edge into your voice. “You can fight like a bear but can’t handle closed spaces? I don’t buy it.”

Annie’s lips twitch, but it’s not amusement—it’s a practiced mask. “I know. Doesn’t really fit me, does it? Being scared of dark, tight spaces.” Her words are airy, almost mocking herself, but the way she lingers tells you the act is running out of time.

“Come on, Annie,” Armin says gently, coaxing. His voice is careful, calculated, yet desperate underneath. “We’ll all be right here. I know you’re scared, but we have to get Eren out of here.”

Annie doesn’t move. Her eyes catch the sliver of sunlight breaking through the rooftops, and for just a second, you see her jaw tighten.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, but there’s nothing apologetic in her tone. “I can’t do it. I can’t go in there.”

The air cracks.

“Stop being so goddamn stubborn and just get in here!” Eren yells, his voice ricocheting through the tunnel, too sharp, too loud.

“Eren, stop yelling—someone will hear you.” Mikasa’s hand grips his arm, voice low and fierce, dragging him back.

You exhale slowly, the pressure mounting, heart slamming against your ribs.

Annie forces a thin smile, scanning the street around. “Don’t worry, Mikasa. I’m sure it’s fine. It seems the area is completely deserted.”

Ss she says it, you can feel it—the glass is seconds from shattering. You flinch internally, muscles coiled tight as a bowstring. There’s no way Annie is coming down here now. Not after the hesitation, the cracks in her voice, the way her eyes keep cutting to the tunnel like it’s a grave.

You start preparing contingencies in your head, a hundred escape routes flashing all at once. Do you sprint up the stairs to drag her down by force? Shove Mikasa, Armin, and Eren deeper into the tunnel and lock Annie out? Try to transform here and now, reveal what you’ve been hiding—the truth that your legs have long since healed, the limp a carefully maintained lie? The only thing you know for certain is this: you’re the last wall between the Female Titan and your friends.

Annie’s voice cuts through the tension, calm in a way that makes your stomach drop.

“It hurts me, truly. I’m hurt by the way you’re looking at me now. Do you really think you can’t trust me, Prism?”

Your eyes meet hers. The world goes still. For a moment it’s just like those mornings in training—when you’d circle each other in the sparring ring, waiting, waiting, each daring the other to move first.

Your fists clench, nails digging crescents into your palms.

“Annie. Why did you have Marco’s gear?”

Her reply is flat, detached. “I found it.” A pause, almost deliberate. “I found it and took it.”

Your throat feels tight. “Tell me then… were you the one who killed Sawney and Bean?”

She doesn’t blink. “No one knows.” Then her head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly. “But if you’ve suspected this for so long… why are you barely acting now?”

The words sting, sharp with accusation. You step forward, voice cracking with anger and something that feels too much like grief.

“We didn’t want to believe we were right. Even now—I don’t want to believe what Armin told me is true. So please, Annie. Just come down here!”

Her gaze hardens. “My sparing you is what brought us here in the first place. I wouldn’t have if I thought you’d try to corner me like this.”

Your chest twists, heat burning behind your eyes.

Eren can’t hold back, desperation in every line of his face. “Annie! Just tell us this is some kind of sick joke. We’ll forgive you. Just—please—come down here!”

Armin adds his plea, voice tight. “We can still work together. Please, don’t make this choice.”

But Annie just shakes her head, slowly, almost mournfully. “I already told you. I can’t go down there.”

In the blink of an eye, Mikasa snaps. Her hood falls back, blades flashing in the sunlight as she lunges forward, rage simmering just beneath the surface.

“I’ve heard enough. I’m going to carve you up again, you Titan!”

Your reflexes take over—you reach for your own blades, steel whispering free. They gleam under the pale morning sun, the air so tense it feels like the whole city is holding its breath.

And then Annie laughs.

It’s jarring, wrong—because you’ve never heard her laugh like this. The sound cuts through the silence, a single sharp break in her mask. She looks at you, directly, her gaze so steady it hurts.

“You know… I’m glad I could be a friend to you.”

Her words land like a blade in your chest.

“But,” she continues, voice colder now, “it looks like you’ve won your bet—for now at least. So I’m going to gamble too.”

Her hand rises, slow and deliberate, and sunlight catches on the ring she never once took off. The spike glints wickedly, poised above her palm.

Time collapses into a single instant.

You shove your blades away, lunging forward—not at Annie, but at your own friends. Your arm hooks Mikasa’s waist, yanking her back before she can strike. Your other hand snags Armin’s cloak, dragging him with you as you shove Eren hard down the tunnel steps.

“Let’s go!” you bark, voice raw.

The cut is quick—just a flick of her hand. A drop of blood splashes, and then the world erupts.

White light detonates from Annie, searing, blinding, burning itself into your eyes. A deafening crack splits the air as the transformation explodes outward.

The ground convulses, stone splitting beneath your boots. Windows shatter in a spray of glass. Buildings groan and buckle as if the city itself can’t stand against the force that’s just been unleashed.

And then she’s there.

Gone is the girl with the quiet voice and guarded eyes. In her place towers the Female Titan, howling, her scream tearing through the district like a storm. The sound rattles your bones, sends civilians scattering in panic.

Stohess erupts in chaos—soldiers shouting, people screaming, stone and dust raining down as war swallows the heart of the city.

Chapter Text

The memories are broken shards, cutting deep as they spin in your head. White flashes of light. Walls splitting open like rotten fruit. People screaming, their voices swallowed by thunder. Annie’s titan hand crashing down, and Eren—bloodied, crumpled, maybe dead—until he wasn’t. Until fury itself dragged him back to his feet, molten and monstrous.

Annie’s precision carves into him, every strike like a drill spar replayed but deadlier, bones cracking under her fists. She fights like she always trained—calm, exacting, merciless. The Survey Corps tries to pin her down with lines, harpoons, nets. For a heartbeat, it looks like it’ll work. Then steel snaps like thread. Annie tears herself free, a storm in human form.

Military Police scatter in blind panic, their cries sharp over the thunder of collapsing streets. “Erwin’s lost his mind! He’s leveled half the district!” But Erwin doesn’t flinch, barking orders while stone rains down, buildings fold, and civilians run screaming.

And then—Eren changes.

He stops breaking. He stops falling. His wounds close faster than Annie can open them. Rage burns through him, twisting his movements into something feral, violent, unstoppable. He doesn’t fight like a soldier anymore—he fights like an animal cornered, claws ripping, teeth bared. Annie falters. For the first time, she falters.

Desperation drives her. She claws her way toward Wall Sina, every step carving trenches into the street.

“Not this time.” Your breath hitches, fear sharpening into resolve.

You and Mikasa launch in unison, ODM lines hissing, blades drawn. Side by side, you slash into her hands. Flesh parts, steam bursts hot against your skin. Her fingers sever in an arc of blood and vapor. Annie’s scream rattles the air as she loses her grip, plummeting. She crashes into the street below, shattering stone, dust billowing up like smoke.

Eren is on her instantly, roaring, fury incarnate. He raises a fist to end her—

But Annie starts to cry.

Through the steam, her titan face fractures into something human. Her eyes, wide and wet. Her voice breaking. Annie Leonhart—not the monster, not the enemy, but the cadet who used to sit two benches down at lunch. Who sparred until your arms ached. Who laughed in the courtyard that one morning, sunlight catching on her hair.

You freeze. Everything in you locks, even as Mikasa surges forward, blades raised.

Before anyone can strike, Annie slams her palm against her chest.

The crystal blossoms around her in a flash of white. Hardened. Sealed. Untouchable.

The street is rubble. Fires spit and crackle. Civilians sob in the distance. Stohess is broken, bleeding. And Annie—she’s gone, trapped inside her own cocoon.

Your chest heaves, blades trembling in your hands. Around you, the others regroup—Mikasa at your side, Armin pale and shaken, Eren snarling inside what’s left of his titan shell. Hange and Levi land near Erwin, who’s already issuing clipped orders despite the dust still rising.

For the first time, silence creeps in. Thin. Fragile. The kind that comes after storms.

And then the Military Police flood the street.

“Seize the commander!”

Hands drag Erwin away before you can blink. Others swarm Annie’s crystal, shouting claims of jurisdiction, victory, control.

“Wait—what are you doing?!” Your voice rips out raw, furious. “She’s ours! She’s—”

“Let him go!” Mikasa snaps, stepping forward.

Armin and Eren both protest, desperate, their words tangled in the noise. But Levi’s voice cuts clean through the chaos, sharp and cold.

“Stand down.”

The command freezes you harder than the crystal did.

Hange’s voice follows, steadier but heavy. Their eyes never leave Annie’s sealed form. “We’ll get another chance. Not here. Not now.”

You shake your head, throat tight, but there’s nothing you can do.

So you stand there, trembling, blades limp at your sides, and watch as the Military Police march off with your commander and Annie—your friend, your betrayer—while the ruins of Stohess smolder around you.

The ride back to HQ is unbearably silent. The wagon jolts over uneven stone, the rattle of wheels and the clink of gear louder than anyone’s voice. Not even Eren has it in him to rant about Erwin’s arrest—his fists are clenched on his knees, jaw tight, but for once, his mouth stays shut.

“You held up pretty good out there,” Hange finally breaks the silence, their voice light but strained at the edges. “I take it the ODM gear kept the pressure off your legs?”

You lift your head, realizing your fingers have been digging crescents into your palms. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Honestly, I couldn’t really even feel them. Must’ve been the adrenaline blocking out the pain.”

Hange hums, satisfied enough. No one else speaks. The silence swallows the wagon again, heavier than before.

Back at HQ, the atmosphere is as grim as it always is after a mission—the kind where too many didn’t come back. Boots drag over the stone floor, voices low, the smell of smoke and sweat clinging to the air. You’re handed a crutch on your way off the wagon, “just in case.” You roll your eyes, playing the part of still-fragile when in truth your leg hasn’t twinged once since the fight.

The others crowd around quickly. Familiar faces ask the same questions, relief threaded with worry. Sasha chimes in between mouthfuls of bread, admitting she almost choked when she saw the Female Titan burst through a building. You snort, the absurdity of it breaking through your exhaustion for a heartbeat.

But then you notice—Reiner isn’t in the circle. He’s a little ways off with Bertholdt, both of them subdued, their posture too rigid for simple fatigue. Bertholdt glances at Reiner before looking down, the exchange faint but sharp enough to stick in your gut.

You excuse yourself, weaving through the crowd until you reach them. They see you coming. Bertholdt’s eyes flick between you and Reiner before he takes the hint, muttering something and slipping away.

Reiner steps forward immediately, relief softening his features. His hand lands on your arm—warm, steady, hesitant. “Oh, thank god you’re okay. You’ve got your crutch again—are you sure you’re alright?”

You can hear the concern beneath the words. You can feel it in his grip. For a second, it softens something in your chest you didn’t realize was so tense.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” you say, glancing after Bertholdt. “They just want to make sure I’m not putting unnecessary strain on my leg.” You pause, then lower your voice. “Can I talk to you? Alone. Just for a second.”

Reiner catches the edge in your tone, nods once, then shoots Bertholdt a look that sends him walking off without a word.

“What’s up?” he asks, both hands settling gently on your arms, scanning you as if he’ll find whatever’s wrong written in bruises or cuts. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You rest your hand against his forearm, not pushing him away. His skin is warm, the muscle beneath tense. You don’t want to move it.

“It’s about… Annie,” you begin, hesitating. “You probably already know she locked herself in some kind of crystal. But that’s not—” You cut yourself off, embarrassed to even give voice to what’s been gnawing at you.

He tilts his head, brows knitting. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your chin, lifting until your eyes meet his. Heat floods your face at the closeness, at the gentleness in his gaze.

“I just…” Your voice wavers. “Were you and Annie ever a thing?”

For a beat, his expression freezes—then shifts into surprised laughter, not mocking, just incredulous. “What? Me and Annie? What gave you that impression?”

“Don’t patronize me. I’ll kick your ass with my crutch.”

That earns another chuckle, low and soft. “Oh, I’m sure you could.”

Silence hangs for a moment, your own words tasting childish on your tongue. “I don’t know. You two were just… close. And you said something this morning. And she—she said something a while ago that didn’t make sense. It just set me off, I guess.”

Reiner shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “Nothing Annie said ever made sense.”

You huff, cheeks burning. You feel stupid—jealous in the middle of everything, like some prepubescent girl despite being nearly grown.

Reiner clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to admit this because, honestly, it’s embarrassing, but… I’ve never dated anyone until you. You’re my first.”

The words knock the air from your lungs. A warmth spreads through your chest, chasing away the storm clouds in your head. Still, guilt pricks at you.

“I’m sure you already know this, but… I had another boyfriend. Early training.”

“I heard,” he says, a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. “From the gossip mill.”

“Yeah. It was young. Stupid. I’m still… a little unsure. Naïve about this kind of thing. So… bear with me.”

His smile grows. “We can both learn together.”

He pulls you in then, careful, almost tentative. The hug is light but firm, his warmth seeping into your bones. Your heart hammers so hard you’re sure he can feel it. You wrap your arms around his middle, pressing your forehead to his chest.

For the first time since the city crumbled, you let yourself breathe.

It’s been a week since Stohess.

The city still smells faintly of smoke—burned wood and scorched stone. The walls near the inner gate are gouged with Titan-sized scars, chunks of masonry piled like broken teeth. Some of the buildings still lean sideways, half-collapsed and bound off with rope by Military Police who pretend to know what they’re doing.

The surviving Scouts have been confined to the temporary barracks while the MPs “handle the investigation.” It feels more like being quarantined than debriefed.

Annie hasn’t moved. Her crystal sits locked away somewhere underground—untouchable, unbreakable, like a tombstone with her name on it. Erwin’s still detained. Levi and Hange vanish for hours into meetings that never seem to end.

Things are quiet. Too quiet.

You wake before dawn. Old habits, you guess.

Your body just… remembers.

The room is dim, walls breathing with the pale gray of early morning. Everyone else is still asleep—Mikasa curled tight, Krista half-buried under her blanket, Sasha snoring softly across the room. You ease out of bed, careful not to wake them, and step out.

You stretch your arms, roll your neck until it pops, then shift your weight between your legs. They’ve been fully healed for days now, but you still fake a limp when anyone’s looking. It feels safer that way—to keep that ghost alive.

You stretch until your joints stop complaining. The silence presses in. You hate it.

It feels too much like being the last one left alive.

You’re halfway through another set when a low, familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“You ready?”

You jolt, heartbeat skipping as you spin around—half expecting an ambush, half something worse.

But it’s just Reiner.

He looks barely awake—hair sticking up in every direction, uniform shirt wrinkled, eyes still fogged with sleep. He’s rolling his shoulders, cracking his knuckles like he’s shaking off a dream.

“Ready for what?”

“To get your ass handed to you.”

He steps into the clearing, arms crossed, chin tilted just enough to challenge.

You plant your hands on your hips, smirking despite yourself.

“I thought we were done with the whole rivalry thing.”

“We are,” he says, a faint wolfish smile tugging at his mouth. “Doesn’t mean I can’t put you in your place.”

Your pulse flutters, heat prickling your neck. You stretch one arm across your chest—part warm-up, part cover.

“Alright, big guy. Am I offense or defense?”

“Defense. You’re better at that. And I need a challenge.”

“Oh, I’ll give you a challenge, alright.”

The spar starts light—testing distance, testing patience. Dust swirls at your feet.

You lunge; he sidesteps. He swings; you duck. Breath and rhythm sync in an unspoken tempo, boots scraping, air shifting between hits. There’s laughter in it, rough and real.

“You’re slow today,” you taunt, grinning.

“Didn’t know I had to impress you,” he fires back, sharp grin cutting through the chill.

You press harder. He matches your pace. The tempo climbs—less play, more edge.

You pivot, catch his weight, use his momentum to drive your elbow into his chest just hard enough to make him grunt and stumble back.

“Whoa there,” he laughs, catching his breath. “Didn’t you just get out of the infirmary? Would hate to put you back.”

Before you can reply, he moves fast, too fast, grabbing your forearm and twisting, pulling you flush against him.

One smooth, practiced motion.

“Got ya,” he murmurs near your ear.

The sound hits deeper than it should.

His voice is low, quiet, vibrating right against your spine. You freeze, the heat from his chest bleeding through your shirt, his heartbeat steady and strong.

“Oh, you got me alright,” you manage, rolling your eyes to cover the way your breath catches.

He doesn’t move right away. His hand lingers, his breath warm against your hair.

“Someone’s got attachment issues,” you tease.

He chuckles—a low rumble that starts in his chest and settles somewhere under your skin. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I probably do.”

When he finally lets go, you almost miss it—the warmth, the weight, the way it felt safe and dangerous at the same time.

You turn back to him, both of you a little breathless, the air between you charged.

You grab your jacket from the ground, brushing dust from the sleeves. “I think Harolson said we’re doing basics today,” you say. “It’s gonna be a pain in the ass.”

“You got that right,” Reiner says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sure, the day’ll drag, but at least it’s not Stohess.”

“I don’t know. I’d rather have Stohess again—it was exhilarating.”

“You sound like an adrenaline junkie.”

“Maybe I am.”

The sun finally crests over the Wall, spilling gold light across the yard. It catches on the edge of his hair, turning it almost amber. For a heartbeat, he looks pained—not physically, but somewhere deeper. Haunted. Like the sunlight itself hurts.

You almost tell him he should smile more, but instead, you nudge his arm and say lightly,

“Next time, I’ll win.”

“You can try,” he says—and this time, the grin actually reaches his eyes.

After breakfast, the mess hall hums with morning noise—spoons clattering, boots scuffing, voices overlapping like static.

Steam rises off tin plates, sunlight slicing through the high windows in sharp, warm stripes. The kind of morning that almost feels normal.

Almost.

You and Reiner haven’t really split since dawn.

Training prep, cleaning gear, breakfast line—you’ve been moving in quiet sync without ever saying it out loud. You’d grab a ladle, he’d already have the bowl ready. You’d reach for the ration, he’d slide it closer without looking up.

It’s seamless, unconscious. Natural in a way that makes people notice.

When the meal’s over and the room starts to empty, you stretch, stifling a yawn.

“I’m heading to the river,” you say, voice light. “Need to wash up before drills.”

“Don’t take too long, well all be needed soon,” Reiner calls.

Sunlight flashes off your hair as you step out the door, the rest of the hall watching your back fade into the green treeline beyond the barracks.

Reiner’s still sitting at the table, turning his empty cup in his hands, when Bertholdt wanders over. Arlo—one of the new recruits, all sharp grins and too much energy—tags along.

“Wow,” Bertholdt says, tone deliberately casual. “You two sure got comfortable quick.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Arlo adds, grinning as he elbows Reiner. “You’re practically glued together these days.”

Reiner just shrugs, trying for indifferent.

“It’s nothing crazy. We like each other.”

“Sure, buddy,” Arlo says, smirking. “Where’d she go, anyway?”

“Oh, just for a quick wash in the river,” Reiner replies, scraping the last of his plate clean.

That’s when Bertholdt’s brow creases.

“Really? By herself?”

Reiner blinks. “Yeah? Why?”

Arlo whistles under his breath, glancing toward the door.

“You didn’t go with her, man?”

Reiner huffs, setting his cup down with a little too much force.

“Hey, we’re not there yet—”

“No, not like that,” Arlo cuts him off, hands raised. “I’m not saying go make it steamy. I’m saying the opposite.”

Reiner stares at him, trying to read the shift in his tone.

“What the hell are you on about?”

Bertholdt exhales, voice lower now.

“He’s saying it’s not safe. Not with everything that’s happened. Especially with that limp of hers still healing.”

“And that crazy ex they never found,” Arlo adds—this time serious. The smirk’s gone.

The words hit like a blow to the gut.

Reiner’s chest tightens. His stomach sinks.

You shouldn’t be out there alone.

Not with the state things are in.

Not with people still whispering about what happened in Stohess—about traitors, Titans, disappearances.

But what’s he supposed to do?

Go tearing after you like some paranoid boyfriend? Draw attention to both of you?

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to mask the flicker of panic under his skin.

“Well, it’s not like I can just run after her without making it weird. I don’t wanna— I don’t know—cross a line. She’s independent. I’m sure she asked Ymir or Krista to tag along.”

“Ymir, maybe,” Arlo says, already smirking again. “But Krista? No way. And aren’t YOU her boyfriend?”

Reiner grimaces, jaw tightening.

“We haven’t really… given it a label yet.”

Arlo laughs, shaking his head as he walks off.

“Oh, you’re so screwed, man.”

Bertholdt stays behind, quieter. Watching him.

He waits until Arlo’s out of earshot before speaking.

“Don’t listen to him,” he says softly. “But… he’s not wrong. It’s not safe out there. you never know who could be lurking for following. And we need her alive.”

Reiner glances toward the treeline where you disappeared minutes ago. The sunlight’s bright, the air calm—but his gut won’t settle. His hands twitch.

He tells himself you’re fine.

You’re always fine.

But the longer he stares at that tree line, the harder it is to believe it.

It’s about ten minutes later when you come around the side of the barracks, hair damp and clinging to your neck, a dry cloth in hand. You’re rubbing the last of the river water from your hair when you spot him—Reiner—leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the treeline like he’s waiting for something to come out of it.

He looks stressed.

“Hey,” you call, slowing as you approach. “You okay?”

He startles slightly, then straightens. His eyes dart over you once—your damp hair, your sleeves rolled up, the droplets still tracing down your collarbone. He swallows hard and looks away, trying to play it cool.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?” he asks too quickly.

You raise an eyebrow, grinning a little.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why? You look like you’re about to tell me there’s another breach.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Nothing’s wrong, really. Just—something was brought to my attention.”

Something about his tone makes your pulse skip. Brought to his attention? For a split second, your brain races through worst-case scenarios—did he find out something about your past, your Titan?

“What is it?” you ask, careful, neutral.

He looks up, meeting your eyes, and blurts—

“I was talking to Bertholdt and Arlo. They said it’s not safe for you to be going all the way to the river by yourself.”

You blink, thrown off. He keeps going, voice rambling a little now.

“I don’t wanna be that guy who tries to control your life, I know you like to do things on your own, but I couldn’t help it—I got worried. I thought maybe you took Ymir or Krista with you, but when I realized you didn’t, it just—” he sighs, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m being overbearing.”

You just stare at him for a second, cloth frozen halfway through your hair. Then your face softens.

“Wait, that’s it?”

He frowns. “What do you mean, that’s it?”

You laugh softly, eyes crinkling.

“I just thought you were about to lecture me about something serious. But—Reiner, that’s… really sweet.”

His brow furrows, confused. “Sweet?”

“Yeah,” you say, grinning now. “It’s cute, actually.”

That hits him harder than a punch. His eyes widen, shoulders stiffening. He looks down at you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to, his hand flexing unconsciously at his side.

You hold his gaze for a few long seconds—too long—before you finally look away, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up your neck.

“Anyway,” you say quickly, tucking the cloth into your belt. “I should go to the stables. I need to get assigned a new horse.”

Reiner just nods, a little dazed. “Right. Yeah.”

You start to walk away, the wind toying with your hair.

“Next time,” you call over your shoulder, “I’ll bring Ymir with me—just to put you at ease.”

Reiner exhales through a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face as you disappear toward the stables.

“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “That’d… help.”

But the small, stupid smile tugging at his mouth says he’s already gone.