Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood. Dust. Desolation. Violence. Revenge. Torture. Injustice….
Too many words could be used to describe what had just unfolded.

Armin’s mind wouldn’t quiet—not after the transformation, not after getting beaten again by Eren. Everything had gone still, but none of it felt right. There was no peace in the silence, only dread. He didn’t know where his friends were, or if they’d made it out at all.

He tried to remember. Tried to move. Tried to tear himself out of the damn Colossal Titan’s husk, to breathe, to open his eyes. But even the simplest things now felt impossible. His body was shutting down.

He was so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being afraid. Tired of being weak, of getting crushed by those always stronger than him. Tired of being told how to live.

And then—he remembered the dream.

Eren had come to him. Calm. Cold. Detached. He had laid out the plan without flinching—mass murder on a global scale, all for their sake. Told Armin why he’d treated them like strangers, like enemies. Why he pushed them away. So they could move on. So they could hate him.

But something about it felt off.

A low groan escaped Armin’s lips. Blood stung his face, mixing with sweat and dust. He looked filthy. He was filthy—outside, and in.

Everyone was gone—or so he believed. There was no relief in surviving, no reason to celebrate. This was the aftermath of the Rumbling: eighty percent of humanity, wiped out without exception. It didn’t matter whose side they were on—Eren had spared no one, no face, no name, no nation.

And Armin knew. He had known what was coming. He understood what Eren intended to do… and he hadn’t stopped it. Worse—he had let it happen.

Because deep down, a part of him had believed it too. That those beyond the Walls deserved this. That after everything they'd done, this was justice.

Now, silence was all that remained. No voices. No footsteps. No one left to blame.

This was his punishment. Because whether he liked it or not—he had been part of the Rumbling.

Dust clung to the air, thick and unmoving, as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the haze. It gave the scene an apocalyptic glow. Armin couldn’t see beyond the length of his own arm, so he assumed the worst—that he was alone. The only survivor of this catastrophic genocide.

But then, faint sounds cut through the silence. Sobs, whispers, cracked voices trying to form words.
And then—screams.

To anyone else, it would’ve been horrifying. But to Armin, it was a kind of relief. Proof that he hadn’t been swallowed completely by death. That someone else had made it. Still, his head was spinning. He felt like he could black out at any second.

And then he saw it.

As the dust began to settle, the landscape revealed itself—and the sight tore the air from his lungs. It was like being punched straight through the gut, a hole ripped in his chest where his heart used to be.

A field of blood, bones. Twisted corpses crushed into one another without care or meaning. It wasn’t a battlefield—it was a graveyard born from madness. Even after everything, Armin struggled to believe it. That Eren had truly done this. That this wasn’t some distorted nightmare. Because deep inside, he still wanted to believe there was time—to reach him, to save him from whatever darkness had taken hold.

He tried to move, but pain surged through him. He was still sitting atop the remains of his Colossal Titan. His legs were numb, his circulation cut off under his own weight. But he had to try. He had to.

Because through all the chaos, one thought remained clear.

Mikasa.

He had seen her jump from Falco’s back, moments before she charged through Eren’s mouth. That was the last time he saw her. The rest was a blur.

Did she really do it?
Did she kill him?

And if she did… how would he feel?

Pain? Guilt? Anger?

He didn’t know. And that terrified him.

Because if Mikasa had been forced to end it—end Eren—then Armin knew he wouldn’t be able to carry it. Not emotionally. Not morally.

Eren was his best friend. His brother in all but blood. And despite everything—despite the bodies, the terror, the burning world—Armin still believed there had been another way.

So many other ways.
So many chances.

And Eren had chosen this.
Slaughter.

But… was it the only way?

That was the question still echoing in Armin’s mind. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer.

He wandered without direction, his steps slow and aimless, like a hollow shell of himself—nothing more than a body moving forward because it didn’t know what else to do. All around him, those who had been Titans just seconds ago were beginning to return to human form, some conscious, others collapsed and breathless, their faces bearing the horror of what they had become. The fact that any of them were still alive was a miracle in itself, but not one worth celebrating, not when the cost had been so high and the blood was still warm on the ground.

Every breath Armin took felt jagged and painful, his vision swam with exhaustion, and his body threatened to give out with every passing second. There was a deafening silence inside him, a numbness that was growing too heavy to carry, and yet his mind kept circling the same thought over and over again—Mikasa should have come back by now. She was strong, stronger than most, and if anyone could survive this, it would be her. But the longer he waited, the more uncertainty began to sink in, until a different kind of dread started to take root.

What if she hadn’t made it?

What if she had done what she had to do—killed Eren—and died because of it?

And if that was true, what was worse? The idea that Eren was dead, or the fact that Armin had failed him in the one thing he’d asked of him—just before wiping away his memories? The weight of that question alone was enough to make him feel like he might collapse. He would never forgive himself if that was the case.

Then, someone called his name.

“Armin!”

The voice was so sudden, so sharp, it cut through the fog in his mind like a blade. At first, he thought it must have been a hallucination—his guilt manifesting as some cruel illusion to torment him—but there was something too real about it. In that voice, he could hear fear. Not fear of death or danger, but the kind of fear only someone close to him could carry—his fear.

He stopped walking. Even the wind seemed to halt, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The mist around him thickened, curling in on itself like something alive, closing in on him until it felt like he was no longer standing in reality, but in a space between worlds—one where time and consequence didn’t apply.

And then he saw him.

Eren.

Standing right there in front of him, solid, whole, and unmistakably alive. His clothes were still the same, the tattered and dust-covered ones he had worn the last time they faced each other, like not a single second had passed since that day. He looked exhausted, worn down by everything he had done and everything he had lost, and yet, eerily untouched—no scars on his face, no signs of his final transformation, as if the version of him that had become the Founding Titan had never existed at all.

Something inside Armin stirred in panic, and without realizing, his fingers reached up to his own face, searching for damage, some proof of the nightmare they had all endured. But he found nothing—no burns, no blood, not even a scratch. Their faces were clean, almost disturbingly normal, and yet their eyes said otherwise. Both of them were worn and hollow, beaten down by pain too great to name, still carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders with nowhere to set it down.

None of it made sense.

But before Armin could speak, before he could even begin to form a thought, he noticed something else—something that turned the ground beneath him to ice.

Eren was holding someone in his arms.

A body.

Small, limp, and fragile, like the slightest movement would cause it to shatter into a million pieces.

He didn’t need to get closer.

He didn’t need to ask.

He already knew.

It all crashed down on him in a single instant. His scream ripped from his chest without warning, long and broken, a sound not made for human ears—a cry of pure devastation that tore through the stillness and shattered whatever was left of his composure. It wasn’t enough. No sound could ever be enough to express the loss he felt in that moment. His throat burned, his lungs seized, and tears flooded his eyes so fast it blinded him. His entire body was shaking. His heart felt like it had been torn from his chest and thrown to the ground.

He dropped to his knees.

He couldn’t hold himself up any longer. Not when Mikasa’s lifeless body hung from the arms of the very person who had murdered most of humanity.

Of all the people who could have survived—why him?

Why Eren?

Armin had once believed that, somehow, there would be a way to bring the three of them back together, to return to something resembling friendship, even if broken and stained. He had clung to that hope like a lifeline, even when it made no sense. But now, with her gone and Eren still standing, that dream collapsed into ash.

The gravity of what had happened was too much to bear. Armin couldn’t tell right from wrong anymore, couldn’t understand what justice meant or if it ever existed in the first place. He was sinking too deep, consumed by the same hopelessness he had always tried to fight, the same belief that had haunted him since childhood.

In the end, the strong still crushed the weak.

And no matter how hard he tried, Armin had never been strong enough.

“Armin…”

Eren’s voice was raw, broken. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, still cradling Mikasa’s body in his arms as if she were the last living piece of the world he had destroyed. His tears hadn’t yet fallen, but they lingered, trembling in his eyes, held back by something far heavier than grief.

Armin gasped.

Something inside him—something wordless and primal—compelled him to move, to stagger forward through the fog and ash, toward the broken silhouette of his once best friend, toward Mikasa, toward the truth. His limbs were heavy, numb, but his heart was lurching violently in his chest, pushing him closer with every beat. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but hope—faint and foolish—still clung to his ribs. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe this was still a nightmare, and she would wake, and they’d all be together again, as it was supposed to be.

But then he looked down.

And the breath was ripped from his lungs before he even realized he’d stopped breathing.

He couldn’t recognize her.

Blood soaked her from head to toe, coating her skin like a second layer, thick and black in the dying light. Her face was pale beneath the stains, peaceful in a way that made it all so much worse. Armin’s eyes traveled downward, trembling as he took in the wound just below her chest—deep, gaping, torn wide open. Blood still oozed from it in pulses, and through the rupture, he could see the flickering beat of her heart, faint and erratic, like a dying signal from a fading world.

He stood frozen, overwhelmed by the silence that followed.

The wind had stopped. The noise was gone. It felt as though the earth itself had been suspended in time, afraid that even a single breath would shatter what remained of humanity’s soul.

Eren, wordless, lowered her gently onto the ground, his hand supporting her head with a care that stood in violent contrast to everything he had done. He moved with tenderness, with sorrow, as if this one act might redeem him. As if holding her delicately could somehow outweigh the deaths of millions—men, women, children, animals, entire civilizations flattened under his command. No one had been spared.

And yet here he was, still breathing.

At first, Armin felt something close to pity, watching the way Eren trembled. There was something human in his expression, something real in his sorrow. But as memory came rushing back—clear and unfiltered—so did the truth.

He remembered everything.

The plan. The betrayal. The way Eren had used them all like pawns on a board he’d already flipped.

And in that moment, Armin realized something that made him sick.

Eren had never truly been his friend.

Not in the way he had believed. Not in the way that mattered.

He had been part of Eren’s story, part of his path to destruction, a role to play in a scheme far bigger than any of them had known. Armin wanted to deny it, to bury the thought and preserve what was left of their childhood bond—but the bitterness was there, and it was growing too fast to ignore.

Still, despite everything, despite the betrayal and the death and the lies, a part of him held on.

Because that was who Armin was. He had always believed in second chances, always believed that hearts could change.

But watching Eren now—crouched over Mikasa like a grieving lover, showing the kind of care he had denied her again and again—Armin felt something snap inside him.

How dare he hold her like that now, after everything he had done?

How dare he pretend to mourn her when he was the reason she had suffered in the first place?

Armin couldn’t let it continue. Not while there was even the smallest chance she could still be saved.

“Get away from her!”

The words burst from him with more force than he intended, sharp and cracked, his voice laced with rage that tasted like poison. It was the first thing he’d managed to say, and it tore through the silence like a blade.

Eren looked up, startled—but Armin didn’t care.

Why was he still alive? Why did he get to stay here, after all that had happened? Was it better this way? Was it part of some grand cosmic punishment, or had the world simply gone mad?

Armin had no answers.

All he knew was that Eren’s hands—the same hands that had crushed children and torn cities from the earth—had no right to touch her. Not now. Not ever again.

Why was he acting this way? So gentle, so broken, so afraid—where had this side of him been when Mikasa had tried to reach him, when she’d bled for him, when she had loved him even after everything?

Why now?

Why did he only remember how to care after it was already too late?

And again—there were only questions.

“She… she tried to kill herself… in front of me…”

The words came out of Eren like a breath he had been holding for too long, but they collapsed midair—flat, empty, useless.

Liar.

That single thought carved itself into Armin’s skull with such intensity he could barely see straight.

He didn’t have the strength left to respond, not because he was weak—no, not anymore—but because there was simply nothing worth saying. Nothing worth wasting breath on, not when Mikasa’s life was draining right in front of him.

Her chest still rose, barely. Her exposed heart throbbed with erratic tremors, like it was hanging onto the world by a thread thinner than hair. Her body, so strong and once unstoppable, was now nothing but torn flesh and broken beauty, sprawled across rubble like a discarded ghost.

And Eren—Eren had the audacity to speak of her pain as though it were hers alone to bear.

No.

This wasn’t a moment for sympathy. This wasn’t grief or shock or helplessness. This was rage—pure, suffocating rage, curling like smoke in Armin’s lungs until he could barely breathe.

He had changed.

No longer the quiet tactician who clung to hope when everything else had burned. That part of him had died somewhere along the rubble of the Rumbling, buried beneath cities crushed under his own colossal weight. How many people had screamed beneath his feet? How many mothers, sons, fathers, children had evaporated into steam without warning—just like that? All for Eren’s vision.

No. Their vision.

He was a murderer too.

That was the truth now—one he couldn’t run from. His hands weren’t clean. His heart wasn’t noble.

What did Eren expect from him, really? That he’d look at this scene—at her, bleeding out in front of them both—and still believe in him? That they’d end this together and pretend it was some great sacrifice for peace? That the world would just look the other way?

The deception was too much.

And the sight of Mikasa, broken and shaking between two monsters who once called themselves her friends, made Armin sick to his core.

He wanted to believe she’d done it—ended Eren, ended this cycle like she was always meant to—but it was clear now something had stopped her. Something in her heart, that stubborn love, that stupid thread tying her to him even after everything. And now, she was the one lying at death’s door, while the monster survived.

And yet, even in all this devastation, Armin couldn’t bring himself to fully trust what Eren said.

He no longer knew the boy who once shared bread with him under the shade of Wall Maria. He no longer recognized the man who now kneeled before him with her blood on his hands. He was a stranger—one wearing Eren’s voice, Eren’s tears, Eren’s face—but nothing else.

The real Eren, the one Armin remembered, had died long ago.

And if he hadn’t, then Armin didn’t want to see him alive.

“Armin… say some—”

“SHUT UP!”

The words exploded from his throat with so much force it startled even himself. It was more than just anger. It was betrayal.

Eren flinched—not from the volume, but from the sharpness in Armin’s voice, the kind that left wounds deeper than blades.

He hadn’t expected this. Somewhere in that mess of blood and guilt and tangled time, Eren had hoped—maybe even believed—that Armin would understand. That they would meet here, among the dead, and find something like closure.

But Armin’s scream tore through that fantasy.

Eren looked up slowly, and in Armin’s eyes, he saw it.

The hatred.

Not the loud kind that came with fists and fire.

No, this hatred was colder. A quiet revulsion. The kind that said you’re nothing to me anymore.

It stung worse than death, and Eren knew it.

And deep down, he had always wanted them to look at him this way. It was the whole point, wasn’t it? To make them hate him so completely, so irrevocably, that they could forget him entirely. That they could leave him behind like a nightmare and live in peace.

But now, seeing it for real, feeling the full weight of it in Armin’s words, it felt like knives twisting under his ribs.

Mikasa wasn’t supposed to hesitate.

She was supposed to kill him.

Like in the vision. Like in the future he saw over and over again.

Why didn’t she?

Why was he still alive, when every part of this world screamed for him to be dead?

Why had the burden fallen on her, only for her to carry it this far and then break?

And now—what was left?

The wind had died again.

The fog around them curled closer, whispering of ghosts and dust, and for a moment, the three of them were all that remained: the boy who destroyed the world, the girl who couldn’t kill him, and the friend who no longer believed in either of them.

Armin stood up, gently cradling Mikasa’s body, making sure not to touch her exposed wound. Eren became alert of his movement, watching him with some kind of fear, but Armin didn’t bat an eye, he was too tired, hi ignored him, tears clinging into his face as the reality crushed: he was abandoning his long-time friend, who was now an enemy.

He had to find the others.

That was the next logical step, the right thing to do—wasn’t it?

But as soon as the thought formed, a shadow of doubt followed close behind, dark and heavy in Armin’s mind.

What would happen if anyone found out that Eren had survived?

Would they be able to kill him now, when the heat of battle had passed and all that remained was ruin?

The Titan shifters… they were gone. Their powers, the very things that defined them, seemed to have evaporated like mist with the breaking of that cursed cycle. Neither of them bore the transformation markings any longer. There were no steam trails, no glowing eyes, no monstrous threats lurking just beneath their skin. Just two boys—no, two hollow men—left behind in the wreckage of their decisions.

And yet, despite all that…

Despite the absence of power, Eren was still terrifying. Not because of what he could do now—but because of what he had already done.

Armin’s heart clenched in his chest, and frustration coiled tight around his thoughts. He knew the truth, as much as he hated it. He wouldn’t kill Eren. Not here. Not like this.

Not when that part of him still existed—the part too innocent for this world, the part that believed in something greater, something worth saving. That childlike faith that no matter how far someone had fallen, there was still a sliver of light, buried under all the blood and lies.

It was stupid. It was dangerous.

And it was the only part of him that made him feel human anymore.

But Mikasa—if she survived—she would never forgive him if he let Eren go without a proper reckoning. Without words. Without closure.

If she woke up and learned that Armin had once again gambled on Eren’s redemption, without letting her say goodbye…

She would kill him.

His arms tightened around her fragile frame, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight he held—the last piece of their trio. The heart of their home.

Home.

That was all she ever wanted, wasn’t it? Not revenge, not glory—just peace. Just the chance to go home.

And now, she was slipping between worlds in his arms.

“Armin! Mikasa!”

The voice shattered the stillness like glass.

Jean.

The fog was thinning.

Panic surged through Armin’s chest. The moment of safety, of quiet indecision, was dissolving. Now he would have to answer for this. Now, the weight of what had happened would be made real by the eyes of others.

What would he say? That Eren was alive? That Mikasa tried to end her own life? That Armin, for all his intelligence and strategy, was standing there, paralyzed, with no idea what to do?

His legs nearly buckled again. He had to stand. He had to move.

But all he wanted—for just one damn second—was to fall apart.

Behind him, Eren remained quiet, a ghost at the edge of consequence. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. His eyes were locked on Armin’s back, on Mikasa’s blood dripping to the ground like it meant something.

He could feel it—Armin’s grief, his indecision, his unspoken judgment. And Eren, in the pit of his stomach, already knew the outcome.

He would have to leave.

There was no place for him here—not anymore. Not with the others. Not with her.

He had become the monster that haunted their history books, the name that would be spat like venom for generations. Eren Yeager—the devil who trampled the world beneath his feet. Eighty percent of humanity, snuffed out like they never mattered. Cities turned to ash. Forests scorched into oblivion. Even the animals hadn’t been spared.

He could still hear them screaming—some part of his mind always would.

And for what?

For a dream? For freedom? For peace?

Or had it all just been hatred, disguised as hope?

He looked down at his hands, and they trembled. Not from exhaustion or fear—but from the memory of what they had done.

He had wanted it. That was the worst part.

He wanted to kill them.

He desired it.

No excuses. No justifications. No noble sacrifice.

He had enjoyed watching the world burn, even if only for a moment.

And now, standing in the silence left behind, he had to ask himself the one question he had avoided for so long—

What am I, really?

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the narrow space, growing louder with every passing second. Voices soon followed—ones that were unmistakably familiar, and deeply unsettling for both Eren and Armin.

“I need to go, before—” Eren began, his voice low and urgent, but Armin spun around to face him, cutting him off without hesitation.

“No. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice sharper than steel, stripped of all warmth. Only anger remained, raw and unfiltered. “You’re staying right here, and you’re going to face the consequences of everything you’ve done. That’s not a request—it’s an order, Eren.”

Eren didn’t need to argue. One look into Armin’s eyes was enough to understand that this wasn’t the moment to protest. His old friend—perhaps no longer his friend—looked at him with such intense hatred, a kind that only seemed to deepen the longer they stood there. And Eren knew he was the only one to blame for that.

I’m a demon…

“Mikasa!”
“Armin!”

Annie’s voice called out to them before her eyes even landed on the scene. Armin saw her first, and for the briefest moment, something shifted. A flicker of relief passed through him—the first bit of hope he’d felt all day.

Behind her, Connie appeared, followed closely by Pieck, Jean, Reiner, and even Levi—who, against all odds, was managing to walk with the group despite his injuries.

“Oh my god…”

Pieck was the first to reach them. She rushed to Mikasa’s side without hesitation, immediately kneeling down and gently laying her back down on the ground. Mikasa groaned faintly at the movement—a weak but welcome sound that confirmed she was still alive.

Armin didn’t even have time to explain what had happened before a voice—gravelly and filled with fury—shattered the moment.

“You piece of shit.”

Levi had seen him. Eren.

It was already too late to shield him from the wrath of those who had once stood beside him. And still, a part of Armin wanted to speak in his defense—not because Eren didn’t deserve the outrage, but because they all bore blood on their hands. Eren hadn’t been the only one. They had all killed. Women, children, animals. Innocents.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Connie barked.

“Eren!”

“You—”

“Jean, wait!”

Armin moved in fast, planting himself between Jean and Eren with arms out—he wasn’t protecting Eren, not exactly. He was trying to stop something they’d never come back from.

Jean’s face twisted with rage, breath ragged, fists clenched so tight they looked like they might snap his bones.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? You’re still defending this asshole? After everything he’s done?” Jean’s voice cracked as he barked out the words. “Get out of the way, Armin. Let me finish what we should’ve done a long time ago. He deserves nothing else.”

Armin didn’t move.

The words hit—hard—but he didn’t react. Not visibly. Jean wasn’t wrong to feel the way he did. They all had every reason to want Eren dead. But Armin wasn’t here to argue feelings.

“I’m not defending him,” Armin said evenly. His voice was calm, too calm for how much was breaking inside. “But killing him now won’t undo the Rumbling. It won’t bring anyone back. It won’t fix anything. All it does is add one more body to the pile.”

Jean took a threatening step forward, jaw tight.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Arlert. You saw what he did. You know what he’s capable of. You were there, just like the rest of us. You felt the ground shake. You heard the screams.”

Armin’s jaw clenched for a moment. Then he exhaled, slow and controlled.

“I know what he did, Jean. I’m not asking you to forgive him, or trust him, or even look at him again. But if we kill him now—out of anger, out of hate—we lose whatever chance we have left to understand what the hell any of this meant.”

Jean stared at him, eyes wild with grief barely masked by fury.

“You think understanding’s gonna help anyone?” he snapped. “Is that really what you’re clinging to right now? You think if we squeeze out one more cryptic line from him, it’s gonna make this shit better?”

“We don’t know what the world’s going to do next,” Armin pressed. “They saw us as devils even before the Rumbling. Now they’ve got proof. They’re going to want revenge. Justice. If Eren really saw all of this coming—if he still knows anything—then throwing that away just because we’re angry is reckless.”

Jean shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re gambling with everyone’s life again just because you can’t let go of him. It’s pathetic.”

Armin didn’t blink.

“If I thought Eren was still trying to destroy everything, I’d be the first one to put the thunder spear I have left, in his head. But he’s not. He’s standing here. Not running. Not fighting. That means something.”

Jean’s lips curled in disgust, but something flickered behind his eyes.

And then his gaze shifted—past Armin—to where Mikasa lay barely breathing, blood crusted at her temple. The sight of her knocked the wind out of him. Something deep in his chest cracked, and he swallowed hard.

He looked back to Eren.

What stood there wasn’t the friend they’d grown up with, the one he took pleasure fighting for no reason at all with. It wasn’t even the person who had turned the world into ash. It was a husk. Hollow-eyed. Haunted. His long hair hung in his face, shadows pulling under his eyes, the green of them dulled and glassy. Eren didn’t even flinch under Jean’s glare—he just stood there, still and quiet, like he’d already accepted whatever fate was coming.

Jean shook his head slowly, the fury in him starting to falter beneath the weight of it all.

“This is fucking insane,” he muttered, voice breaking. “I should kill him.”

Armin lowered his hands just a little.

“Maybe. But not like this. Not out of rage.”

For a long moment, Jean said nothing.

And then, finally—he stepped back.

But his eyes didn’t leave Eren.

“You better be right, Armin,” he said, voice low and threatening. “Because if he pulls anything… I swear, I won’t hesitate.”

Armin nodded.

“I know.”

Armin exhaled slowly, the weight of it all pressing on his chest. He had known that stepping in would come back to haunt him eventually—but for now, he couldn’t afford more bloodshed. The battle was over, the rumbling had stopped, and the world was holding its breath in the aftermath. The silence was thick, unsettling. All eyes were on Eren—rage, confusion, and something bordering on fear staring back at him.

And Armin understood that fear. Understood why Eren shouldn’t be standing here. Because none of this made sense. Not yet.

“What now?” Reiner asked, his voice hoarse, nodding toward the distant movement on the horizon. “General Magath wants a debrief. He’s expecting us to explain… whatever the hell just happened.”

“Fuck him,” Annie muttered flatly, which was shocking—if only because it was rare to hear her curse aloud.

“Well,” Pieck said with a dry shrug, “someone’s gotta play the hero.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Armin,” Eren spoke for the first time since the fighting ended. His voice was low, tired. “You should go. You deserve that much.”

“We didn’t ask for your opinion, Yeager,” Jean snapped, still seething, his fist clenched so tightly it trembled.

“Fine,” Armin cut in before things could spiral again. “I’ll do it.”

Resolved, he turned toward Mikasa—still unconscious, her head cradled in Pieck’s arms. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“We need to evacuate her. Find the closest hospital or clinic, somewhere she can get treated.”

Levi scoffed.

The sound was quiet, but it drew every pair of eyes to him. He hadn’t said much since the end, but the single look from his one unbandaged eye was louder than anything else in that moment—burning with a venomous rage that hadn’t dulled despite everything he’d lost.

Armin didn’t need him to speak. He knew what Levi was thinking.

There wasn’t much left. Apart from Fort Salta, which had somehow survived, the rest was gone. Flattened. Burned. Crushed under colossal footprints.

But they had to try. Because letting Mikasa die—after all of this—would be worse than anything else.

Still, another thought was clawing at Armin’s mind.

Paradis.

What the hell were they going to do when they returned—if they returned? Back home, they’d been branded as traitors, even before the Rumbling. They’d left under suspicion, accused of siding with the enemy. And now that the entire world had seen what the Titans were capable of—seen the face of the devil in Eren Yeager—it was worse.

They’d just confirmed every nightmare the world had about Eldians.

They were monsters. They were proof.

Even with Eren defeated, it wouldn’t matter. He was still alive, and the rest of them were just the remnants of a story that people would twist however they wanted.

Armin’s vision swam. His legs started to give under the weight of it all, his thoughts spiralling out like smoke.

“Armin!”

Annie caught him just before he collapsed. Her arms steadied him, grounding him. Just having her there helped him focus—just enough.

“Let me go with you,” she said gently, placing a hand on his back. “I know Magath. I can speak for us.”

He nodded, almost on instinct.

“Okay.”

“Maybe Onyankopon’s still alive,” Reiner offered. “If we find him, maybe we can take the plane. Get it refuelled.”

“Think there’s a station nearby?” Connie asked.

“It’s an airbase,” Reiner replied. “There should be something.”

“Then let’s do this,” Connie said.

“What about him?” Pieck asked, nodding toward Eren, who remained just a few steps away—silent, motionless, and unreadable. He looked more like a ghost than a man. But no one could forget what he’d done. Or what he might still do.

“He’s with me,” Levi said.

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it sliced through the air like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Levi’s anger hadn’t faded—not even with his injuries. Even if he couldn’t fight like he used to, even if the Titan’s power along with the Ackerman’s had vanished with the halt of the Rumbling, there was no mistaking the threat in his tone. If Eren so much as twitched in the wrong direction, Levi would tear him apart—power or not.

And Eren knew it.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. He just nodded once—silent, resigned.

And so, with Levi keeping watch, they wrapped Eren in an old Survey Corps cloak to hide him from the few remaining civilians and soldiers. Quietly, carefully, they joined the others gathering near the base.

The pilot was still alive. Miraculously. With a bit of hammering, and enough fuel scrounged from a half-collapsed depot, the plane was almost ready.

As Armin prepared to step forward and face the Marleyan forces, he felt Annie’s hand brush his. Her fingers laced with his—simple, subtle—but grounding.

That single touch was enough.

Enough to keep going. Enough to face the world, even after everything. Enough to end this—for good.

No matter the cost.

Hey! This is going to be a pretty long story. I’m not sure where it’ll end, as I plan to dive deep into each character. It won’t start off light or easy; I’ve decided that not everyone will forgive Eren right away—not even Armin, despite being his closest friend. I believe there’s a line that, once crossed, changes everything. Even Mikasa may come to realize the full extent of Eren’s actions and struggle to forgive him.

That said, I am aiming for a hopeful ending for everyone. I’ve already written a shorter piece focused on Eren alone after his death (A Life Through Eren’s Eyes), but this time I want to explore the group dynamic with the key difference that Eren is alive—and no one knows what’s coming next. I’ll do my best to stay true to their canon personalities while navigating this alternate path.

Hope you enjoy the journey!

Chapter Text

Ymir screams.
Mikasa drives the blade into her own gut, then drags it upward, tearing her abdomen open.

This isn't right.
This isn't supposed to happen.

Eren knows it instantly—something is wrong, something beyond his control. But he's frozen, trapped, as if shackled by invisible chains. He can't move, can't run. All he can do is watch, his consciousness reduced to a single point—his head, his eyes.

Ymir rushes toward Mikasa, desperate, pleading. She is telling her to stop, to free her from this curse that had held her for more than 2000 years. But Mikasa doesn’t respond. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry.

She simply stares—straight through Ymir, straight into Eren.

As if he’s the curse.

As if he’s the only reason for her suffering.

Eren screams.

 ✹

Eren jolted awake in his bed. For a moment, he was disoriented—until he felt the weight on his wrist. He looked down and saw the chain. That was all it took to know: he wasn’t in the good part of wherever they had taken him.

It was right after the Rumbling. They had managed to hide him from the world. Reiner and Jean were the ones holding him captive—two of the last standing soldiers who’d made it out without serious injuries, just enough to be the ones to deal with him if he tried anything. Jean wanted him dead. That much was obvious—for a thousand reasons.

But Eren wasn’t worried about Jean. He was worried about Armin and Mikasa.

Armin hadn’t spoken to him since. He didn’t even look at him, just walked past with that quiet, bitter hatred that could reignite any flame Eren had ever lit. Some part of Eren wished things could’ve turned out differently—but this was reality now. And for once, he didn’t know how to prepare for it.

He didn’t even know where Mikasa was being held. Part of him wanted to find her. The other part… didn’t want to see her ever again. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d made her do—just to end up cutting her open in the end.
But why did she do it? What had she expected of him? Did she know it hadn’t been part of his vision? Did she know that maybe, if she had let herself be sacrificed, he wouldn’t have followed through?

Either way, he couldn’t face her now. Couldn’t face anyone.
He was locked beneath the royal palace, watched by what was left of the Military Police. He was a traitor now. Their enemy. No longer even considered human.

And all of this…
just so his friends could live in peace.

But then—footsteps.

They echoed softly, yet deliberately, through the stone corridor outside his cell. It was the first sound, aside from his own breathing, that Eren had heard in what felt like hours. He lifted his head, pulse quickening—not in hope, but in tension. The two guards nearby didn’t react. They were statues, hollow and indifferent, as if they didn’t even register the sound.

Who could it be?

Levi crossed his mind first, like a haunting memory—the sharp eyes, the merciless glare. But no. He was still too injured to walk, let alone come down here. And Armin? That would’ve been unexpected… impossible, even. He had made it clear he never wanted to see Eren again. No one else seemed likely. Most of them would’ve rather forgotten he was even alive.

Unless… it was someone from the government. Someone sent to finally put an end to it.

Eren almost hoped for that. He didn’t deserve to keep breathing. Not after what he’d done. Not after the blood that still clung to his hands—blood of strangers, friends, innocents. Redemption was a concept far too distant for him now. If this was the end, then let it come.

But then, a voice.

“Eren?”

He gasped.

Of all the people he could have imagined walking through that door—he hadn’t prepared himself for her.

Historia.

She stepped forward slowly, dressed in her royal attire, crownless yet unmistakably queen. Gone was the quiet, hidden wife tucked away in the countryside. She had returned—to the capital, to the crumbling remnants of a kingdom, to him. Her pregnancy was further along now, heavy and undeniable. Soon, she would give birth… just as they had planned. Or rather, just as he had planned. Forced upon her in the name of protecting their people. For Eldia’s survival. For peace.

But looking into her eyes—eyes that were once sky-blue, full of summer light and fragile hope—Eren saw nothing but shadow. They had gone dull, darkened by the weight of betrayal and broken dreams.

And in her face, he saw only everything he had failed to protect.

He had promised her a future. Promised the child a safe world. And now? The world was ruined. Their enemies would soon learn he still lived—and war would return like a curse that could never die.

It was all his fault.

Again.

Always.

“How do you feel?”

They were the first words she spoke. Not blame. Not outrage. Not even disappointment. Just that. A simple question—gentle, absurd, and painfully kind.

Eren stared at her like she’d spoken a foreign language. That was it? After everything? After the blood-soaked skies, the charred remains of cities, the screams that echoed from every corner of the earth—this was what she asked him?

She still cared about him.

She cared about how he was feeling.

A part of him wanted to laugh. Another wanted to slam his head against the wall until the noise in his mind stopped. But mostly, he wanted to scream—at her, at the world, at the twisted joke the universe had made of their lives. How dare she still look at him with concern? How could she still carry that softness in her eyes, like he hadn’t become a monster right before the eyes of the world?

He wanted to beg her to hate him. He deserved that much. Because truthfully, the only thing he felt was a hollow wish that he had died with the rest of them—those millions he’d trampled into the dirt, whose names he would never know, whose voices still haunted him in the silence.

It wasn’t forgiveness she offered. It was something worse—mercy. And he didn’t know how to accept it.

Historia didn’t press him. She merely stood there in that quiet, watching him like she always had—like someone who saw past the titan, past the murderer, past the hollowed shell that sat in chains.

Then, without a word, she turned her head toward the guards stationed just beyond the iron bars. A slight motion of her fingers—a queen’s command.

They hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. Was it wise to obey, to leave their queen alone with Eren Yeager—the enemy, the very man who had razed the world? Following her command meant risking their position, maybe even their lives. Still, they withdrew, fading from earshot without a word. Whatever she had come to say, it was clearly meant for him alone.

Because despite the crown on her head, despite the image she projected to the public, Historia Reiss was no longer just the ruler of Paradis. She was a traitor. An accomplice. One of the few who knew the truth and said nothing. Who stood by and watched the world fall apart, not out of fear, but because deep down—she had believed in him.

She hadn’t stopped him.

She could have.

But she didn’t.

And in return, Eren had spared her—and her people.

For now.

She waited until the heavy door closed behind the guards, its echo fading down the corridor. The silence that followed felt loaded, as if the walls themselves held their breath. This wasn’t her home—she hadn’t lived in the royal palace for a long time. She had only returned because of a letter. One written by Armin, signed by the others. They told her Eren was alive. Alive, after all he had done.

At first, she had thought it a lie. A trap, maybe—something meant to expose her, to test if she’d truly been innocent through it all. After all, no one knew the full truth. No one knew she had agreed to Eren’s plan. That she had let it happen. Supported it. Justified it. It was supposed to save their people. It was supposed to be necessary.

But as she stood now in front of the man she once called a friend, her chest was tight with guilt—an ache that hadn't left her since the day the rumbling began. She thought she had accepted the cost. The sacrifices. The moral compromises. But now, seeing him there, chained and broken, she realized nothing had truly been accepted—only buried.

She had come here because she was the queen. Because it was her duty. Eren's fate rested in her hands now, and that authority felt heavier than any crown ever had. What was she supposed to do with him? Strip him of his name and spirit, send him far away to live out his life in hiding, among strangers? Keep him locked beneath stone until death took him quietly? Or offer him the mercy of a swift execution, clean and final?

No answer felt right.

And yet, wasn’t this what justice demanded? The world would never forgive Eren Yeager. Nor her, if they knew she had been complicit. Was she supposed to overlook that because of an old bond? Because they had once shared a dream—one of freedom, of exploration beyond the walls, of a life untouched by violence? That dream had been crushed, along with millions of lives.

Still, she remembered him back then: the reckless, angry boy who only wanted to protect the people he loved. Who stood up, again and again, when everything told him to fall. He had suffered. Changed. Hardened into something unrecognizable. But wasn’t that true for all of them?

They had all crossed lines.

Who deserves to live with the weight of their sins? And who is allowed to move on?

Mikasa must have been thinking the same, Historia realized. She had been forced to strike the final blow in another reality. But what if she hadn’t? What if she had faltered—hesitated—like Historia was doing now?

Because despite everything, Historia still saw Eren not as a monster, but as a broken, human boy—one who had tried to save them all in the only way he knew how. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was unforgivable. But it was never simple. None of it ever was.

And even now, some foolish part of her still clung to the past. To the friends they once were. To the dream that maybe, somehow, they could still return to that innocence—even if it was just for a moment.

But this wasn’t a dream anymore.

This was judgment. And she was the only one left to give it.

A quiet, broken sob pulled Historia from her thoughts and back into the cell where reality still waited. Eren sat before her, not the boy she once knew, not even the man the world feared—but something between the two. His shoulders shook, his face buried beneath the mess of his hair, and even chained, even bruised, the weight pressing down on him was clearly not physical.

He wasn’t waiting for salvation. He was waiting for a sentence.

But the Titans were gone. The curse had ended. Ymir had been freed. Wasn’t that enough to justify his survival?

She leaned in without realizing it, as if drawing closer would help her see him as he once was.

“Eren…”

His head lifted slightly, eyes red and hollow.

“What do you want?” he rasped.

His voice was hoarse and weak yet still laced with something raw and jagged—exhaustion and dread curling around every word. It sounded like he had to drag the words out of his own grave.

“I came to see you,” Historia said softly.

“But why?!”

His voice cracked, louder now, filled with something between disbelief and grief. It startled her, that brief flicker of the old Eren—fierce, defiant, desperate—but this time it wasn’t anger. It was fear. She flinched, not because she thought he’d hurt her—he couldn’t even stand—but because for a second, she’d forgotten how much power still lived in his voice.

She had thought she was prepared. She was queen now, after all. But seeing him like this—unravelled, wrecked—she was just Historia again. A girl who once listened to her friend dream of freedom. And now, she couldn’t find the words to answer him without shattering further.

Eren saw her fear. He saw the momentary retreat in her eyes, and it struck deeper than any blade ever could. He lowered his head, ashamed. Not because of what he’d done to the world—but because of what he’d done to them. To her. To his friends. He had become the monster in their story. And no power in the world could make that right.

“I just…” His voice faltered. He couldn’t even hold her gaze anymore. “Please… just end it. I can’t—” His breath hitched. “I can’t live like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t… I didn’t want this.”

Tears spilled freely down his face now, hot and relentless. They weren’t for himself. They were for everything and everyone. For Armin. For Mikasa. For the world he couldn’t save, and the friends he couldn’t hold onto. The weight of it crushed him.

Historia’s heart broke. Slowly. Quietly. Her voice came out steadier than she felt:

“I can’t do that, Eren.”

He froze, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“What…?”

“I won’t kill you,” she said, firmer now, even as her voice trembled at the edges. “Because it wouldn’t be justice. It would just be escape.”

Eren gasped—shaken by the cruelty of her mercy. He had braced himself for judgment, even begged for it. But not this. Not the sentence to go on living with the weight of everything he’d done. To be left with nothing but the shattered remains of his dream, and no one left who believed in him.

He didn’t recognize her anymore. Like everyone else, she had changed. The warmth in her eyes was gone, replaced by something cold and resolute. The kind, caring girl he once knew had become someone else entirely—merciless, emptied of sympathy.

No, this wasn’t impulsive. She had planned this long before arriving. She knew exactly what he would ask of her, and she had come with an answer already decided. She had outplayed him at his own game—manipulation. After all, she was the last of the royal Reiss bloodline, descendants of those who once altered the memories of an entire people. And Eren remembered, too—how she had once been moments away from turning into a Titan, about to devour him to claim the Founding Titan’s power. She wasn’t so different from her father. Or from him. Two devils, each playing their part.

But this time, Eren was ready to accept the sentence she had prepared. Because he had nothing left. No more plans, no more answers. He was, in a way, free—left only with the consequences of his own choices. A sliver of freedom, perhaps. But was it worth it? All these terrible choices no one could bear to make? Had it all fallen to the wrong person in the end—a boy driven by vengeance and hunger for power?

“Tomorrow,” Historia broke the heavy silence, her voice cutting through the tension. “You’ll be taken to the next ship bound for Marley, where the others are. You’re going to help rebuild what you destroyed.”

Eren couldn’t believe it. He was still in Paradis, while the others remained there—out there, in the very hell he had once vowed to burn to the ground. Now, he was being sent back. Back to witness the wreckage. To fix it, piece by piece.

“Soldiers will be there to watch you. You’ll be chained until the work is done.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He genuinely didn’t understand.

“Because I believe this is the only way—for you, and for the people—to find forgiveness. Watching the monster who wanted to reduce everything to ash build something new... it might change things.”

“And if I refuse?”

Historia opened her mouth, then closed it. Of course he’d resist. She had expected it.

She placed a hand softly on the bars separating them, her fingers lightly brushing the cold metal as she looked for his gaze. A quiet calm washed over her features, a new determination settling in her expression—one that made Eren uneasy. Whatever she was about to say, he knew it wouldn’t be something he could ignore.

And then she said it—words that struck him harder than anything before:

“Tell me, Eren—how much do you still care about your friends?”

“They had nothing to do with me,” he replied instantly, his voice cold, though the tension creeping up his spine betrayed him.

“Oh, really? Then you wouldn’t mind if I had them executed in front of the very crowd you swore would live on in peace, would you? They’d be seen as traitors too. After all, they helped you. They knew what you were doing—and they let it happen.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m the queen. No one can stop me.”

Their eyes locked, the silence between them thick with unspoken threats. It wasn’t just silence—it was a challenge. Who would break first? Could Historia truly bend public opinion to her will? Could Eren still summon the strength to finish what he started?

Historia was bluffing—using his emotions as weapons to trap him into accepting her offer. She despised having to do this, had promised herself never to stoop to the manipulative tactics of her ancestors. But with Eren… she had no choice.

She had learned the hard way—too late—just how relentless he could be. If she wanted to make him yield, she’d have to break him from the inside. And she knew exactly where to strike.

She already had the perfect plan.

"Mikasa is dying," she says bluntly.
"What?"

The words hit him like the sky collapsing. Everything he had fought for, everything he had sworn to protect—none of it mattered if she was gone. She meant more than anything else, and Armin knew it. That’s why he hadn’t said a word when he told him to stay away—from the danger he had become, from the things he had made her do. He had cared so much that, in the end, he only ended up hurting the one he loved.

But the more Eren thought about it, the more he began to doubt Historia’s words. It felt wrong—manipulative. She wasn’t telling him the truth; she was using Mikasa to break him down, to make him accept punishment without a fight. She knew better than anyone that, stripped of his power, he was vulnerable. And she was playing that weakness.

"I refuse to believe you," he said carefully, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Believe what you want. The others will end up like her soon enough. If you refuse to help, then you'll only prove what everyone already thinks of you—that you're a monster. That you’ve always been one. That you never cared about us, and you were only pretending."

She stepped closer.

"Armin, Jean, Connie, they are living in hell because of you. Reiner, Pieck, Falco, Gabi, Annie, they can’t even see their families, all because of what they did to Paradis, for Paradis. The military is under my command now. Eldia’s power has been restored. And all of that… is thanks to you."

Eren’s hand twitched. It was the first real spark of anger he’d felt in a long time. He didn’t want to believe her—but if there was truth in her words, then none of it had ever ended. The hatred, the war, the centuries of blood—it was still alive. And all he had done was kill 80% of the world’s population for nothing.

"Historia… I know you. You’d never do this."
"You’re wrong, Eren."

Hearing his name on her lips sent a chill through him—unexpected and sharp. Beneath her voice, he could sense it: the determination. The warning. The promise that, if he refused, she would follow through. The execution she spoke of—it wasn't just words. It would become real.

Tears flooded his face again.

But that wasn’t the end.

“Eren, listen to me,” Historia said, her voice softening—no longer the queen, but the friend she used to be. The girl who once faked her happiness just to make others smile. “We’re both wrong in this. Reiner, the Marleyans who are left... they’re safe. I would never do that.”

She couldn’t hurt him—not anymore.

“I would never execute my friends. I just want peace. Real peace. This world we’re left with—it’s our doing. Not just yours. Ours. Armin, Mikasa, Jean, Connie, Sasha, Hange, Levi, Erwin... we all played a part in this. And I couldn’t fix any of it. Because I am pregnant. Because I couldn’t fight the way I used to. Because I was a coward. Selfish. There were times I wished everyone outside Paradis would die.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

“But the truth is... we’re all the same. We’re all demons, Eren. There’s no exception.”

Eren cried. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to think. Why was she giving him a second chance? He had killed almost everyone on the planet. He didn’t deserve to live. He was supposed to die—that’s what his vision had shown him, right?

Why Mikasa?

“Is she really going to die?”

He took a deep breath, bracing himself for her answer. He remembered the last time he saw her—just in time to stop her from tearing out her own heart.

If you die, I die.

That’s what she had said. Ymir had to intervene. She knew it wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Mikasa wasn’t meant to die. And just like that, Eren had managed to shift into another body—one last time—before severing his connection to the Founding Titan forever.

He couldn’t look at Historia. His heart pounded in his ears, hands twitching with nerves, the chains cold under his palms. What would he do if Mikasa really was—

“She’s okay,” Historia said softly. “She came out of the coma this morning.”

Eren exhaled, shaken. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry again. He wanted to punch himself for feeling this way. It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be this happy knowing she was still… here. Still in this world they were both left in.

“In fact,” Historia added, “she’ll be coming with you to Marley.”

“Huh?”

“Everyone is guilty, Eren. She’ll help rebuild—just like the others.”

“But she’s—”

“It’s been two weeks. She’s recovered since.”

Eren nodded slowly. Because now, on top of everything else he had to endure, was the thought of Mikasa seeing him again. Not as the boy she once knew and loved, but as a devil. A man who had crushed her heart. Would she forgive him?

He doubted it. Just like Armin, he had pushed their bond to the edge, manipulated them as part of his plan. But Mikasa wasn’t like Armin. She was an Ackerman. She had followed him not out of manipulation—but because she wanted to be with him.

And maybe… that was the worst part.

Because Mikasa would forgive him. No matter what.

“I have to go. My time is limited here. Even as queen, the military only allows me an hour,” she said, stepping back from his cell.

“I’m sorry.”

Historia's heart skipped a beat—caught off guard by the words, by the sudden weight of guilt she'd buried deep inside, refusing to face until all of this was over. She couldn’t allow herself to be fooled again. Eren might no longer hold the power of three titans, but he was still dangerous—still fuelled by something darker, something born of vengeance.

She looked at him closely, really looked. His hair was longer, messier than before. He was thinner, despite her orders to bring him the best meals they could offer. He barely touched them. He wore a scar no one could see.

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” she said, voice turning cold again. “But to the people whose lives you stole.”

With that, she turned and stepped out.

Eren was left alone, the heavy slam of the door echoing in his skull. The guards returned to their posts in silence, not even glancing at him, as if he no longer existed.

And then the silence changed. His thoughts began to scream again, louder than before, dragging him back into his worst memories.

He yelled.

But no one listened.

Chapter Text

The first thing Mikasa noticed as she returned to consciousness was the mechanical rhythm—the soft beeping of machines that echoed in her skull like a synthetic heartbeat. Each sound pulsed steadily, as if it were marking time for a body not yet convinced it was still alive.

Her eyes opened slowly, heavy and unfocused. White light bled through the blurry haze, unfamiliar and sterile. She tried to lift her hand, only to feel a tug—tubes, wires, maybe even needles, all clinging to her skin like restraints.

Instinctively, her muscles tensed. She had long trained herself not to panic, even when disoriented. Discipline had been hammered into her since childhood. But something in her chest—something deeper than muscle memory—twitched with unease. She didn’t recognize this place. She didn’t remember how she’d gotten here. The last memory she could reach was... a forest.

Yes. The trees were tall, cloaked in moonlight. There had been voices—familiar, warm, determined. A plan. But a plan for what? She couldn’t quite hold onto it. It slipped through her like sand.

Then a voice broke through the fog.

“Miss Ackerman?”

She turned her head, stiff and slow. A young woman in nurse’s clothes stood nearby, hands folded nervously in front of her, eyes cautious but gentle.

Mikasa stared at her. The name had landed strangely in her ears. Ackerman. Yes. That was her name, wasn’t it? But it felt like trying on old clothes—still hers, but faded, a bit too tight in places.

The nurse stepped forward. “Mikasa? Is that right?”

The softness of the question, the way it came wrapped in false comfort, made something in Mikasa recoil. There was something wrong with all of this—she knew it without needing to know why. Her body didn’t feel like her own. Her mind felt like a dim room, missing half its lights.

And above all, one thought repeated:
I have to find him.
She didn’t know who yet. But she knew he was important. The boy from her dream. The voice that called to her in the dark. She felt like she’d been reaching for him even before she woke up.

“Where am I?” she asked, her voice coarse, almost foreign to her own ears.

“You’re at the hospital in the capital,” the nurse replied. “Mitra. Or… what remains of it.”

Mikasa blinked but didn’t react. The name meant little. Nothing around her sparked recognition, except that feeling again—that tug in her chest.

She tried to sit up. That was a mistake.

The pain came like a wave of fire, igniting deep in her abdomen and spreading through her limbs like poison. Her entire frame locked up, seized by invisible knives carving through her muscles. Her vision blurred, her breath caught, and for a second she was sure she was going to pass out.

The monitors screeched in protest.

“Miss, please—don’t move!” the nurse rushed to her side, trying to stabilize her.

“I’m fine…” Mikasa growled through clenched teeth, though the tears that welled in her eyes betrayed her.

“You’re not fine. You—please, don’t force it—”

“I need to leave,” she snapped.

It wasn’t just desperation—it was compulsion. That pull was stronger than the pain. Even now, when her body was too broken to obey, her heart tried to rise. She had to find him. He was still here. Somewhere.

But she collapsed again, every nerve in her body screaming as she fell back into the bed. Her vision pulsed black at the edges. Her strength was gone.

And just like that, she went into a second coma.

 ✹

The next thing she knew, Mikasa had to tread carefully. She still had no idea how she’d ended up here, but the pain radiating through every inch of her body warned her that struggling would be pointless. She felt powerless—weak and filthy. Yes, filthy. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, coated in the bitter taste of vomit and old food. She reeked—enough, she thought bitterly, to knock someone out. She needed a shower. More urgently, her bladder ached with the pressure of near-bursting.

A low groan escaped her, and she fought back the tears stinging her eyes. Her distress was undeniable. She needed help. She needed answers. If not, she feared she’d lose her mind.

“Mikasa!”

That voice—familiar. Comforting in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Relief flooded her at the sound. A second later, a face came into view, presumably belonging to the voice. A young man, blond, blue-eyed. But the light in his eyes was dim. He looked exhausted. Lost.

She didn’t recognize him. Why did he care so much? The man from her dream… it wasn’t him. Something felt off. Panic started to rise in her chest again. She wanted to push him away, but her body was too weak—too drained to resist.

“Mikasa, it’s me, Armin.”

The name stirred something in her. A distant echo. But still, she couldn’t place him. Why couldn’t she think? Why did every attempt to remember end in nothing but pain?

She wanted to cry, but her eyes only burned, intensifying the agony she was already drowning in.

“Mikasa, you’re safe. We’re home.”

Home.
She remembered home.
The mountains rising high around her village like ancient guardians. Her mother’s gentle hands guiding hers as they picked vegetables from the garden. Her father’s distant silhouette, bow in hand, disappearing between the trees in pursuit of deer. That memory returned to her in fragments—delicate, almost sacred.
She wanted it back.
She missed them with an ache that hollowed her chest.

But that place—that life—was gone. She could feel it in her bones, in the sharp pulse of exhaustion that filled her every limb. A fatigue so deep it felt older than her body. She had been fighting for as long as she could remember—fighting with her fists, with her will, with her very existence. A war without pause, without end.

“Mikasa,” came a soft voice beside her. “Do you know where we are?”

She furrowed her brow, trying to reach for the answer.
The name Mitra echoed somewhere in her mind. Someone had said it to her—a woman in white, maybe? Was it yesterday? Two days ago? A week?
Time was tangled. Her memories scattered like snowflakes melting before she could hold onto them.

Armin waited. Quietly. His hands clenched on his knees, trying to steady himself.
He had spent one week praying for her to open her eyes. Every day spent at her side, brushing strands of her hair out of her face, refusing to believe the worst. The doctors had warned him:

“There may be lasting effects.”

“She may never…”
He refused to hear it.
Mikasa was strong. She had survived too much, fought too fiercely, lived too vividly to simply vanish inside herself now.

But the longer she stayed silent, the colder that hope became.

Mikasa finally exhaled. Slowly, she moved her hand, wincing at the soreness, then froze—staring at her own arm as if seeing it for the first time. Her face tensed, puzzled.
Something wasn’t right.

Armin felt a terrible weight descend on him.
This was worse than the silence. Worse than the pain. Worse than all the bloodshed behind them.
Losing Mikasa like this—this was the nightmare.

“Where…am I?” she asked, her voice faint, hesitant.

He swallowed hard. Held the emotion back with a will he barely had left.

“We’re at Mitra Capital,” he said gently, carefully. “You were hurt. But you’re safe now. You’re with me.”
He paused.
“Do you remember what happened? That night… the forest? Anything?”

There was a flicker of something in her eyes. But it didn’t ignite.

“I’m sorry…”
She looked at him with open confusion, vulnerability spilling from every line of her face.
“…Who are you?”

Armin froze.

Her words struck him like thunder.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.

Who are you?

He would’ve preferred to have died in the Rumbling.
That would’ve hurt less than this.
Because in that single sentence, she hadn’t just forgotten him—she had forgotten everything.
Everything they fought for.
Everything they lost.
Everything they were.

Gone.

And yet—
He forced himself to sit up straighter. To nod. To smile.
Because Mikasa was alive.
And as long as she was alive, there was still a chance.

He had made a promise—one Eren had asked of him, even in death.
To protect her.
To let her live.
And maybe that promise—however twisted, however painful—was the last thing holding any of them together.

But Mikasa… she was watching him now. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Not out of fear—no. It was something else.
A pull.
A need.
A whisper inside her that had no name yet.

She didn’t know who the boy of her dream was.

But she needed him.
And she didn’t know why.

✹

Armin had sworn, once, that he would never touch a cigarette.
He had made that promise to himself as a child—maybe after watching his grandfather cough up blood, or maybe simply because he believed he was above it. Above indulgence. Above weakness.

But that was before.

Before the Rumbling.
Before the genocide he helped unleash.
Before Mikasa woke up, looked him dead in the eye, and asked who he was.

Now he stood outside the Queen’s barracks in the ruins of what used to be a proud district, smoke curling through his fingers, and he didn’t care anymore.
The tobacco burned his throat on the first drag. He coughed. Reiner didn’t laugh.

“That sucks,” Reiner muttered, the cigarette dangling lazily from his lip.

They stood side by side, two ghosts wearing military coats, pretending they still had a role to play in this world.

Reiner had seen more than most, endured more than anyone should, and yet here he was—same old habit, same old bitterness in his voice, like the smoke carried the taste of all the people they couldn’t save.

Armin watched the grey plume drift upward. The sky was overcast, as if even the heavens mourned what had been lost.

The others from the Alliance had stayed in Marley—specifically in Pëtras*, the last town spared by the Rumbling. What a joke. The “last.” As if that made anything better.

Only he and Reiner had returned to Paradis, called back by Historia herself.
To him, it felt more like exile than duty.
Now, they were to head back to Pëtras. Their task? Rebuild the world they helped destroy.
Fine. Armin accepted that. It was what he deserved.

He had told them everything—how Eren used him, how the Paths had shown him horrors and truths he wished he could unsee. How he, Armin Arlert, the supposed “voice of peace,” had become a willing cog in the machine of genocide.

He hadn’t asked for forgiveness. He wouldn’t dare.

“Want one?” Reiner asked, offering the pack.

Armin took it without answering.
Together, they stood in silence, letting their shame burn slow in their lungs.

“I heard Eren’s coming too,” Reiner said after a while.

Of course he was.

Armin said nothing. He clenched his jaw. That was the only response he could manage.

They were going to see him again.
Not the boy they once followed. Not their friend.
The monster. The weapon. The grave-digger of humanity.

“What did Historia expect?” Armin muttered, finally. “That we’d just… welcome him back? Like nothing happened?”

Reiner snorted softly. “Maybe she hoped you would.”
There was no judgment in his tone—just tired cynicism.

A part of Armin, the child still buried deep inside him, wanted to believe Eren could still be reached. That there was something left of the boy who once cried for freedom under the stars.

But the man he became…
That man had destroyed everything.
And Armin knew what he was still capable of.

Reiner exhaled another stream of smoke.

“Mikasa too.”

Armin blinked.

“What?”

“She’s coming. Apparently, she’s walking just fine. Historia went to see her a few days ago, asked her to help out again.”

Armin stared at him, the cigarette forgotten in his fingers.

“She… agreed?” he asked, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his voice.

“She doesn’t remember anything,” Reiner said, shrugging. “She didn’t have a reason to say no.”

Armin felt a sharp twist in his chest.

No memories.
No guilt.
No emotional wounds.
Just an empty slate. And someone filled it with duty.

He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.

Historia knew about her condition. She knew Mikasa had lost everything. And yet she brought her back—back to this wreckage, to this grief.

“Did she tell her?” Armin asked quietly. “Did she tell her what happened?”

Reiner looked away.
“No. Just said she was needed. And Mikasa agreed.”

Armin didn’t know what hurt more: that Mikasa had returned out of obligation… or that she might never understand why she came back at all.

They were to leave tomorrow by morning, on a boat. It will take them a few days before they could reach the city, avoiding what was crushed by the Wall Titans, they would be navigating, leaving in the same platform, going in the same direction.

Armin crushed his cigarette after only smoking half of it, then turned to leave Reiner behind for his usual visit to the hospital.
If there was still one good thing left in this chaotic world he’d been thrown into, it was this: no matter what, he would fight for Mikasa—and try to recover what had been lost. For them. For that future.

✹

Mikasa was preparing to leave. She stood at the port, watching a few workers load her belongings. She wore a simple dress and a scarf. Red. It wasn’t hers—she had found it abandoned in a room near hers—but she felt drawn to it. A strange familiarity echoed through her, the same pull that had been urging her to find the boy from her dreams. But who was he?

Her stomach had been stitched up in several places, many metals to hold her bones in place, skin implants… and she could barely walk, relying on crutches. She had to focus just to breathe, careful not to inhale too deeply or she'd feel the pain tearing through her chest. She felt awful—weak and worn down. The doctor had finally explained what had happened: a catastrophic event had taken place, and she had been close to the epicentre when debris struck her. That’s why she had passed out—and why everything now felt unfamiliar. Even her own memories.

She didn’t know what to make of it all. It felt as though a part of herself had long vanished—some essential piece of her soul lost to time.

She was lost. Truly lost.

She felt disappointed, though she couldn't understand why, like she had failed to accomplish something important. A goal, an ending, a promise. Then a woman, named Historia came by —an old friend, supposedly. That only made everything worse. How could she be friends with someone she didn’t recognize? Every day, Armin came by to speak with her. He told her stories, talked about his days here, and sometimes just sat quietly beside her. But she didn’t understand why he kept showing up.

Why me?  Why does he care so much?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, cold voice:
“One wrong move and I’ll blow your brains out.”

Mikasa turned her head slowly toward the commotion. Workers were still transferring her few belongings, but now more soldiers had arrived. Their uniforms looked vaguely familiar, tickling the edge of her memory—but again, nothing came.

She watched silently, curious and uneasy. Why would someone threaten death in a world already drowning in so much of it? Everything she had seen so far was ruined, broken. Destruction. Sorrow. Pain. What kind of world had she woken up into?

She didn’t know what to fear more—the place she had left or the one she was heading to. But what choice did she have? The queen had spoken. Could she really have said no?

No... something inside her told her she couldn’t. Her instincts had betrayed her body, reacting while her heart still struggled to hold onto life. She didn’t feel strong enough to refuse anything, let alone resist the weight of destiny.

Then she saw him.

A young man, bound from head to toe, was being guided toward the boat. Even from a distance, she noticed the way his dark hair was tied into a bun, how his steps were heavy, his posture burdened with fatigue. His presence stirred something deep within her—a pull, a pang of recognition that made her stomach twist.

He looked so familiar...

“Hey.”

The voice startled her. Pain shot through her chest, sudden and sharp. She gasped and quickly brought her hand to her ribs, shutting her eyes and trying to steady her breath—just like the doctor had taught her.

“If you ever feel pain, stop moving. Focus on your breathing, alright?”

“Mikasa?”

“I’m okay,” she muttered, almost defensively. Then she turned her head slightly.
“Armin.”

He smiled at the sound of his name from her lips. It was rare to see him smile—so rare that Mikasa felt something warm stir in her chest, almost like a memory trying to return.

She didn’t smile back. Not fully. She was only being polite, trying not to seem ungrateful. But inside, she felt nervous. This was the first time she had seen Armin standing in front of her, face-to-face.

He was tall, lean—maybe too thin—and his expression, even when smiling, carried the weight of too many sleepless nights. But his eyes… his eyes were still a vivid blue.

“How are you feeling?”

She frowned at the question.

He asked her that every time—always the same hopeful flicker in his eyes, like he was waiting for something. A sign. A breakthrough. Something more than her usual, guarded reply.

Still, she remained polite.

“I’m doing better than yesterday, thank you.”

It was formal. Distant. A short answer meant to close the door rather than open it. She was slipping away from him—and Armin could feel it. The doctors had warned him not to push too hard. “Take it slow,” they said. “Don’t pressure her.”

But it was impossible not to want more. The weight of everything they had lost—and everything she had forgotten—was beginning to eat at him. Even her politeness felt like a wall.

And then, something caught his eye.
Something that made the frustration twist into something deeper, darker.

She was wearing the scarf.

His scarf.

The one he had folded and left behind, thinking—hoping—she would never find it. He had believed it would be better that way. That she didn’t need to remember. That forgetting might be mercy.

But she had found it. Somehow.

He had thought about throwing it away, burying it with the rest of his guilt. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was a part of her—of who she had been. The last thread between them.

Coward, he thought. You couldn’t let go either.

She didn’t know what it meant now. Not yet. But one day, if she remembered—if it all came rushing back—would she hate him? Would she cry again? Would she leave for good?

She deserved peace. That’s all he ever wanted for her. But standing here now, watching her wear that scarf without knowing why—it hurt more than anything else.

Then her voice cut through his thoughts:

“Why is he chained?”

The question hit him like a slap. Mikasa gestured toward the boat. Soldiers stood in formation, their eyes locked on the prisoner being led aboard.

Eren.

Armin’s throat tightened. She didn’t know. She didn’t recognize him. She didn’t remember what he had done—or who he had once been to her.

And maybe… that was for the best.

Still, it hurt.

“Just for precautions,” Armin said, his voice low, avoiding her gaze.

It was a lie. A quiet, necessary lie.

Because if she knew the truth… it would break her all over again.

“He’s coming with us too?”

Armin wasn’t sure if he heard hope in her voice—or if it was something else. Her eyes were fixed in the distance, squinting toward the figure being led onto the boat in chains. Did she recognize him? Was she just curious? Or was she, somehow, trying to reach for something lost?

Eren.

The man who nearly destroyed all of humanity.

Armin held his tongue. There was no point in explaining—not yet. Inevitably, everything would come out. The truth, the pain, the punishment. Together, they would rebuild what they had destroyed. That was the consequence of their actions.

But Mikasa knew none of this. And somehow, he felt… jealous.
Jealous that she didn’t carry the weight like he did. That she didn’t spend every waking moment drowning in guilt. She didn’t have to question whether it had all been worth it.

She was free in a way he could never be.

She could only follow now. And he hated that for her.

“We should get going,” Armin said, breaking the silence as the last crates were loaded aboard.

They were really going. Back to the mainland. Back to the friends who had stayed behind. The ones who had fought with them and now lived with the same scars. They were all bound by their shared history, their shared sins.

But at least… they were alive.

And he was happy, in a quiet sort of way, to see them again.
To see Annie again.

The thought brought a flicker of warmth to his chest. A faint smile. Her name alone stirred something in him—something hopeful. She was waiting.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said softly. “Friends. But don’t worry—you’re safe, as long as you stick with me.”

Mikasa didn’t like meeting people. It always gave her the sense that she didn’t belong. Like she was a stranger in a story she was supposed to know. All she wanted was to go home—the home that had been promised to her. But she had no choice now. No say.

Still… there was something in Armin.

A quiet strength.

He was gentle. Kind. And though she didn’t remember why, she knew she could trust him. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

Maybe she could return that trust.

“Let’s go, then,” she said.

And her voice—steady, certain—made Armin pause. For the first time in a long while, he saw it. A piece of her. Something unbroken behind the confusion. A glimpse of the old Mikasa. The real one.

She wasn’t giving up either.

*Pëtras, city I had invented from boredom of searching on the internet

Chapter Text

Hello! I am posting this in advance since I’m ahead with two chapters:) Also this is my very first angst I am writing in such details and damn, it’s hard (I’m almost sobbed as I wrote this). I am trying not to ruin the mood, but I feel that every character needs a bit of it, in order to accept the truth. And I thought that now, it would be the best time for Eren and Reiner in this chapter, to forever burry what had happened back at Paradis. I think it’s nice to see, the role reversing with Reiner who was so close to give up everything because he couldn’t get what he wanted, while Eren chased freedom only to be more locked behind cells and his dream of protecting his people gone. With their past, I think it a good way to start a new kind of relationship, starting from scratch, as Reiner to support him.

(Or something like that)

But no worries, I think we had a load some angst for now, I tried and wrote something a bit more positive in the next chapter, as they will return with the others.

The storm had come without warning. The sea thrashed against the sides of the ship with a violence that echoed the turmoil inside him. The impact of the wave slammed Eren into the wall of his cell, the cold metal rattling against his spine. He collapsed to the floor, the stale air knocked from his lungs as nausea twisted in his gut. His body screamed in protest—old wounds flaring, new ones forming. He pressed his forehead to the floor for a moment, steadying himself, breathing through the dizziness.

He wasn’t used to this. He hadn’t been on a ship in over a year, and it was as foreign to him now as it had been then. Every movement, every shift of the hull beneath him, made his stomach churn. He forced himself upright, gripping the bars to stay balanced. His cell was barely big enough to sit in, let alone move. It felt more like a storage crate than a prison—cramped, windowless, the kind of space used to store objects, not people.

But he wasn’t a person anymore, was he? Not after what he’d done.

This was his punishment. Historia hadn’t left him much of a choice. He was to assist in rebuilding the world he had broken. The irony didn’t escape him. She had called it justice—he called it survival. Two guards were posted just outside the cell, as always. They never spoke to him. Never looked at him. As far as they were concerned, he didn’t exist.

Sometimes, Eren wanted to scream. To tear his throat raw with the weight of everything he hadn’t said—couldn’t say. Anger always came first, flaring up like a match. But it never lasted. The rage faded into the same deep pit of sorrow that always returned, dragging him back into the past. Into memories he couldn’t forget, no matter how much he wanted to. It was a cycle he couldn’t escape.

Then, voices.

“Civilians are not authorized—”

“You already forget who I am?” a voice cut in sharply. “Reiner. The guy who saved your sorry asses from the Rumbling.”

Eren froze.

That voice… it didn’t make sense. What the hell was he doing here?

He had expected Armin. Maybe even Mikasa. Their presence already left him uneasy. But Reiner—of all people. The person who had once stood on the opposite side of the battlefield. The one Eren had spent years hating, blaming. The man who had ripped open the gates of Shiganshina and started it all.

And yet… Reiner had come back. Not as a warrior, not as a soldier—but something closer to the hero he had once aspired to be. He had saved what was left of Marley. His people. His family. Even made peace with his former enemies.

But why was he here?

“Sir, you’re with a dangerous—”

“Yeah, I know,” Reiner snapped, cutting off the guard. “Eren’s a monster. Trust me, I’ve heard it a hundred times. But he’s still human. Whether you like it or not.”

Reiner stepped forward, holding out a covered plate. “I’m just here to give him his damn food. You want to get in my way, go ahead—but I’ve still got the blood of a Titan in me, so unless you’re ready to be flattened into this steel deck, I suggest you let me pass.”

The guards hesitated. Silence followed, thick with tension. Reiner stood tall, his jaw tight, his eyes cold. He was pale—sea-sick and clearly exhausted—but that didn’t mean he was any less dangerous. Eren could tell. He still had that quiet weight to him, the one that only people who’d seen too much war carried.

Eren couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Reiner… defending him?

He didn’t want that. He didn’t deserve it. What was this? Mercy? Pity?

Reiner's eyes flicked to the cell, and for a brief second, they locked eyes—two ghosts staring across a battlefield long buried under rubble.

He shouldn’t be here, Eren thought. He should hate me. He should want me dead.

But Reiner only exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

He didn’t care that he was breaking protocol by visiting early. He didn’t care that Eren was meant to be fed every two or three days—another form of silent punishment. No, Reiner had seen enough of this kind of cruelty. Enough of people pretending they understood the full picture.

He remembered his village. The crater it had become. His mother’s lifeless body. All of it, a direct result of the choices they'd all made. Of the war they inherited and the pain they passed down. Reiner had carried that guilt for years, let it rot him from the inside out—until someone finally gave him a reason to stand again.

So, no. He wasn’t going to stand by and let this happen again—not to Eren. Not even after everything.

Because if there was one thing Reiner Braun understood better than anyone—it was what it meant to live with the weight of your sins.

“Fine. You’ve got five minutes,” the guard muttered after sizing Reiner up, his tone reluctant but yielding.

Reiner didn’t even wait for the full sentence to end.

“I’ll take as long as I damn well want. The Queen hasn’t said anything about denying me access to Eren.”

He shoved past the man with a shoulder-check that was more a warning than violence. It took everything in him not to swing his fist into the smug expression on the guard’s face. But he knew better. He was here for a reason, not to start another fight. The other guard stepped aside wordlessly, eyes cautious but not challenging.

As Reiner stepped through the doorway, the metal clang of his boots on the steel echoed louder than it should have. He felt the distance closing, not just physically, but in memory—two old enemies thrown together by fate, guilt, and the weight of history.

It had been a long time since he had seen Eren up close. Not since that quiet, charged encounter in Marley, few months ago. Not since they’d sat across from each other in another dim, enclosed space, their words laced with tension, resignation, and the understanding that something devastating was coming.

Now here they were again.

Reiner hesitated for a beat. He lowered himself slowly, knees creaking as he knelt just outside the bars and placed the tin plate down gently, like it might break. A simple meal, nothing special. But still more than what Eren had been given lately.

“Eren,” he said quietly, careful not to sound too familiar, or too cautious. “Brought you something.”

Eren didn’t move. He was slumped in the corner, half in shadow, eyes heavy-lidded but not asleep. His hair hung in damp strands over his face. His wrists rested on his knees like he was barely holding himself together.

“You can keep it,” Eren replied without looking up. His voice was low and hoarse, and yet it still held the weight of stone. Cold. Detached. Tired.

Reiner swallowed the urge to respond with frustration. He had known this wouldn't be easy. Eren had no reason to trust him—never had. But he’d come anyway.

He stared at the man before him, remembering the boy he once knew. The hot-headed, stubborn kid who talked about freedom like it was a birthright. Who had stared up at the world beyond the walls with wonder and defiance. That version of Eren was long gone, replaced by someone who had carried the burden of a world’s hatred—and returned it in kind.

Reiner had seen it all. The march of the Titans. The cities crushed under their feet. The screams. The silence that followed. He had watched it unfold from both sides, both as the enemy and as the survivor. He had tried to justify it once. To call it duty. Honor. Then, later, he called it penance. None of those labels mattered anymore.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” Reiner said after a pause, his voice flat but not without emotion. “Hell, I wouldn’t blame you if you tried to kill me right now. Not that you could.”

That earned the slightest shift in Eren’s gaze—just a flicker, but enough to catch. Reiner saw it: that trace of fire that had once burned in his eyes, the resolve of a boy who had sworn to protect others at all costs, even if it meant killing every last Titan.
Maybe that strength was still there, buried beneath everything. Maybe, if there weren’t iron bars between them, they’d be fighting again—until one of them was dead.

He glanced at the plate again.

“I just… didn’t want you starving in a cage. Even you don’t deserve that.”

The words lingered in the air, swallowed by the sound of waves crashing in the distance and the groaning of the ship as it rocked under the storm’s weight. Between them stretched a silence—tense, heavy, almost suffocating.

Reiner leaned back against the cold metal wall, his breath slow and unsteady. His limbs throbbed with fatigue, and the churning of the sea hadn’t left his stomach alone, but it was nothing compared to the sickness settling deep inside him—the kind that came from facing Eren like this.

Everything about this moment felt unreal. After all that had happened, all they had become, it felt absurd to be here, alive, exchanging words.

He knew what Eren had done. What he had set loose on the world.

And yet… when he looked at him now, hunched in the dim light of the cell, shackled but eerily calm, he didn’t see a monster.

He saw someone far too familiar.

Tired. Hollow. Drowning in the weight of choices made when they were still boys—too young to understand what war really meant, too full of pride and ambition to stop.

Reiner swallowed hard and lowered his gaze. Maybe there were no monsters left. Just broken people, all of them, still pretending they could survive the wreckage.

They sat in silence. Watching each other.

Neither moved much, but everything about them was taut—tense. Their eyes locked now and then, not in camaraderie, not in peace, but in a quiet, circling unease. They still didn’t trust each other. Still judged. Still challenged one another with unspoken thoughts that sat like ghosts between them.

But then, slowly, Eren shifted forward, crawling closer to the cell door where the thin strip of light broke across the floor. He dragged himself from the shadows like some half-sunken wreck rising with the tide. Reiner stiffened, unconsciously holding his breath.

Even now, even like this, Eren made him nervous.

He remembered Marley—how Eren had looked then too: worn out, sick, subdued. A phantom hiding in plain sight. But back then, he’d still been in control. Holding back his strength. Waiting. Plotting.

He didn’t know what Eren could do now… and that uncertainty unnerved him more than any open threat ever could.

Then Eren glanced down at the plate.

“Thanks,” he muttered, almost like the word had a bad taste in his mouth.

Reiner didn’t say anything. He just watched.

The food wasn’t much—some coarse bread, a bowl of porridge already starting to cool. But Eren took it anyway, hands trembling faintly as he brought it close. No fork, no hesitation. He tore the bread with his teeth, scooping porridge with his fingers like a man scraping at the last remains of his dignity. He was starving. And even if he wanted to act like it didn’t matter, the way he devoured the food said otherwise.

Reiner looked away briefly, jaw clenched.

He’d expected it but seeing it confirmed only made his anger rise. Not at Eren. At them. The ones still clinging to power in this ruined world, the ones who claimed victory after surviving the genocide. The ones who still looked at Eldians like they were vermin.

Even now, after everything, they couldn’t stop punishing him.

Starving him. Locking him in a rusted cell like a relic to be forgotten.

Reiner hated it.

He hated that even after Marley had been wiped from the map, even after the world had been crushed beneath colossal feet, nothing had changed. Fear still ruled them. Prejudice still whispered through every chain, every order.

With over 80% of the world gone, Eldians were now the majority. But power didn’t mean peace. The old wounds were still bleeding. The hatred still lived on, festering quietly in the hearts of survivors too broken to imagine anything different.

“Reiner…”

Eren spoke for the first time, calm, hesitant. Reiner focused on him, he had stayed close to the bars, he could see him well from there, his hair messier than ever, his face all deepened by the lack of food, his eyes that use to shine weren’t so green anymore. And all this made Reiner self-conscious about himself, about bad he looked right now.

“Why are you doing this?” Eren asks after a moment of silence, the thunder unleashing outside as the boat swung violently.

They both held their breath, bracing for an impact that never came.

“Doing what?”

“You know what I’m talking about”

“I don’t like seeing you like this”

“That’s not true” he says after a beat.

Eren lifted his gaze, and that same flicker ignited in his eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you, not anymore…I can’t” he says, realising in disappointment and more sadness to fill , that Reiner was holding his breath for far too long.

“I just wanna know, why you are doing this? Why now? All my friends can’t handle to look at me in the eyes without thinking that I am a monster… and you brought me food”

Reiner couldn’t answer right away. But if he was being honest, he was doing this because he owe it to him, from a long time ago, from ruining his life, his home and peaceful dreams while they were still protected by the wall. If he hadn’t pushed to others to continue, if he hadn’t hated on them just because he was ashamed of who he was, because his dad never accepted him as his son. He was doing all this, because of what he had done in the past, shaping into the present and the future.

Eren scoffed. The shift in his mood was sudden, like a switch flipped inside him—like he was losing his mind. And maybe he was. It had to be a joke: Reiner, of all people, talking about redemption. As if it weren’t already too late. As if anything could be fixed now.

Reiner stood in silence, watching him, waiting. He truly wished they could put an end to the animosity between them. Because now, like it or not, they’d be working together—trying to shape a different future.

“How is she?” Eren asked instead.

Reiner didn’t need clarification.

“She’s fine.”

“Reiner…”

“I’m sorry.”

How was he supposed to say it? Could he even know her true condition? And if he did—if he told him—would Eren spiral again? Would he rage, burn, and destroy everything in his path… all because of Mikasa?

Reiner wasn’t stupid. He’d always known Eren had feelings for her—had always watched her, would do anything to protect her.

But was it better to lie? Or should he tell him the truth now, before it all came crashing down in a few days anyway?

He had never made the right decisions. Every mission he touched turned to shit—always the wrong call, always too late. But maybe, just this once, he could do something right. Maybe he could change that, even a little.

So, he made his choice.

He would tell him the truth—no matter what.

“She’s badly hurt,” Reiner began, his voice low and steady, though the words tasted like rust. “Severe injuries. Stitches torn. Skin grafts. Bone shattered in too many places to count. Metal plates. Torn muscles. And… she lost her memory.”

He said it plainly, as if stripping the weight of it down to its core would help carry it. Reiner never had the gift for careful words. He thought less, spoke faster, let the truth land where it may. He was already watching Eren closely—not as a threat, but as a man about to break.

And break, he did.

Eren’s face drained of what little colour it had left, the flicker in his eyes dying into something dull and empty. Not anger. Not sadness. Not anything you could name. It was the kind of look that came when someone stopped trying to fight the tide. Like he was accepting a punishment he had known deep down he deserved. A part of him had hoped, foolishly, that she would be fine. That whatever chaos he had left behind hadn’t touched her the way it had touched him. But it had. More than he could bear.

She had survived—but only in body. Her soul, her memories, her fire—they were gone. What remained was a shell. A ghost of the girl he had known. The girl he had protected with everything he had, whose face had lived in every future he dared to see for himself. The one person who tethered him to something more than vengeance.

And now, he would have to face her like a stranger. He would look into her eyes, and she wouldn’t see him. Wouldn’t know his name. Wouldn’t remember the boy who once wrapped her scarf around her shoulders.

He felt it start slowly: the pressure in his skull, the ringing in his ears, the quiet collapse of everything inside him.

“Fuck…” he breathed, the word sharp and helpless.

Tears surged to his eyes before he could stop them, blurring everything. The weight behind his eyes grew heavier, his temples pounding like fists on a locked door. His breath caught in his throat and refused to move.

He wanted to scream. To claw the walls. To reverse time. But none of it mattered. None of it would ever change what had been done.

And still, some sick part of him had asked for this truth.

He had known, hadn’t he? The moment he left her behind. The way her body had been broken—he had seen it, even if he refused to fully understand it until now. He had hoped. Maybe even prayed. But hope was a fragile thing in a world like theirs.

Why had he come back? Was he really like Reiner—searching for some kind of forgiveness in the ruins they had made? Was he so desperate for redemption that he thought feeding a ghost would make him human again?

“Why did this have to happen…” His voice cracked, barely a whisper, lost under the sound of the storm. “Why does she get to suffer… and I get to live? Why, Ymir…?”

Reiner watched, unsure of what to say or do. He didn’t understand at first—not entirely. Not until a memory flashed across his mind. That place beyond time, where paths crossed. Where the bones of history had been shaped by a single girl.

Ymir.

He had seen her too. Fragile and silent, like a dried leaf ready to be torn by the wind. She had stood at the centre of it all—of every curse, every chain, every horror they had inherited. And now she was gone. The power vanished, the curse broken. Her silence, her suffering, ended at last.

But the pain she left behind was still echoing through them.

And Eren… was drowning in it.

Reiner was powerless.

No matter how close he sat, no matter how many words he tried to string together, he couldn't begin to grasp the full weight of Eren’s suffering—how deep the madness ran, how far gone the boy he once knew truly was.

Despite his years, Reiner still felt like a kid most days. Too young to carry all this, to understand the consequences of their choices. And Eren… Eren had always been the little brother in spirit—fiery, bright, unwavering. But now that light was long gone, and what was left of him felt like a hollow silhouette. A ghost wandering too far from the path to ever return.

He needed support, Reiner realized. Maybe desperately. He could see it now: the cracks too deep to hide, the way Eren’s hands trembled when he thought no one noticed. It reminded Reiner of himself—of that long night when his mother hadn’t recognized him, when his mission had failed and the only future left was being eaten alive to make way for the next warrior. The weight of failure. The suffocating loneliness. The urge to just let go.

“Eren,” Reiner said quietly, sitting up straighter, voice steady. “It’s not too late.”

Eren didn’t move. But his silence was listening.

“For some reason,” Reiner continued, “she’s still holding on to that scarf. The same one you once asked her to forget. She has it, like it’s a part of her. And when I look in her eyes, even with everything she’s lost… I still see it. That fire. That look that says, ‘Try and stop me, and you’ll regret it.’ She’s still fighting.”

“…Bullshit, Reiner.”

Eren’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“It’s true—”

Reiner jolted as Eren suddenly slammed his fists against the bars between them. The metal rang with the impact, but not enough for the guard to hear it. He looked up, startled—and saw it.

Not rage. Not the fury of a Titan shifter ready to tear the world apart.

No, what Reiner saw in Eren’s eyes was far more dangerous: sorrow. And for the first time in a long time, Reiner felt something sharp in his gut. Fear—not for his life, but for Eren’s.

Eren wasn’t lashing out at him. He was pushing against the truth, fighting it with all he had left. Because if he believed her memory still held onto him… if he believed she was still waiting…

Then he had something to lose again.

And Eren had long since convinced himself he didn’t deserve that.

“This is better,” Eren muttered, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t remember me. That’s good. She shouldn’t. It’s better this way. For both of us.”

But was it really?

Reiner opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew that look. That quiet resolve to burn everything down before it could be taken from you.

“You should go,” Eren said at last, eyes fixed on him now—unblinking, hollow. The voice wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a threat.

Reiner nodded. There was nothing more to say, not now. Maybe not ever. He bit back a sigh, biting down harder on the words he wanted to scream, and pushed himself to his feet, muscles aching with the weight of time and guilt.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

There was no reply. Eren had turned away already, curling down to the cold floor of the cell. He stayed there, still and small, before the shaking started again. Reiner could hear the muffled sound of him crying, then cursing himself—soft and guttural, like each word hurt more than the last.

And then came the sound of retching.

Eren’s body convulsed, rejecting what little food he had managed to eat that day. The only meal he might have had for the next two. It was gone, splattered in the corner of the cell as he heaved in silence, his forehead pressed to the stone.

What a joke, he thought, closing his eyes against the pain tearing through his head, through his chest, through every fibre of who he used to be.

What a fucking joke.

And then, in that cold, silent cell, Eren let the darkness take him.

Chapter Text

Mikasa’s first impression, the moment she set foot on the port, was that everything felt… untouched. Too normal. The chaos she had woken up into, the confusion, the aching hollowness—it didn’t live here. Here, life moved on.

Birds soared above her, chirping with stubborn joy. White, brown, black—gliding on coastal winds like they hadn’t seen the world burn. They dove and danced in the air, searching for scraps from distracted workers and loitering children. The port was alive, loud and chaotic, but not from panic—from work, from energy. People were shouting to one another, hoisting crates, dragging nets, others just laughing with their feet dangling over the edge of the dock. A few sat quietly by the water, watching the sea like it was all they had left.

It was late in the day, and the sun had started its slow descent. The horizon burned gold and crimson—a color that reminded her, inexplicably, of endings. Of the world she had somehow survived. A world she no longer remembered.

She stood still, frowning.

Why was she here? Why did it feel like she owed something to this place, this mission? Historia had asked, yes—but Mikasa knew, deep in her gut, that wasn’t the only reason. Something else pulled her forward, quietly and relentlessly, like a ghost in her blood.

She turned her head, catching a glimpse of a man being escorted by the military police. No—guarded, chained, surrounded like he was dangerous. Her eyes narrowed. There was something about him. The shape of his shoulders. The way he moved—like the weight of the world sat on his back.

Why did he feel familiar?

Before she could take a step toward him, a voice called out behind her.

“Mikasa.”

She stiffened. That name still felt strange in her ears.

Armin approached, two bags slung over his shoulder—one clearly hers. His face was gentle, almost too gentle, like he was always tiptoeing around something fragile. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was the past she couldn’t reach.

“Where do you think they’re taking him?” she asked, glancing again toward the disappearing figure. He was being loaded into a cart—no, a cage on wheels—a makeshift prison pulled by a chugging truck. The guards looked uneasy.

Armin followed her gaze, then shrugged.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Come on. Reiner’s waiting for us.”

“Reiner?” she repeated, brow lifting. “One of my friends… huh?”

He hesitated. Just a beat. But it was enough.

“Well… you could say something like that.”

She studied him. The way he didn’t meet her eyes. The way his mouth twisted slightly, like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t.

He was hiding something. Again.

It wasn’t new—she’d seen it before. In small moments. The half-answers. The soft deflections. The pain in his voice when she asked about the past. He was guarding her, keeping pieces of her old life out of reach. But why?

What was so dangerous that he couldn't let her remember?

She could have pushed. Could have demanded the truth. But what would it change? The man in chains was already gone. And maybe… she wasn’t ready to know.

So she sighed and let it go.

“Okay,” she said quietly, following him.

But her heart, somewhere deep inside, was already walking in the opposite direction—toward the man she couldn’t name… but who her bones remembered.

And there, on the other side of the port, Reiner was waiting—speaking with someone, negotiating their next course of action. He didn’t know how to act, what to say once Mikasa arrived. It had been years since they last spoke, and their relationship had always been distant, strained—especially after she learned the truth about him. But now, as they fought to save the world, Reiner had seen a chance. A chance to be forgiven.

That was before she lost her memory.
How long had it been? He had no idea. Armin believed it was only temporary. Reiner hoped so too. Just like him, Armin clung to the hope that one day, she would remember—everything.

“Reiner.”

There they were.

He braced himself. The whole trip back had been hell. The storms hadn’t let up for two days straight. Everyone on board had gotten sick and thrown up—except Mikasa. Of course she hadn’t. She was strong, undeniably strong. No matter what happened, she never gave up. Even now, clinging to that scarf that no longer meant anything to her—yet stubbornly refusing to let it go.

Reiner held his smile as he turned to her politely.
“It’s nice to see you’re doing better,” he said.

But his words only made her uncomfortable. Once again, she couldn’t remember his face—couldn’t recall anything about their past relationship. She hated that feeling, the loss of control over her own life.

Reiner noticed her discomfort. Maybe he’d been too blunt, too direct. He cursed himself inwardly. Mikasa didn’t respond.

Turning to Armin instead, he let the subject drop.
“I got us a taxi. It’ll take us to the main building inside Pëtras. The others should be there—we can rest and then start planning for the reconstruction.”

“Good. Let’s head there,” Armin replied.

He led them toward the waiting car.

Mikasa wasn’t sure if she had ever seen a place like this before—or maybe she had, but her memory was a blur. The uncertainty frustrated her more than anything, but she refused to let it show. She couldn’t afford to live under the weight of fear and loss. They needed her.

To rebuild the world, she had to be strong, even if she felt weak and tired as hell.

✹

Back in Freya’s* building, Jean sat with one leg bouncing impatiently, his heel tapping a rapid rhythm against the floor. He was agitated. Out of everyone here, he looked the most intact—no wounds, no visible fatigue—aside from the dark circles under his eyes. Sleep had become a rare luxury.

Across the room, Connie slouched in a chair, staring blankly at nothing. Pieck was leafing through paperwork by the window, unreadable as always, and Annie sat apart, arms folded, her expression closed off. Each of them was lost in their own silence, fragments of memories still lingering from the chaos they had survived.

Levi wasn’t with them. His body had finally given out—too many injuries, too much blood lost, and too much of himself left behind. He couldn’t contribute to the reconstruction, not physically at least. And yet, no one questioned that he still bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Rebuilding the mainland, assisting all the scattered peoples—refugees, survivors, enemies and allies alike—was an impossible task. A lifetime’s work. Maybe more.

Jean hated the very idea of it.

“Can you stop?” Gabi snapped, her sharp voice cutting through the room. She was seated next to him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with the same fire she always had—even now, after everything.

Jean glared. Of course she would speak. He couldn’t forget her. How could he, when Sasha’s blood was still etched in her legacy?

“Why are we even wasting our time waiting here?” he muttered under his breath, shifting in his seat. “Feels like we’re just sitting in limbo.”

“Eager to work?” Pieck asked without looking up, her voice dry.

“Obviously. It’s better than rotting in this place.”

A beat of silence, broken by Annie.

“You all know Eren’s going to be here too, right?”

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Annie, the girl who once swore never to fight again, now sat among them—an enemy turned ally, who had helped them bring an end to the nightmare. Her voice was calm, but behind it was something harder. Not judgment, but memory.

They all had those.

A shared trauma that bound them together more tightly than any cause.

Jean clenched his fists.
“Tsk.”

He stood abruptly, pacing to the far side of the room. He didn’t want to admit why his nerves were fraying. He didn’t want to talk about the reason for his restlessness.

Because soon, they would see him again.

Eren.

And somehow, they would have to work beside him. Like old friends. Like comrades. As if the world hadn’t burned beneath their feet because of him.

It was stupid.

Jean didn’t understand it—why Historia, of all people, had reached out to them with a letter of orders masked as invitations. She had made it sound like a choice, but everyone knew better. There were veiled threats in her words—serve the world or be forgotten by it.

She was no different from anyone who had ever held power. Just another ruler pretending to save lives, while deciding who was worth saving.

Suddenly, as if some silent signal had passed between them, they all turned toward the door. The tension was palpable, heavy in the air as the main entrance creaked open. Every breath hitched, every eye locked on the figure standing in the doorway.

For a second, fear curled in their chests like smoke. A split-second of doubt. Of possibility.

But then Reiner’s voice broke the silence.

“It’s us.”

Relief swept the room like a wave, loosening shoulders and settling hearts. Behind Reiner came Armin, his arms full, followed by a few soldiers carrying luggage—clearly theirs. Home, whatever that meant now.

Annie stood up almost immediately. Her expression didn’t betray much, but the tension in her chest eased the moment she saw Armin. He was safe. It was foolish to worry—after all, they were both soldiers, both survivors. They’d lived through worse. But maybe that was the point.

Maybe it was because the chaos was over that it felt so unsettling. No more Titans. No more walls. No more threats hiding behind the next sunrise. Just peace, and a world too quiet for those who had only known war.

Working together on rebuilding civilization—it felt foreign, almost absurd. What did it even mean to live after war, when every breath was no longer a fight for survival?

Pieck’s gaze landed on Mikasa, and for the first time in a long while, she felt something stir in her chest—a motherly instinct, unexpected but strong.

The last time she’d seen Mikasa, the girl had been broken. Her skin pale, eyes sunken, body trembling at the edge of death. That image had haunted Pieck, followed her like a shadow through every battle and brief respite. And even though they had all been briefed about Mikasa’s condition, about the memory loss, about the uncertainty—seeing her now didn’t make it any easier.

Still, that didn’t stop Pieck from trying.

She raised a hand and smiled gently. “Hey.”

But Mikasa only frowned, her expression distant. Uncertain. The greeting didn’t land. Something inside her recoiled, like a corner of her mind tugging on a thread she couldn’t follow.

Before things could grow more awkward, Armin stepped forward, quick to mediate.

“Mikasa, this is Pieck,” he said calmly. “An old friend.”

He gestured around the room.

“Jean. Connie. Falco and Gabi,” he continued, nodding toward the young ones. “And… Annie. My girlfriend.”

Annie’s breath caught for just a moment. Her eyes flicked toward him, and he gave her a small, quiet smile. Soft, but real. She had always wondered if he meant it—back then, on the boat, when the world was ending, and he’d talked about a future. About a life beyond the fighting. About sharing that life with her.

Now she knew. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t let go.

Mikasa turned her eyes on each of them. Their names meant little. Their faces were distant echoes. Familiar yet unreachable. It was a strange sensation—being surrounded by people who felt like home and yet feeling like a stranger inside her own skin.

But she trusted Armin. That was clear. Wherever he was, she felt safe. And yet, something still tugged at the edge of her awareness—a hollow ache, an absence she couldn’t name. A bond she must have once shared. It was gone, just out of reach, like a word on the tip of her tongue.

Jean stood quietly in the corner of the room, watching the whole scene unfold like a play he hadn’t auditioned for. His arms were crossed, his heel tapping the floor with a low, rhythmic impatience he couldn’t shake off.

He hadn’t believed it—until now.

Mikasa was standing.

She didn’t look fragile or shattered like he imagined she would. No, there she was, holding herself upright with only a single crutch for support. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t broken either. Not visibly. And to Jean, that meant more than anything. Relief touched something inside him—until his eyes landed on the scarf.

That damn scarf.

Still wrapped around her neck, like a lifeline to a memory she shouldn't even have anymore.

He had hoped—no, he had counted on the idea that her amnesia would wipe it all clean. That maybe this time, she could be free from him. Free to look somewhere else. To start again.

But the scarf was still there.

And maybe… just maybe… she hadn’t forgotten at all.

The sound of the front door creaking open again sliced through the quiet tension like a blade.

Everyone turned.

And there he was.

Eren.

He entered slowly, almost casually, like someone walking into a meeting they were late to and didn’t care. His uniform was plain, like the rest of them—functional clothes fit for labor, for sweating under the sun, rebuilding a world they'd all helped break.

His hair had been cut.

Short, neat. Like the old days. It made him look younger. Softer.

But Jean wasn’t fooled.

His whole body tensed as if his muscles remembered everything his mind tried to suppress. The rage. The betrayal. The years of chasing his shadow. The weight of everyone they had lost because of him.

He wanted to move—wanted to say something. Do something. But no one in the room moved. No one spoke.

Eren wasn’t alone. Two men stood beside him, dressed in black and bearing that unflinching authority that came with experience. The guards who’d been assigned to him ever since he was found alive in Paradis. They were here to keep him “in check,” or so they claimed.

Jean didn’t buy it. If Eren really wanted to break free, those two wouldn’t be able to stop him. But maybe… maybe it wasn’t force holding Eren back.

Maybe it was her.

Jean followed his gaze.

Mikasa.

She stood at the far end of the room, her crutch lightly leaning against her side, her posture straighter than before, like his presence alone had triggered something instinctual in her.

She was staring at Eren.

Really staring.

And Eren… Eren was staring back.

For a moment, nothing existed around them. Not the others. Not the building. Not the silence.

Just two people, caught in a thread neither of them could name anymore. Time didn’t erase it. Not war. Not memory loss. Not even death.

Jean watched her carefully. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. But there was something—some flicker in her eyes, a tightening in her jaw, the subtle way her hand clutched on the crutch.

Not everything. Not the whole truth. But something inside her recognized him. Eren wasn’t a stranger to her. Not completely. Even if she didn’t understand it yet, her body remembered. Her heart did.

And Jean hated it.

He clenched his jaw, fists balling at his sides.

Eren had destroyed everything. Had torn their world apart. Had taken away people they loved. He had made Mikasa into this hollow, uncertain version of herself. And now he was just… here. Walking back into their lives like nothing had happened. And somehow, she still looked at him like that.

Like he was the missing piece.

The pull between them hadn’t disappeared—it was still there, invisible but undeniable. It pissed him off. He wanted to scream, to grab Eren by the collar and drag him outside. To fight him while there was still something to fight for. While they still had blood in their veins and bitterness in their bones.

They couldn’t go back to pretending. Not after everything.

Jean took a step forward, breath shallow.

He needed to put an end to this.

One way or another.

“Jean?”

Armin’s voice cut through the silence like a plea, sharp and urgent.

He saw it before anyone else—the way Jean moved, the shift in his weight, the fury building in his eyes like a storm about to crash. Armin's hand shot out instinctively, but he was too far to stop it. Reiner noticed too, muscles tensing as if ready to intervene.

And yet… Eren didn’t flinch.

He stood still, hands at his sides, shoulders loose, eyes watching without any defence. He didn’t brace for impact.

He was waiting for it.

Because he deserved it.

The weight of his sins hung heavy in the air like ash, and he was ready—ready to be punished, to be hated, to be reduced again.

Jean’s fist rose.

But it never landed.

A blur of movement—then stillness.

Mikasa.

She had moved faster than anyone thought possible, especially in her condition. Her crutch clattered to the floor, forgotten. Her hand caught Jean’s wrist mid-swing, stopping it cold with a strength that was too real, too sharp for a woman who had forgotten so much.

Jean stared at her, stunned. Her grip on him was iron.

Eyes wide, he searched her face, but it was unreadable—cool and distant, like a mask she’d been forced to wear.

“I don’t think we came here to settle a fight,” she said.

Her voice was low. Firm. And something else—cold.

It wasn’t like her.

Or maybe, it was what was left of her.

And suddenly, the room went still again.

Eren’s eyes opened slowly. He had closed them when Jean moved, maybe to brace for the blow—or to welcome it. But now, he watched her. Watched how she stood in front of him, not like before, not with affection or desperation. Just protection. Instinct. Nothing more.

He felt the ache swell again in his chest.

But I don’t deserve this.

Why Mikasa?

Jean slowly pulled his wrist away, still staring at her.

“Why?” he muttered. “Why are you still protecting him?”

Mikasa didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t need to. Her silence was enough to drive the knife deeper into Jean’s frustration.

Then—

“Oi.”

The tension snapped like a taut string.

Everyone turned.

The voice was unmistakable.

Levi.

He stood in the doorway, leaning slightly on a crutch, wrapped in gauze and bandages but standing. Still dangerous. Still commanding. His one good eye was narrowed, scanning the room like it bored him to death.

“What's this all about?” he asked flatly, as if they were squabbling over chores.

“Captain?” Armin said, surprised.

“I’m not your captain anymore,” Levi muttered, brushing it off with the flick of his hand. “Just here to keep an eye on things. You two—” he nodded at Eren’s guards, “—can leave. I’ve got this.”

The guards looked at each other, visibly uneasy. One of them stepped forward:

“Sir, with all due respect, we have orders—”

Levi didn’t even blink.

“Yeah, I know.”

He limped a few steps closer, and though he moved slowly, deliberately, the pressure in the room shifted. The guards tensed.

“It also happens that I’m the one assigned to watch him now. So knock it off. You’re dismissed.”

“Who gave you that authority?” the taller guard asked, puffing up slightly.

Levi smiled.

It was dry. Lethal.

“I did.”

Silence.

Nobody argued after that.

The guards hesitated but, after exchanging one final glance, stepped back and exited. They knew better than to push it. The reports hadn’t been exaggerated—Levi Ackerman, even half-dead, was a threat no one wanted to test.

And when the door closed behind them, the air grew a little less suffocating.

Levi exhaled and turned to Jean, then to Mikasa, then finally Eren. “So, can we not throw punches for five damn minutes? Or do I need to give you all some common senses?”

Jean looked away, clenching his jaw.

Eren remained silent, gaze low.

Mikasa stepped back, picked up her crutch slowly, as if the strength that had flared in her had burned out already.

Then Levi muttered, “Good, because I think we had enough of this.”

“Levi? I thought you were in rehab,” Connie said as he approached him, his voice laced with surprise.

“You really think I’d sit this one out?” Levi replied flatly. “I know Eren’s done some unforgivable shit. Hell, he probably deserves worse than this. But don’t forget—we were all part of it. Right, Armin?”

All eyes shifted to Armin. They hadn’t heard yet—not about what he’d told back on Paradis. Not about the dream he once shared with Eren. The truth behind it. The plan, the terror, the vengeance, blood and more blood.

He lowered his gaze, lips pressed tight, but before anyone could push further, Levi cut back in with his usual sharpness.

“I got a letter from Historia. Says the guards wouldn’t ever agree to let him with us. So, I stepped in. We’ve been assigned to a section of the mainland. Everyone else is doing their part to rebuild—clearing debris, reclaiming land. We’re no exception. What we need now is a truck.”

“So, what the hell are we waiting for?!” Gabi burst out. She’d been standing off to the side, practically vibrating with impatience. This was her chance—finally—to do something that mattered. Falcos was only standing by her side, hoping he could follow wherever she goes.

“Cool it, brat,” Levi snapped. Gabi recoiled, visibly stunned. “There are things we need to take care of first. Like clearing our names. Building new identities. Otherwise, we’ll be recognized.”

“Tch. Like that’s really gonna make a difference,” Jean muttered with a roll of his eyes. “A fake name won’t hide the smell of all the crap we’ve dragged behind us, especially this monster.”

Levi squinted at Jean, unimpressed. The guy still wasn’t hiding his disgust at having Eren among them. That kind of attitude wasn’t going to help anyone—especially not with Historia banking on some idealistic future where they'd all live in peace. Peace. What a joke.

Levi didn’t buy it, never had. He remembered Historia back in the Scouts—always trying to patch things together that were beyond saving. Now she ruled over ruins, still clinging to some fantasy of redemption. Levi couldn’t blame Jean for being pissed. Truth was, he felt it too. Maybe even more than Jean did. He had believed in Eren. They all had. Believed in the hope Erwin had died for. And what did they get in return?

Pain. Ruin. Ghosts.

He hated that brat more than anyone, not just for what he did to the world—but for what he did to them. For what he took. His comrades. His body. His mind. All cracked into pieces.

And yet, somehow, he was still standing.

“Right,” Levi snapped, breaking the tension. “How about we slap a sticker on your back that says, ‘Hi, I’m Jean Kirstein, from Eldia—sworn enemy of the world. Please feel free to throw rocks and more.’ Sound good?”

Jean scoffed.

“But I’m not the one who—”

“—Who’ll know that?” Levi cut in coldly, stepping closer. “You want to be recognized? Fine. Eren Yeager’s name is the one people will want to burn. So, let’s go ahead and make you the face of our mistake instead. From now on, you’re the monster. Eren’s just some guy.”

It was brutal. But it was the truth.

Because outside of the ruins of Eldia and a few dusty military archives, no one knew Eren Yeager’s face. The man who'd trampled the world was a ghost. A whisper. Easy to bury.

Jean clenched his fists, jaw tight. He hated that Levi had a point. Hated the fact that none of this felt like justice. He never asked to be a part of this twisted “rebuilding.” All he’d ever wanted was a normal life. A quiet one. And now he was being asked to work beside the very person who almost annihilated everything.

The thought of forgiving Eren made his stomach turn.

“I’m done talking,” Levi said, turning away. “Everyone gets the day off. Consider it your last before we get our hands dirty. Come back with a new name or don’t bother showing up.”

Jean muttered something under his breath, probably a curse, but Levi didn’t flinch.

“Eren, you’re staying with me. Try anything, and I’ll handle you myself. Don’t be fooled—I might be half-broken, but I’m still stronger than you.”

Eren said nothing. He kept his eyes low, as if he could vanish under the weight of their stares. How could a new name wipe away what he’d done? How could anyone forget?

He didn’t want to be forgiven. He just wanted to be erased.

Mikasa watched it unfold, her heart a strange mess of confusion. She didn’t understand. What had he done to deserve this much hatred? What had Armin meant, back on the boat, when he looked at her with such guilt?

She remembered the man in chains. And how Armin answered her when she asked what had happened.

Something terrible.

She didn’t even notice when she dropped her things earlier—only that she had moved without thinking, her body reacting before her mind could. She had shielded him. Protected him. Why?

Now, she could feel the ache settling in, her legs trembling slightly from standing too long. She wasn’t strong enough yet. But something inside her stirred—an old instinct.

Maybe it was love. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe it was just habit.

But even in this unfamiliar peace, she couldn’t stop being his shield.

“Mikasa!”

Pieck moved fast, catching her just in time before she hit the floor. Eren’s knees nearly buckled at the sight. It had happened too quickly—three weeks wasn’t nearly enough to recover from everything. He hated how powerless he was. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even reach for her.

“I’m fine,” Mikasa murmured, though her voice trembled like the rest of her.

Armin was already by her side, helping Pieck ease her into the nearest chair. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes unfocused, flickering with memories burnt at the edges. She didn’t know what was happening—only that something in her wasn’t right. The spinning room. The crawling fear.

“Let’s bring her to her room,” Pieck said gently, noticing the small tears in Mikasa’s eyes.

“I’ll help.” Annie stepped forward without hesitation, the faintest frown on her face.

Together, they guided Mikasa away. She didn’t resist—too tired, too lost in a haze of pain and confusion. Somewhere inside her, she knew she was part of this, knew these people were important. She just didn’t know why.

Eren stood frozen, heart lodged in his throat. He couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t comfort her. Not anymore.

If you die, I die.
No. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Everyone needs rest anyway,” Reiner said, breaking the heavy silence.

“I agree,” Armin added, his voice quiet. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Suddenly, Gabi piped up from the back of the room:
“I’m gonna call myself Sasha.”

Connie froze mid-step. “What?! Hell no!”

The room blinked at the unexpected shift.

“What?” Gabi blinked, feigning innocence. “It’s a pretty name.”

“You mean the name of the girl you shot?” Connie barked, pointing at her like she’d just kicked his dog.

“I said I was sorry, like, a hundred times!” Gabi shot back. “I was brainwashed, okay? Just like you were! You blew up half the Marleyan military and no one brings that up every five minutes!”

“Yeah well, you guys are the one who started it!”

“I just want to be forgiven,” Gabi said, folding her arms. “I don’t want to be Gabi anymore. I want to be…a friend.”

“In your dreams,” Connie muttered, turning away before she could see his expression soften just a bit.

“That’s a good idea,” Pieck said, smiling as she casually ran a hand through Gabi’s hair. “Maybe not Sasha, though. Something less…trauma-inducing.”

“Like what?” Gabi huffed. “Conn-ie?”

Connie spun around. “If you start calling yourself Connie 2.0, I’m personally dropping you off a cliff.”

“Geez, relax! It was a joke.”

“Didn’t sound like one!”

“You don’t sound like one!”

“You two are giving me a migraine,” Jean groaned.

But for a moment, the tension broke—like the thinnest thread of warmth in a room still haunted by war. Gabi and Connie might never fully get past what happened. But maybe, just maybe, they could argue their way into something like peace.

Freya, a name that doesn't exist in the anime, only my imagination.

I tried not to focus on the bad side of this situation here. Even though everything seemed off a bad start, I think they would eventually manage to forgive themselves, about their past, their sins…Also, I know Gabi have been a big subject in this fandom, but I would like to remind that she was just a kid, like Reiner, Annie, Bertholt, Marco, Pieck, Zeke…they all just follow what they have been taught (but that doesn’t mean I condone their actions). And I think that the old survey corps did some pretty bad damage too, so it goes to say that they are all in the same boat.

Even though I would be changing their names, there wouldn’t be any difference (like changing only their names or tweaking just a few letter) and I will only use them on rare occasions like paperwork stuff. Because there is no way I can write a canon story if it’s not them lol.

I really hope I can get through all this mess, it has been a long time since I have written a long fanfic.

Chapter Text

Scrabble Note written hastily on a torn sheet of paper:

• Gabi Braun → Gabriella/Gabie Braune. (Can’t pick Sasha, not after Connie’s ‘No way in hell.’ Trying to be nice here).
• Reiner Braun → Reiner Braune. (Close enough to home, but a little cleaner. No more destruction in the name).
• Mikasa Ackerman → Mikasa Hizuru. (Found a famous family name from old Asia, thought it suits me).
• Levi Ackerman → Levi Eckerman. (No comment).
• Eren Yeager → Eren Kruger. (My father named me after him, I guess. It safe to say, no one knew him at all).
• Annie Leonhart → Ane/Annie Hartman. (I don’t know what I was thinking).
• Armin Arlet → Armin Arlett. (People wouldn’t recognise me if I kept my name?).
• Pieck Finger → Natasha Flinger. (I always hated my name, this is an opportunity to change it all).
• Connie Springer → Conny Springfield. (Jean better not mock me).
• Jean Kirstein → Jean Beau. (Connie better not mock me).
• Falco Grice → Colt Grace. (In the name of my brother).

Levi read the list for the fifth time, his sharp eyes scanning each name with increasing irritation. They had all stubbornly clung to their real names, making only the smallest of changes — a letter here, a syllable there — as if that would fool anyone. He muttered under his breath, feeling the migraine pounding behind his temples intensify.

He wasn’t exactly in the best position to judge. He had barely altered his own name, only switching a letter in Ackerman to Eckerman, holding fast to that fragile connection to a family once allies of Eldia. That stubbornness fit the man he was—too damn proud to let go of his roots, even when it was safer to vanish into something new.

The early morning was still quiet around the inn where the group had been relocated after their meeting. Everyone else was still asleep, exhausted from the weight of what had been decided. Levi had been assigned to watch over Eren, who was in the next room, separated by a thin door—just enough to keep an eye on him in case he did something stupid.

So far, Eren had kept to himself. Quiet, subdued, like a man who finally realized the weight of his sins. Levi found the silence unnerving—this was the same Eren who used to yell and fight tooth and nail for his ideals, the stubborn brat who once defied titans.

Levi groaned softly, aching all over, the pain in his back a reminder that time wasn’t on his side. Pouring himself a cup of bitter coffee, he steeled himself. Today was the day they moved forward. Levi and his team were heading to the front lines, deep into the heart of Revelio, the city still raw with the scars of chaos – where it all started. Their mission: evacuate any survivors from the Rambling’s destruction and bring them to safety.

It sounded impossible. And yet, Levi couldn’t quite let go. Not now. Not when peace was barely within reach.

With a grunt, he grabbed his paperwork and crutches, ready to face the day. But first, there was one thing left to do: talk to Eren.

In the other room, Eren was already awake. Sleep wasn’t rest anymore—it was punishment. Every night dragged him through the same corridors of memory, over and over, like the Founding Titan still had its claws in him.

He leaned over the sink, hands planted on the porcelain, eyes fixed on the mirror. His hair was short again—same as it had been before the walls fell in his mind, before he let the past, present, and future blur into one endless weight.

The reflection staring back at him looked… smaller. Less alive. He was too skinny, carved away by weeks of disuse and nights without peace. Faith in humanity? That had been stripped away long before. What was left was a body carrying memories too tangled to separate—visions so constant that reality felt like another hallucination.

His gaze drifted to the sink. A toothbrush. A pair of scissors.

It wouldn’t take much. One clean decision. One less thing to carry.

Mikasa’s face cut through the thought—uninvited, intrusive. The way she had stopped Jean without hesitation, even without understanding why. Instinct. Always instinct. He felt something twist in his chest. Relief, because she still had that strength despite everything. Disgust, because she still cared for him.

She didn’t know the truth. Not all of it.

And that scared him more than anything else.

A knock broke the silence, sharp against the wood. His shoulders locked. Yesterday had been a knife’s edge—cold words, colder stares. It wouldn’t take much to split everything apart.

Levi was the one he least wanted to see. The one who had every right to hate him. The one who’d lost more than anyone because of him.

The door opened without waiting for an answer.

Levi stepped inside:

“Oi.”

Eren glanced up at the mirror, the voice already pulling at something deep in his chest.

“Levi…”

“It’s time. Get moving.”

Short. Sharp. An order that didn’t need explaining. He could ignore most people these days—but not Levi.

Eren exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried more weight than breath, before pulling his shirt over his head. He didn’t ask where they were going. He didn’t need to. If Levi wanted to drag him halfway across the damn mainland just to kick his teeth in, he’d do it without blinking.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Titan or not, Levi had never hesitated to beat the shit out of him when he thought Eren needed it.

And the worst part? Eren almost missed it.
That brutal, bitter honesty—pain that at least meant something. A far cry from the empty, polite silences of the others.

Outside, the air was thick—humid, heavy. The kind of weather where the leaves would start giving up soon, where the rain would come more often and the cold would settle in like an unwelcome guest.

The inn was tucked away, hidden from the last scraps of humanity clinging to life. One of the few buildings still standing against the chaos. It even had a garden—a pointless little square of green for people who still believed in peace.

That’s where Levi took him.

Eren’s eyes kept flicking to the side, scanning, weighing, already bracing for the worst. The chill along his spine wasn’t from the weather. These days, every step felt like it could be his last—because it should.

He didn’t deserve to be breathing after the Rumbling.

And yet… he was still here.

What gnawed at him wasn’t just survival—it was the gap in his own memory. The blank between Mikasa moving toward him with the blade and waking up free of the Founding Titan.

He couldn’t get back to the Paths. Couldn’t undo it. Couldn’t see it.

Ymir had moved faster than him—too fast. One moment, the edge of steel, her eyes fixed. The last thing he remembered was dragging himself out of his Titan, hauling Mikasa into his arms. Everything before that was gone.

It scared the hell out of him.

What had happened in that missing space? Had he done something… wrong? Was he supposed to keep the Rumbling going until the very last body dropped? Watch Mikasa bleed out in front of him?

No.

No, he couldn’t accept that. Out of all the things he’d destroyed, all the lines he’d crossed, losing her while he lived… that wasn’t something he could carry.

“Oi.”

Eren stopped mid-step, his muscles locking without thought. Levi’s voice still had that effect—short, sharp, cutting through the fog in his head.

He turned. Levi was standing near a bench, posture casual in the way only someone ready to kill at any second could be. An invitation? Eren doubted it. That stare wasn’t the kind that asked—it dared him to refuse.

Eren looked away, jaw tight, and walked over anyway.

They sat, leaving just enough space between them to make it clear they weren’t here to comfort each other. The sky was shifting, bleeding from black into pale pink. The street was waking up—birds cutting arcs overhead, muffled voices from somewhere behind the inn, the slow stir of a world that hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to keep going.

Eren didn’t want it to. Not today. Not ever.

Levi broke the quiet first.
“So… you gonna explain what the hell happened back there?”

He didn’t look at Eren. His gaze was fixed ahead, eyes distant like he was forcing himself anywhere but here. Without the bandages, the scars on his face stood out—stitches still holding some of them shut, angry red lines running like fault cracks through stone.

“What?” Eren muttered.

“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.”

The dream. The Paths. The second space he’d built for Mikasa—because he knew what she wanted without her saying it. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere far from the noise. He’d given it to her knowing he wouldn’t make it out. Knowing there was no path where he survived without becoming something worse than a monster.

“I…” He started, but the words felt pointless. “I thought I could be the monster… and you’d all stop me. And maybe, while you were at it, you’d forget me.”

“And you’re proud of that?”

“No.”

“You haven’t changed, Eren.”

Eren let the words settle. He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

Levi would never forgive him. Not for the Rumbling. Not for the comrades buried because of Eren’s choices. Whether it was planned or not didn’t matter. The bodies were still gone. The world still burned.

But Eren wasn’t about to pretend Levi’s hands were clean either.

“You say that like you’re any different,” Eren said finally, low, almost conversational. “You’ve done worse than most men even dream of.”

Levi’s eyes flicked toward him for a fraction of a second, unreadable.

Eren went on.
“You’ve killed people without blinking. Not just Titans. Humans. You think they were all ‘necessary’? All self-defence? We both know better. You’ve followed orders that were just as insane as anything I’ve done. You were ready to slit, you didn’t care who was on the other end of your blades.”

Levi didn’t respond, but Eren could feel the weight in the silence.

“The only difference between us,” Eren continued, “is scale. You’ve done what I’ve done—just not to eighty percent of the planet.”

Levi’s gaze stayed on the horizon, but his jaw worked slightly, like he was chewing over whether to break Eren’s face or let the words rot between them. Levi didn’t say a word. The dawn kept creeping forward. The air stayed heavy. And the space between them felt exactly the same—too far to close, too close to escape.

“Maybe.” Levi let out a long, tired sigh—the kind that seemed to come from years, not days. “Maybe I’m not so different from you… I’m an Ackerman.”

Eren didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The tension between them loosened just slightly, like both had silently agreed to put their knives down—for now. They had enough corpses between them to last ten lifetimes. And maybe… Levi was the only one here willing to look his own sins in the eye. The rest were still too blinded by their anger at Eren to see they’d been walking through blood too.

“Eren.” Levi’s voice pulled him back. “I want you to stay behind. With Mikasa.”

“What? No. I can’t—”

“She’s got… something with you,” Levi cut in. “Knows you in a way she doesn’t with Armin, even now. We need her, and she needs someone familiar.”

No. Absolutely not. Eren’s stomach knotted immediately. He had promised himself—sworn—he’d never get close to her again. He’d already carved enough scars into her life. Being near her was dangerous, for her and for him.

He shook his head, pulse quickening.
“I can’t.”

“If you don’t,” Levi said, flat as stone, “I’ll put someone else there. And I doubt she’ll listen to them. Not if you’re not around.”

Then, almost too quiet to catch, Levi muttered, “That brat still cares for you.”

Eren’s jaw tightened. “Why me of all people?”

“You know why.”

Yeah. He knew. The world kept grinding forward—adapting, pretending, carrying its grief like some invisible weight. But some things didn’t change.

Eren’s teeth clenched so hard it hurt. Levi hadn’t dragged him out here for some half-assed talk. This was a plan. A calculation.

“I believe as long as she’s with you,” Levi said, “you won’t do anything stupid.”

And there it was. He knew. He knew that out of all the horrors Eren had unleashed, all the lives erased, the thought of Mikasa broken—really broken—was worse.

Levi was gambling on the one thing Eren still couldn’t destroy.

Bastard.

✹

Mikasa woke to the weight of her own body, as if her bones had turned to stone overnight. Every muscle was stiff, ready to snap at the wrong movement, but… it wasn’t as bad as yesterday.

She’d dreamed again. Him. Always him. But this time, someone else lingered in the background—a young woman, silent, pale, thin to the point of fragility. She looked like she’d walked through fire and never quite stepped out of it.

The alarm cut through her haze, reminding her it was time. Time to go out there, into the noise, into the crowd of people she was told were her friends. Faces she couldn’t place, names that didn’t fit anywhere in her head. And yet… she wasn’t afraid. She almost welcomed it. Anything was better than rotting in bed, motionless, letting her mind spiral.

From what little she remembered, she had never been still. She had been in forests, gathering wood, chasing animals, moving until the sun went down. Moving kept her alive.

Family.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

The voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Annie was standing in the doorway that connected their rooms. She looked ready to leave already—simple jeans, sleeveless shirt, hair tied back like she couldn’t be bothered to fuss over it. Without asking, she strode in and pulled open the curtains.

The sunlight spilled in, slicing away the shadows. It should have felt warm, but instead it felt like being forced awake—blinding, unyielding.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Annie asked.

Mikasa hated that question. Hated the way it pulled her back to the reality of how damaged she was. But she took the glass Annie handed her when she returned from filling it, studying her face instead. Something about her was familiar.

Armin had said Annie was his girlfriend. And yet, there was something more, maybe dark, maybe worst.

“Today,” Annie said, her tone brisk but not unkind, “you’re staying here. Help the people seeking refuge. You won’t be alone.”

“Alone?” Mikasa repeated quietly.

“Yeah. Eren… Levi’s choice. Even if I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why is everyone so afraid of him?”

Annie froze for half a second. She didn’t answer right away, and Mikasa noticed. Her eyes were sharp, calculating—not with malice, but caution. She was weighing words, like she knew one wrong sentence could shatter something that couldn’t be put back together.

“…It’s difficult to explain, Mikasa,” she said finally. “All I know is—you need to be careful.”

The words landed harder than Mikasa wanted to admit. Something in her chest gave a sharp, painful twist. She masked it, lowering her gaze and pretending to sip from the glass.

“We’ll be down the hall,” Annie said, stepping back toward the door. “We leave at ten. So, hurry.”

It was only 9:15. Plenty of time. But Mikasa didn’t feel like waiting. Something in her—the part of her that still ached to be outside, to move—was restless, clawing at the inside of her ribs. She couldn’t explain it, but she wanted out there. She needed it.

✹

Everyone was already in the hall by the time Mikasa finished preparing. She’d abandoned one crutch, keeping the other for the day—it was a small rebellion, proof she wasn’t as weak as everyone seemed to think. Still, she felt the eyes on her, the subtle tilt of heads, the pity she despised. Like she was something brittle, a relic to be handled with care.

The others were scattered around the room—Connie leaning back lazily in his chair with a steaming mug, Gabi pacing near the door with the restless energy of a caged animal, Falco seated beside her, pretending calm but fiddling with the strap of his satchel. Pieck lounged on a couch, eyes half-lidded, but Mikasa could tell—she was always observing, always calculating. Annie sat apart, tying her hair back with slow precision, her movements deliberate, like someone used to conserving strength until it truly mattered.

Mikasa didn’t know why, but she could feel their quiet resolve in the air. These were people who had already decided they’d keep moving forward, no matter what, even if they didn’t know what the road ahead looked like.

The door opened.

“Oi.”

Levi’s voice cut through the room like a blade. The air shifted, tense in a way only he could cause. He entered with his usual authority, the kind that didn’t need to be announced. Eren followed behind him—not bowed and broken like yesterday, but still avoiding anyone’s gaze.

Mikasa’s heart stuttered. Something in the shape of him, the rhythm of his steps, tugged at her. Familiarity, confusing and uninvited. She didn’t understand why it made her chest tighten. Across the room, Jean scoffed, his disdain obvious. Mikasa remembered the moment Jean had wanted to hit Eren, and how she had stepped in. She would do it again, without hesitation.

Levi scanned the group.
“Get ready, the truck’s outside. Only Armin, Mikasa, Eren, and Reiner stay.”

Jean shot up.
“What?”

Eren staying with the people he’d hurt most—Jean couldn’t swallow it.

“You can’t be seri—”

“Gotta problem, ‘Beau’?” Levi’s eyes locked on him. No anger, just a cold challenge that promised consequences.

Jean clenched his jaw and dropped it. No one backed him. That silence was almost worse than open disagreement.

Armin didn’t like it either. But he glanced at Mikasa and then at Eren, weighing what was worth more: his discomfort, or the chance to keep the two people he cared for under his watch. He remembered Fort Salta, the split second when killing Eren had been an option, and how he’d chosen otherwise. Maybe it had been foolish mercy. Or maybe it was giving a condemned man one last chance to see what he had wrought.

Eren felt the eyes on him—judgment, suspicion, disappointment—and for a moment, he wished someone would just end it here. End him. Then a weight settled on his shoulder.

Reiner. Smiling in that way that wasn’t quite warm.

“We get to stick together, huh?”

Eren stiffened, instinct urging him to shake him off. But he didn’t. Reiner wasn’t mocking him—he was grounding him. Watching him. Maybe even protecting him, for reasons Eren couldn’t yet name.

Mikasa caught their exchange and felt a strange pull. Something about the two of them—bound by betrayal, guilt, and survival—felt like a story she should already know. But then Eren looked at her, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded.

Levi’s voice broke the stillness.
“We’re going to the Capital. It’s a few hours’ trip before work starts. We’ll be back by six. Any questions?”

Heads shook. The meeting was over.

As they began to move, Reiner leaned closer to Eren. “Stick with me. I don’t want to lose sight of you.” His tone was protective, but layered with something else—a quiet plea, maybe.

Eren didn’t understand why he was receiving this strange, fractured loyalty from people he’d destroyed. Maybe they were just stubborn. Or maybe he saw some piece of themselves in him, even now.

Pieck glanced up from her seat, eyes narrowing, mind already five steps ahead of whatever mission Levi had planned. Gabi was already at the door, chin high, like daring the world to try and break her again. Falco shadowed her, a quiet tether keeping her rage from spilling over. Connie downed the last of his tea, as if daring the day to come at him with its worst. Annie adjusted her hair, her calm mask concealing the steel beneath.

It was their first day on this new path. The goal ahead felt impossible, but impossibility had never stopped them before.

Eren wasn’t sure how long he could last under their stares, under the silent weight of what he’d done. The hatred burned hotter than the sun. And yet, buried somewhere deep, was that fragile ember of hope—hope for a future that might not destroy the few things left they cared about.

So, i had little fun changing a few letter, except for Pieck which i personally wanted to give her a name, but she still goes by her formal one. Also, things will be slower now, as i am getting fully into the story, i need to write parts form everyone, even Historia from where she is rulling. I am planning to make some rather mid-short scenes, as if i am cutting between takes in a movie to go from someone, to someone else's pov. Please, let me know if this is okay:)

Chapter Text

Mikasa followed the man in charge, his voice steady but distant in her ears as he explained their assignments. This town—one of the few left standings—had little to offer beyond shelter. They weren’t here to fight, not today. Just to help the survivors who’d stumbled out of the chaos still breathing. That was the official reason, anyway.

She walked beside Armin. That made her feel grounded. As long as he was near, there was order in the world, even if it was only a thread holding everything together.

But her gaze drifted to the left, just behind them. Eren and Reiner followed, their steps slower, less concerned with whatever their guide was saying. Eren was the quietest of them all—too quiet. He had been like that ever since… she met him.

Mikasa still didn’t understand why everyone seemed to bristle when he was in the room. She couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him—something deep, protective, like the instinct to shield a wounded animal. But Reiner… Reiner never left his side. Not for more than a minute. Watching him, shadowing him, like a man with something to atone for.

The thought struck her suddenly, sharp and unwelcome: Maybe they were more than just friends.
Her chest tightened. She looked away before Eren could catch her staring, fixing her attention on the guide’s words, though they were slipping past her without meaning.

Eren, meanwhile, was fighting his own war in silence. Seeing Mikasa glance away felt like a blade pressed under his ribs. He wanted her—more than he wanted peace, more than he wanted life—but he’d already decided he could never have her. He was poison. Staying away was the only way to protect her from himself, even if it meant walking through this strange, aimless future alone.

But the truth was, he wasn’t alone. Not really. Reiner’s presence was an unwelcome constant. Eren could feel his eyes on him every so often, checking, measuring. It irritated him, almost as much as the fact that it wasn’t her watching him.

They stopped in a wide, empty avenue. The buildings here stood unharmed, but the air was heavy with absence—its people gone, their lives uprooted. The few who remained had turned it into a temporary shelter. Decorations tried to hide the truth, but the air smelled of damp earth and uncertainty. Above, the sky was a clear, almost mocking blue, a cruel contrast to the storm that had battered their boat just two days before.

“Okay, here will be your spot,” the guide said, flipping through a worn clipboard. “I think two of you are fit for physical labour?”

“That would be us,” Armin said, scanning the space. His voice was steady, but Eren noticed the faint pinch of discomfort in his expression—he was still pale from the voyage, the sea’s motion lingering in his body.

“Good,” the guide replied. “You’ll be setting up several tents. You two—come with me.”

As Armin stepped forward, Reiner leaned close to Eren, his voice low. “Better stay alive.”

Eren bit the inside of his cheek to stop the reply that wanted to come out. Stay alive. As if he hadn’t been wondering every day if it was worth it. If he could find someone to end it for him, it would almost be a relief. The world didn’t need him anymore—except for Mikasa. And that was the worst part. Out of all the people he’d wanted to keep at a distance, it was her who ended up here, tethered to him again. She moved differently now—like someone carrying truths too heavy to share, locked away by the cruel hand of fate.

Mikasa’s pulse kicked up when she realized she wouldn’t be with Armin. There was something almost good about being paired with Eren… and that was the problem. She didn’t know why the thought didn’t scare her more.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Armin told her quietly before leaving with the guide. “We’ll meet back at twelve.”

He shot Eren one last glance—a warning, sharp and deliberate. If it weren’t for Levi’s orders hanging over them all, Armin knew he might make a different choice this time.

Eren dropped his gaze, the heat in his chest cooling into something heavier. Armin felt the flicker of pity in his stomach, but he buried it. Eren didn’t need pity. He needed to face what he’d done.

They parted ways, the sound of boots crunching on gravel fading between them.

Armin looked back one more time. It wasn’t a casual glance — it was a reflex, like his body was warning him about something his mind couldn’t quite name. That sensation had been gnawing at him since morning, that tightness in his chest like an invisible hand gripping his ribs. Something was going to happen. Not might. Would.

“You should relax and focus on your side of the job,” Reiner said without looking at him, his eyes fixed straight ahead as though the distant tents were the only thing that existed.

“Easy for you to say,” Armin muttered, exhaling hard through his nose.

Reiner didn’t miss a beat. “Nothing’s going to happen. Eren knows we have him cornered. And besides—” a faint, knowing twist curled in his voice, “—he’s with Mikasa.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You sound like Jean,” Reiner said, tone somewhere between amused and weary.

Armin didn’t reply. Maybe Reiner was right. Maybe he was acting just like Jean — suspicious, quick to imagine the worst, mentally drawing up scenarios where Eren did something irreversible again. But Jean’s anger had been loud and obvious. Armin’s was quieter, buried under layers of doubt and guilt. He had been the one to make the choice at Fort Salta, to save Eren when so many had died because of him. He had convinced himself it was the “right” thing at the time. That there was still a chance to bring Eren back from the edge.

But what if there wasn’t?

Ahead, a cluster of men were hammering stakes into the ground, digging into the hard dirt to make way for tents, tables, machines. The skeleton of a quarantine zone. It looked organized, but Armin could already see the chaos beneath — the rationing, the fear, the people who would arrive here with nothing left but the clothes on their backs.

He wished he was with Eren and Mikasa, if only to keep the damage contained.

“Ma’am, maybe you’d like to sit.”

Mikasa felt a hand guide her toward the opening of an already-assembled tent. Inside, piles of clothing were heaped in chaotic mounds. Her task was simple — sort them by size, by warmth, by use — but the sheer volume made it look like an avalanche had crashed inside the canvas walls.

“I can do this standing,” she said flatly, positioning herself in front of the table.

The woman hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s just—”

Mikasa shot her a glance, sharp enough to cut the air between them. The woman took a half-step back and muttered something under her breath before leaving.

She hated this. Hated the way they looked at her like she was glass about to shatter. Hated the way their voices softened when they spoke to her, as though fragility was something she had chosen. She knew her limits — and she would sit when she damn well decided to.

On the other side of the tent, things were no better.

Eren stood in front of a table with a cutting board, a pan, and an array of ingredients that meant nothing to him. A man with a beard like a bramble thicket was rattling off instructions — something about meal schedules, proportions, and not wasting oil.

Eren’s mind drifted halfway through the explanation. It wasn’t like any of this mattered. He’d spent the last decade wielding blades for killing, not for chopping vegetables. The weight of a gun or a sword was familiar. The weight of a spatula felt like a joke. A cruel one.

He was wearing an apron — a ridiculous, crisp one — and a tall chef’s hat that kept brushing the top of the tent when he moved. It felt like a bad disguise, like the universe was mocking him: Look at the destroyer of worlds, reduced to cooking stew for the remnants of the people he failed.

“Well, I think that’s everything,” the bearded man said, stretching his arms over his head. “I’ll be in the corner if you need me.”

Eren frowned. “Wait—what?”

“I’m too tired. You’ll figure it out. I’ll just… supervise.”

“Supervise” apparently meant leaning back in a chair and closing his eyes within seconds.

Eren stared at him for a long moment, tempted to call him out. Bullshit, he thought, the word burning behind his teeth. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t want to give Levi the satisfaction of hearing later that he had refused to cooperate. The captain’s threats this morning had been quiet, but they had lodged deep enough that Eren could still feel the edge of them.

This was worse than death. Killing had been simple. Cooking for the living felt unbearable. He didn’t deserve to feed them. He had taken too much already.

And yet here he was, spatula in hand, the smell of raw onions already stinging his eyes.

It hadn’t been as bad as Eren expected — though “not bad” was still a stretch. He had stumbled through the first half-hour, fumbling with pans and knives while the bearded man alternated between napping and barking at him.

“Help” wasn’t the right word. The old man’s version of help was hovering behind him, pointing out every mistake like it was a personal insult, then scoffing that Eren’s mother must never have taught him how to cook.

Eren clenched his jaw, letting the comment slide. He couldn’t risk doing anything reckless — not now. Not after Levi’s warnings. If he was going to be forced to live, then he’d at least do something… useful. Something that made up for even a fraction of what he’d done to the world.

So he repeated the cycle: scramble eggs, chop carrots, toss in more salt. Again. Again. Again.

It was mechanical — movements repeating like a strange choreography. The clink of utensils against metal almost felt familiar, like another life where his hands had also repeated a rhythm over and over. But that life had been about taking, not giving. The similarity made his stomach turn.

He shook his head sharply, shutting that thought down. Instead, his mind drifted to Mikasa. Was she doing okay? Did she still not remember anything? That ache — the one he never wanted to name — was there again, urging him to glance over, just to make sure she was fine.

“Okay, we’re changing!”

The old man’s cough ripped through the tent, followed by the scrape of his chair as he woke from what had to be his tenth nap today.

Eren’s attention snapped back to the pan — just in time to see the eggs browning too fast. He yanked the pan off the heat, nearly flinging the food onto the table. His fingers brushed the hot edge, pain biting into his skin.

“Shit.”

“Are you always this brute?” the man asked with a lazy smirk, clearly entertained.

Eren shot him a sideways glare. The smirk widened. He was baiting him. And it was working — Eren wanted to break his nose just for the satisfaction. But again, he was cursed. Always cursed. No freedom, no real choices, just a shattered world that still expected him to serve it.

“Time to make some salad,” the man said cheerfully. “You’re lucky — we’ve got plenty today.”

Eren rolled his eyes. He remembered his mother making salad, remembered the odd way she’d wipe her eyes after cutting onions. Back then, he’d never asked why.

“Sir, I have a question,” he said when the vegetables hit the table.

“And I have answers.”

Eren ignored the joke.

“My mom used to cut onions… it made her cry. Why?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. Just smiled at him — not kindly, but like he was too stupid to deserve an explanation.

“You’ll see for yourself,” he said, leaning back into his chair as if his job was done.

Eren clicked his tongue but started cutting anyway. His mother had always been fast with the knife; Eren’s pace was clumsy in comparison. He wasn’t even sure which parts to keep.

“Hey, old man,” Eren called after a moment, “what time is it?”

The man stirred, squinted at his watch, then shut his eyes again. “Not time yet. Do what you must.”

Eren exhaled slowly. The day was far from over. And he already knew the next hours would drag like years.

A few hours later, Mikasa’s back was screaming at her. She’d been bending over the table so long she could feel every muscle protesting. She kept herself moving just to push through it, but now her body was begging her to stop.

When she finally straightened, her spine cracked loud enough to make her let out a low, satisfied moan. The tension bled out for just a second.

That’s when she wondered where Eren was.

She hadn’t thought about him all day, not until now. But the second the thought slipped in — that he was just on the other side of the tent — her chest gave a little flutter she didn’t understand.

After a while, she finally sat down. The lady nearby let out a sigh, like Mikasa was a stubborn child who’d finally behaved.

It only made her want to stand up again.

“I’m going to drink,” Mikasa said, grabbing her clutch.

“I can get it for you,” the lady offered, like it was her job to babysit her.

“Do it, and I’ll hit you with this.”

She lifted the clutch like it was a weapon. The lady froze.

Without another word, Mikasa slipped out toward the other side of the tent. That strange pull was there again — the one that told her to follow him, protect him. She didn’t know why. Everything else in her mind was a blur, like a wall she couldn’t get past. But this? This felt… inevitable.

Eren was staring down some weird vegetable, holding it like it might bite him. Maybe a cucumber? Maybe not. Without the Titan power, he couldn’t just dig into the memories of others for an answer.

For a moment, he almost missed it. Not the destruction, not the killing — but that edge, that certainty. The feeling of being in control of something. Now his hands were steadying a vegetable instead of a blade, and the whole thing felt like a bad joke. This wasn’t him.

He was powerless again. And he hated it.

“You need help?”

He froze. Looked up.

Fuck.

Mikasa was right there, standing beside him, looking down at his chopping board like she had any interest in cooking. His heart skipped in a way he wished it wouldn’t. She wasn’t supposed to be near him. Not like this. Not looking at him like nothing had happened — like she hadn’t been the one to…

But she didn’t remember. That made it worse.

No one told him how to deal with her like this. The only one who ever mentioned her was Reiner, and that was in passing, like even he didn’t want to dig too deep.

Eren swallowed, fighting the churn in his chest — a mess of guilt and pity.

“I’m just trying to cook,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the corner. “The old man’s useless as shit.”

The bearded cook didn’t even stir. He was so deep in sleep that Eren was pretty sure another apocalypse wouldn’t wake him.

“Want me to help you?” Mikasa asked again, already reaching for one of those weird vegetables before he could answer.

“You’re supposed to be doing the clothes,” Eren reminded her, that old, irritatingly familiar feeling creeping in — the one from when she’d swoop in and fix things he couldn’t get right.

Annoyance.

“I’m tired of folding. Let me do this. I can show you how it’s done, since you clearly don’t know how.”

“Excuse me?” Eren scoffed, but he didn’t stop her.

Mikasa took the knife and made short work of the vegetable — peeling off the ends, cutting away the soft, rotting spots like it was nothing. Eren watched, equal parts impressed and pissed off at how easy she made it look. Like she’d been doing it forever.

It wasn’t fair. She was still sharp, still strong, even without remembering… everything.
And him? Without his Titan powers, he was just… this. A piece of shit good for killing, nothing else.

She moved quick, precise — fingers steady as she sliced, thumb bracing the knife in a way that said she knew exactly where the blade would land every time. It didn’t just look like cooking. It looked like training. Fighting. Muscle memory from something more than chopping vegetables.

She peeled tomatoes, diced mushrooms, halved potatoes. The old man still hadn’t moved from his chair, dead to the world.

Mikasa could feel his eyes on her hands — how fast they worked, how clean each cut was. And somewhere in the back of her fractured mind, the rhythm of the knife on the board hit a nerve. It echoed — the sound of blades, the fog in her dreams, the walls looming overhead.

“There,” she said, setting the knife down a little too quickly, her heartbeat kicking up.

“Wow,” Eren muttered.

He’d never actually seen her cook before. Just like him, she’d always seemed clueless about it. Maybe his mom had shown her when he wasn’t looking… back when he was too busy trying to pick fights with the whole damn world. And now, all he had to do, has put them in a big bowl and, the work was done.

Finally.

But he couldn’t help but look at her hands, how clean they were, only baring little scars that wouldn’t be seen by a human eye. But Eren knew better, knew what she had been through. Her face was serious all the time, but then, something changed, like she had remembered, that she wasn’t supposed to be here. It was too quick, Eren had even doubted that her Ackerman power still lingered in her blood, or if she was just naturally gifted.

“I…Thank-”

“-Well look at you” The man stirred, smiling, a kind of face about to pull a bad joke:

“The lady did all the job well done, it should have been her instead of you”

“I was helpful too” Eren grumbled as he took the knife back.

It had seemed that Mikasa hadn’t forgotten to remind him how weak he was, he hated it. He still remembered how stupid she came to stop Jean from hitting him. Now he had wished it had happened.

“You should go back, there’s gonna be a break soon” he continued.

Mikasa only wished she could stay here more, just next to him. She hadn’t felt so at peace since she had woken up in this chaotic world. Eren gave her a meaning of home, somewhere safe where she could be herself. She didn’t want to leave him.

“But i…” she started.

But Eren snapped at her:

“Listen, thank you for helping me, but I really think you should go, you have work to do”

It didn’t even sound like he was thanking her. But Mikasa didn’t say anything, she just returned to the other side, feeling more broken and lost. Why did Eren pushed her that way, why was he avoiding her so much or, giving her not even the faintest smile.

And Eren felt it—guilt hitting him the moment she turned away, as if something between them had cracked all over again. Hurting people was second nature to him now, easier than cooking, easier than anything else. But this time, he’d hurt her again—the one person he’d sworn to protect—and yet she still felt out of reach, no matter what he did. Part of him wanted to go after her, to say he was sorry, but another part whispered that it was better this way. If he kept pushing her, maybe she’d end up hating him like Armin did, and when he was finally gone, it wouldn’t hurt her to let go.

✹

Annie walked straight into chaos.
Everywhere she looked—destruction. Blood pooling in the cracks of broken stone, corpses buried under splintered beams, the capital reduced to a skeleton of itself. No survivors, no voices—only ruins and silence heavy enough to choke on. It was the end of the world here.

She told herself not to think about it. Not to remember how familiar it all felt.
Because she had done this before.

Once, she had taken lives without hesitation—without mercy. Levi’s squad had been her first slaughter, and she’d crushed them like it was nothing. It had been too easy. Back then, she didn’t care to feel anything about it.

But now… now guilt sat in her chest like a lead weight, pressing until she could barely breathe. Panic crept in—the kind that takes root after you’ve lived through something so big, so irreversible, that it leaves you split down the middle.

She’d sworn never to fight again. Never to spill blood.
And yet, she’d come here to kill Eren.

They all had. The plan had forced them together—Marleyans and Eldians setting aside years of hate because there was no other choice. But now? In the hollow quiet of the aftermath, she could see it—nothing had really changed. The Eldians from Paradis stood on one side, the Marleyans on the other, a wide gulf of mistrust in between. No one spoke it aloud, but the air was thick with old grudges.

Only six of them remained. Six people sifting through an apocalypse they had helped create. Two sworn enemies pretending to build something out of the ruins, when they all knew it was their own hands that had smashed it to pieces.

If they hadn’t come to Paradis four years ago, would this world still exist? Maybe. But Marley had been planning to invade regardless—strip the island for its resources, crush the “demons” still living there. One way or another, the killing would have come.

She hated admitting it, but the truth didn’t absolve her. She had been part of all of it, and she hadn’t flinched back then. Not until Armin.

Armin—the only one who’d stayed by her side while she was locked in crystal, protecting herself like a coward. The only one who’d spoken to her when she was nothing more than a ghost in a glass coffin.

And now, here she was, standing in the ashes, wondering if she could build anything at all—knowing it would always be built on the bones of what they had destroyed.

“Oi. Quit dreaming.”

Levi’s voice cut in like a blade, pulling Annie out of whatever trance she’d been in. She jolted, realizing she’d been standing there stupidly holding two pieces of rock—as if clutching them could change anything.

She glanced over her shoulder. Levi was walking without crutches now, though his steps were still uneven. His face was cracked with exhaustion and something harder—something that had survived too much to be smoothed away. Annie remembered the first time she’d seen him move with purpose—how easily she’d taken one of his comrades, how she’d felt the sharp fury radiating from him as he came for her.

But to him, it hadn’t been personal. Killing her people had been work. Just as killing her friends, her family, had been work for others. The blood debts ran both ways, and there was no ledger that could ever be balanced.

“There’s nothing here,” Levi said, stopping in the middle of what must have once been a plaza. “We should head back. This place reeks.”

“Aren’t we supposed to clean?” Falco’s voice was hesitant, almost boyish in the silence. Annie saw the way he looked at Levi—half-curiosity, half-fear. He’d heard the stories. What Levi had done to Zeke. What an Ackerman could do to anyone.

Levi glanced at him like he was another speck of rubble in the street. “You wanna clean every corner of this damn city, be my guest. I’m heading back to Petras to gather more men. We came to look for survivors, not polish the ruins.”

No one argued. Hunger and fatigue were heavier than pride.

Annie stayed behind a moment, still holding the rocks. They were smooth and cold against her palms. Once, as a child, she’d thrown stones for sport—testing her aim, picturing them striking the skulls of the Eldians she’d been taught to hate. It had been easy to imagine killing them before she’d even seen their faces.

Now… she just wanted someone to kill her.

For all her precision, all her strength, she was nothing more than a weapon that had been used too many times. Her hands were too stained to ever come clean.

“Annie.”

Pieck’s voice came from behind, soft, unpressing. Annie turned just enough to see her, but no words came. Her knees gave way before she could stop them, and she sank down among the rubble. The tears came quietly at first, then harder, her breath catching in her throat.

Pieck moved closer, wrapping her arms around her. Annie didn’t resist.

She cried not for herself, but for the people who hadn’t deserved any of this. For the civilians behind the walls who’d only ever wanted to live their small, ordinary lives. She had destroyed that—without hesitation. She hadn’t felt guilt then, not until she’d stared down her own death. Not until she’d felt Eren’s fury close enough to swallow her whole.

Maybe she should have let him.

“Are you two gonna stand there all day or what?”

Connie’s voice broke in, impatient but not sharp. He’d walked back when he realized they hadn’t followed. Not because he cared—because they had to move together if they were going to survive this wreck of a world.

Levi’s horn blared from down the street. He wanted to leave. If Connie hadn’t been out here still, Annie was sure he would have driven off without them.

Pieck squeezed her shoulder once before standing, offering a hand. Annie didn’t take it right away. The rocks were still in her grip, cold as bone.

The food didn’t seem so bad.
If Eren had been alone, he might have allowed himself a faint smile—some small reward after days of labor that left his hands smelling of ash and metal. But there was no room for satisfaction here. Not with them watching. Not with the air so heavy it was a wonder the plates didn’t crack under it.

They were all here for the first time since it had ended—if anyone could even call this an ending. Gathered around a single table like they hadn’t just torn the world in half. No one sat too close to anyone else, as if physical distance could blunt what still lingered in their chests.

Mikasa hadn’t come near him since the last time they’d spoken. The silence between them wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, full of things unsaid. Eren knew he’d been an idiot, but knowing didn’t make the sting less. He’d been jealous—again. That ugly, familiar jealousy had driven the knife deeper into whatever was left between them. Now she sat beside Armin, eating quietly, her face unreadable but her shoulders set in a way that kept him out.

Armin… he hadn’t said a word since they sat down. Eren caught himself wondering what was going on behind those eyes. Armin always had a plan, always a way forward. But now? He looked as lost as Eren felt. Maybe more. His memories had returned—Eren knew that much—and with them, the knowledge of what Eren had planned. Armin had agreed to it back then, in the shadows of unspoken desperation. So why was he angry now? Was it because Eren was still breathing? Or because somewhere in that plan, he had been willing to let himself die?

Eren didn’t know. He only knew that every word he could speak here would come out wrong.

“This is boring,” Gabi muttered, stabbing at her food like it had personally offended her. She seemed to be the only one unfazed by the suffocating tension, the only one who could still treat this like a normal meal.

Jean clicked his tongue. He didn’t bother glaring. Not here. Not with Eren sitting across from him. Just the fact that Eren was here at all was enough to keep Jean’s jaw tight.

Levi’s gaze swept the table without lingering, but Annie caught his attention. She was breathing too shallowly, too fast, like the air in the room had turned to glass.

It happened all at once.
“Excuse me.”

The words were flat, but the way Annie stood—too quick, too stiff—gave her away. She nearly knocked over Pieck’s glass on her way out, not stopping to apologize.

Armin’s chair scraped against the floor. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask permission. Every pair of eyes followed him as he stood. He ignored them all, already moving after her.

Outside the table’s circle, Eren’s fork stilled. He didn’t look up, but his jaw worked once, tight. He knew exactly where Armin was going—and he hated how much that mattered to him.

Reiner’s gaze followed Annie until the door closed behind her. He didn’t miss the way her shoulders were set like stone, or the brief tremor in her hands. She had been steady all evening, holding herself together with the kind of discipline only years of war could teach—but it had cracked, and Reiner recognized the sound because it was the same one in him.

Only Connie and Falco still ate like it was their last meal, shovelling food into their mouths as if the world outside didn’t exist.
The stew was good—better than anything they’d had in weeks—and the fact Eren had made it was its own kind of surprise.

“Dude, you need to cook every day,” Connie said between bites, half-grinning as though the remark could lift the room’s weight.

Eren didn’t respond. He didn’t thank him, didn’t even look up. Compliments weren’t for him; not anymore. Besides, he didn’t feel like the man who had cooked this meal.

Outside, Annie sat on a sun-warmed rock, knees drawn up to her chest, chin resting on the fold of her arms. Beyond the broken street, two children tossed a baseball back and forth, their laughter carried by the wind. It pulled her back to Zeke—how he’d loved the game, the easy rhythm of catch, how ambition had burned in him even after every loss.
But Zeke was gone. They all were one way or another. And she was still here, bearing the full weight of what she had done. The horror she’d unleashed. How could anyone see her as anything other than a monster?

“Annie?”

Armin’s voice was quiet, but close. He hadn’t needed to search far. Worry had driven him out here, the same worry that had been gnawing at all of them since the end. This new reality wasn’t peace—it was survival with a different mask. And every one of them had blood under their nails.

He lowered himself beside her without asking, without filling the air with words. He knew her well enough to wait.

“I don’t know how long I can do this,” she murmured at last, the words catching as she wiped her nose against her sleeve.

Armin didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed on the two children playing, oblivious to the ruin beyond Pëtras’ walls. Their city had been spared, along with the settlements to the south, but how could that weigh against the millions who hadn’t been?

“Armin?”

“Yeah?”

“I just want you to know I’m sorry… for everything.”

It was the first time he’d heard her say it—no armour in her voice, no calculated distance. Just something raw and bare. And he couldn’t answer. Not with the truth. Not with the knot in his chest. So, he accepted it in silence, not out of forgiveness but out of the quiet, stubborn loyalty that had kept him at her side for four years.

“We’re all in this,” he said finally, voice low, almost afraid of calling his own ghosts to the surface. “We’ll get through it. One way or another.”

She sniffed again but felt the tightness in her chest loosen. He was right. It would be hard—unbearable at times—but maybe, if they kept moving, things could change.

She let her head rest against his shoulder. Together, they watched the baseball game shift into a chaotic round of football.

“They don’t know…” she said softly after a while, eyes locked on the children. “They don’t know anything about the misery we put them in, do they?”

“No,” Armin said. “And that’s why we do our best to make sure they live a life better than ours.”

In another life, he’d dreamed of the ocean—endless, glittering saltwater stretching farther than he could see. A world of deserts, frozen lands, volcanoes, freedom without walls. Dreams he’d once imagined sharing with his closest friend. But reality had torn those visions apart, replacing them with blood in the streets and invisible walls made of guilt.

They had come full circle. Not trapped by stone, but by what they’d done. And it was a prison just the same.

This was the cost of survival. The price of every sacrifice.

Chapter Text

The following days blurred together in monotony. Levi’s squad scoured the ruins for survivors but found none—each fruitless search weighing heavier on them, piling sorrow upon sorrow. Armin’s group had just finished erecting the last of the tents, while Eren and Mikasa busied themselves distributing food and sorting through clothing supplies.

It was nothing new. Nothing better. But still, they kept moving. They couldn’t give up—not now, not ever.

A letter arrived from the queen, carried swiftly by messengers. Levi skimmed through it in silence. More men and supplies were being sent, a small reprieve for the starving survivors scattered across the land. Food was scarce, rarer with every passing week, and yet they had to find a way to keep people alive.

Everyone worked without pause, falling into rhythm. There was comfort in the routine, even if it broke their bodies. No one had taken a proper break since they’d started. For some, the thought of rest felt undeserved—a luxury after all the destruction they’d been part of.

But not everyone could endure the same way. Falco and Gabi were nearing their limits. Each morning, dragged out of sleep before dawn, each night collapsing well after sunset—work filled every waking hour. Their young bodies ached, their stamina stretched thin, but they forced themselves forward. They refused to be the ones to slow down the group. They refused to disappoint Levi.

Even so, Levi noticed. He always did. Eventually, he ordered a day of rest. A rare gift, but a necessary one.

It was, without exaggeration, the best day they’d had since arriving. Their bodies screamed in protest, but at last they could collapse into stillness. It was worse than training—at least training had an end, a rhythm, a purpose you could feel in your bones. This exhaustion was deeper. All they wanted was to sleep, to shut out the weight of everything, even if only for a few hours.

And strangely, in that exhaustion, some of the bitterness between them began to fade.

Levi sat hunched over paperwork at the table in the small garden, pen scratching across the page. His crutches leaned nearby, ignored. Across from him, Eren sat in silence, posture loose but eyes sharp. He wasn’t trusted to walk around alone—Levi made sure of that. Babysitting him, watching him, ready to put him down if he so much as twitched the wrong way.

“We have to leave,” Levi said flatly, not looking up.

Eren frowned, brow arching. “What?”

Levi’s eyes flicked across another page, voice clipped. “The fucking Yeagerists. We can’t let them find out you’re alive.”

The name came unbidden. Floch.

Of course it had been him. Everything Floch did, every bloody act, had been because of Eren. Because of the plan Eren had given him. Maybe Floch was dead now—probably was—but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

Eren felt… nothing, or close enough. He’d long since accepted this was his doing. Every stone, every corpse, every scream—it was all on him. And yet, hearing Levi say it, knowing they’d have to run again, hide again… it scraped something raw inside him. He wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Not as a soldier, not as a saviour, not as a devil. He was supposed to be a ghost. Dead. Forgotten.

And yet here he was, because of Ymir. Because she hadn’t let go. Because Mikasa hadn’t let go.

All of this, he thought bitterly, because of her stubborn, reckless need to stand beside him—no matter what it cost.

Levi stood abruptly, shoving the papers aside and forgetting his crutches as he straightened. “Grab your shit. I’ll tell the others.”

Eren almost called out, almost stopped him. Some part of him wanted to argue—wanted to say maybe they could face the Yeagerists, talk, explain, stop it before it turned into another war. But who was he kidding? If they knew he was alive, they’d come. They’d fight. They’d keep killing in his name, like it was his legacy to stain the world forever.

His gaze dropped to his hand, fingers curling in against his palm. He thought of everything it had held—all the power, all the blood. And maybe Levi was right. Maybe leaving it all behind—the ruins, the bones, the ghosts—was the only choice left.

The news eventually spread, rekindling old animosities. Jean, once again, couldn’t hold back his anger toward Eren—he wanted to finish him then and there if it came to that. But Levi’s sharp glance stopped him, as did Mikasa’s silent warning.

Armin, more pragmatic, understood that Eren’s actions ran deeper than he’d revealed, though he also knew who truly stood at the head of the Yeagerists. Floch had always despised them, ever since the mission to retake Shiganshina. They’d lost countless comrades there, their greatest blow yet, including Erwin Smith—their best commander. Floch had never forgiven them for it.

As for the others, those who hadn’t been there at the time, they hadn’t seen the Marleyans firsthand. Armin explained everything: why they were on the run, why avoiding confrontation mattered now more than ever, when morale was at its lowest. Even Jean, unwilling as he was, knew it to be true.

So they gathered their belongings, careful not to leave a trace under Levi’s relentless supervision. Falco and Gabi were made to redo their beds, Pieck scrubbed her bathroom, and Connie the floor. No one escaped Levi’s second inspection—as though they had all the time in the world for it.

Some things never changed.

They boarded a boat that same day, slipping away before anyone could notice. For the first time in weeks, tension eased from their shoulders. The sea stretched endlessly around them, the sun clear and bright overhead. At dinner, they ate freely—no rationing, no stifled silence.

Mikasa stood at the edge of the deck, the wind tangling her hair, her hand gripping her scarf as if it anchored her to the world. She still didn’t know why she still carried it. She’d found it in a hospital room and kept it, though it wasn’t hers. Somehow, it mattered.

Armin approached, flicking ash from a cigarette. He had once sworn never to touch one, but long nights talking with Reiner had turned into habit.

“You don’t seem like the type,” Mikasa said, not looking away from the waves.

Her voice was quieter these days, not as sharp. She wasn’t afraid of Armin anymore—none of them were. But conversation still felt strange, like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Memories slipped in and out of reach, leaving her dazed, overwhelmed.

“Want some?” Armin offered.

“It’s not good for your health.”

She was right, of course. But Armin only took another drag.

“Eren,” Mikasa murmured suddenly.

The name hit him like a stone. Every time she said it, his chest tightened. Every time, he braced himself, thinking this would be the moment she remembered everything. That she’d break. Or worse—accept the truth and still love him.

Love him like she always had. Recklessly, stubbornly, no matter what he did. It infuriated the others, sometimes even Armin, but that was Mikasa. It had always been her. And Eren didn’t say a word—he simply placed more distance between them. It stung. If Armin was being honest, he couldn’t stay angry with him forever. He bore his share of the blame too. He hadn’t spoken to Eren yet, but maybe it was time to set it aside, to finally move forward—because they no longer had the luxury of choice.

“Why is he always pushing me?” Her voice cracked.

It brought him back to the day Reiner and Bertholdt revealed themselves, when Ymir was taken too. Mikasa had broken then, just for a moment, showing a vulnerability, he rarely saw. He had been the one to comfort her then, telling her it wasn’t in vain, that they would get Eren back.

Now, the same plea reached him.

“Every time I try to speak, he ignores me, Armin. I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t remember everything—but I want to be by his side so badly. Does he hate me? Is it because of me the world is like this?”

Tears clung to her lashes, and Armin knew he had to stop her before the guilt consumed her.

“Eren doesn’t hate you,” he said, careful with every word. “Things are…complicated. All he’s ever wanted is to protect you.”

“But how is this me protecting me?”

“He doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well…he is.”

Her whisper twisted into him. He remembered then—Eren’s own words, spoken in that fragile, human moment when he’d laid his heart bare. The request he had made of Armin: don’t tell her. Let her live free, away from him, unshackled.

But nothing was ever that simple.

“Trust me,” Armin said at last, tossing the cigarette into the sea. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Mikasa wiped at her eyes, silent, though he wasn’t sure she believed him. He wished he could tell her everything, free them both from the weight of secrets. But the truth was a blade—and he didn’t know if she could survive it.

Annie watched the two of them—Mikasa walking away with tears in her eyes, Armin still standing there, silent. It broke Annie’s heart to see Mikasa like that, and in a way, it reminded her of herself. The cruelty she had once carried, the role she had played in starting all of this. If she hadn’t attacked them back then, would things be different now?

“Annie.”

He didn’t need to turn. He already felt her presence—the only one lately that gave him some semblance of comfort, maybe even a faint smile. Annie came to stand beside him, her steps soft. She was wearing a simple brown dress. It was strange seeing her like this—no armour, no uniform, no blade in her hand. For so long their lives had been reduced to killing and surviving, and now… now they were supposed to start living. Citizens. People.

“How is she?” Annie asked, standing close enough to feel his warmth.

“She’s… doin’ okay, I guess.”

“Maybe you should tell her.”

“To break her even more?” His voice was tight, defensive.

“It’ll hurt her either way. Everyone’s suffering. Keeping her in the dark is only making it worse.”

“I don’t know, Annie…”

“I do. You’re afraid to lose her.” She reached out, stole one of his cigarettes without asking. Annie never smoked, but sometimes, when it was just the two of them, she’d take a drag like she wanted to taste the burden he carried.

They were all changing. Becoming older. Becoming something new.

“Everything’s shit,” she muttered, smoke slipping past her lips. “Nothing’s perfect. And I just want someone too…” She cut herself off before her words turned into something too raw, too dangerous for him to hear. “But we’ve got hope, don’t we? Levi’s still fighting. Connie too, even if he drowns in missing Sasha. And me—Reiner and I—we’ve done unforgivable things. So has Eren. Yet you… you all accepted us anyway. Like family.”

The words hit harder than she probably meant them to. They were cruel, in a way, because Armin didn’t think any of them deserved that grace. But maybe he needed to hear it. Because in truth, he was lost, trapped in the shadow of another war. The Yeagerists. The survivors of the Rumbling. They wouldn’t stay quiet forever. One day, revenge would come knocking. And when it did, Paradis wouldn’t be ready.

“So…” Armin asked at last, trying to push the ache in his chest aside. “When this is all over… what do you want to do?”

“I thought about going back to my father,” she said softly. “Like I promised him. But…”

Her words trailed off, unfinished. A flicker of something else—hope, or fear, or maybe both—hung in the silence. Armin’s heart lurched. His face grew warm. He was being reckless again.

“What about you, Armin?” she asked, deflecting. “What’ll you do when this is done?”

“You didn’t finish what you were saying.”

“I want to hear you first.”

Armin forced a smile, but it felt like it cracked something inside him. She wasn’t being honest. He knew that her father was the first thing on her mind, and maybe he should have accepted it. But the thought of her leaving, of her returning to Marley while he stayed on Paradis… it hurt in ways he didn’t know how to name.

He loved her. Enough that it scared him. Enough that it made him realize, with a jolt, that he wasn’t so different from Eren after all. Both of them were prisoners to the people they cared about most, clinging desperately, hopelessly. And Armin hated that about himself.

“I think…” he said quietly, “I’d keep exploring. See the world with my own eyes. The deserts of fire, the ice fields, the places in the books I used to dream about.”

“Of course you would.”

“Maybe…” His voice dropped lower, almost ashamed. “Maybe I could go with Eren.”

It was a fragile hope, a faint echo of a promise he still held onto. No matter what Eren had done, no matter how much blood was on his hands, Armin couldn’t sever that bond. Eren was still his first friend. The boy who had stood up for him when no one else did. Who had dreamed of freedom, of the world beyond the walls. The one who believed, against all reason, that life existed out there—worth fighting for, worth dying for.

“You should tell him,” Annie said, blowing out smoke. “But you should do it now while you still can. Eren’s in a dangerous place of his own. Reiner’s keeping an eye on him, but he’s scared he’ll do something stupid, Armin.”

“I know…”

He knew something was wrong—had known from the start—but forced himself to look away, to stay blind to the truth. Eren had spoken once about death, about suicide. Armin knew he wouldn’t hesitate, and that knowledge was unbearable. If it came to that, it would shatter not only him, but Mikasa most of all. After four years of emptiness, lifeless days, and waiting against all odds for Eren’s return, he couldn’t allow it to end this way.

Annie flicked away her cigarette, then let her gaze drift to him. Armin was clutching the bar so tightly his knuckles had whitened, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. The light caught his profile—the slope of his nose, his blue eyes reflecting the sea, the slight tremor in his lips, the way his jaw tensed against everything he kept buried. It was a sad sight, fragile almost, yet something in the quiet strength of his features drew her in, as if sorrow itself had carved him into something striking.

“Armin,” she called flatly.

He turned toward her—just in time to feel the warmth of her lips. Annie was kissing him, maybe for the first time. It was soft, fragile, almost uncertain, yet grounding in a way neither of them expected.

Armin’s mind splintered; he had no experience with this, and he knew she didn’t either. Still, he couldn’t stay frozen forever—if only he had the courage. Annie didn’t pull away, though. Their lips lingered, brushing gently without pressing further, as if both were afraid to break the moment.

His hand clenched tighter, knuckles cracking under the strain, while Annie’s fingers twitched faintly at her side, resisting the urge to reach for him. For that fleeting instant, the world around them faded—the wind sweeping his hair, the rustle of her dress, the flutter of birds overhead, the heat of the sun warming their skin.

It felt selfish, undeserved, and yet neither of them regretted it.

For that fragile instant, they allowed themselves to simply exist in it.

Not far away, slouched lazily against the window in the lobby, Pieck was watching. From her spot she had the perfect view—nothing escaped her sharp eyes. In the main hall, everyone else was going about their business, but she caught sight of them, still holding onto each other as if no one else existed.

Pieck noticed Mikasa first—she’d sensed her presence and slipped away just before Annie could arrive.

“They’re kissing,” she whispered.

Gabi was beside her, both of them spying, mostly because they had nothing better to do.

“Shh… don’t you think they make a cute couple?” Pieck teased.

“It’s disgusting, if you ask me,” Gabi muttered, sticking out her tongue.

“Oh? But you wouldn’t mind if Falco kissed you.”

“What? No way!”

Right then, as if summoned, Falco walked past. Gabi froze, sweat prickling at the back of her neck, a shiver running down her spine. Heat and shame flooded her face, and all she wanted was to punch Pieck for saying that—and worse, pray Falco hadn’t overheard a single word.

Pieck laughed.

“What’s going on?” Falco asked, puzzled by the girls’ sudden commotion.

“Nothing!”
Gabi’s face burned so hot it felt like it might explode. She had no choice but to bolt, desperate to escape their teasing. Behind her, Pieck’s laughter echoed through the hall, while Falco, still confused, kept asking what plans they had once they reached Paradis.

✹

“Urghhh, the sea is so bad,” Gabi groaned, slumping over the table. The boat pitched again, and she nearly lost her plate.

“It’s not the sea, it’s you,” Falco said, steadying her cup before it spilled.

“Both of you shut it, I’m trying to eat.” Jean stabbed at the meat in front of him like it had personally wronged him. “Though honestly, this food tastes shit.”

That was it. Eren, who had been silent since they sat down, finally snapped.

“Hey, if you’re that unhappy, why don’t you cook for yourself instead of whining like it’s everyone’s job to serve you?”

Jean’s head jerked up immediately, like he’d been waiting for it. “Tsk. How come you’re even here? Shouldn’t you be brooding in a corner somewhere? Or—I don’t know—feeling guilty for once in your life?”

Eren’s chair scraped as he stood.

“Wanna find out?”

“Gladly.”

The two of them squared off, the boat rocking just enough to make the tension more ridiculous than threatening. Connie groaned.

“Oh great. Here we go again. Just like the barracks, huh? Next one to yell ‘horseface’ has to do the dishes.”

But Jean wasn’t joking anymore. His voice cracked sharp, cutting through the table chatter:
“So no one’s gonna say anything, huh? We’re really just letting this slide? This guy— eating and breathing like nothing happened while he destro—”

“Why do you always talk so much?” Eren muttered, jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed like a blade about to draw blood. “My guess is you don’t have the balls to stand by yourself.”

Jean slammed his chair back, grabbing Eren’s shirt in one motion. “You son of a—”

In the next heartbeat, Eren flung him over the table. Plates went clattering, food splattering onto the floor. Old muscle memory—it wasn’t even a fight yet, just instinct.

“Oi.”

Levi’s voice cut in, low and sharp. The kind that froze them both harder than the storm outside. He didn’t even have to get up—just the weight of his stare was enough. His eyes lingered on Eren, a silent warning: don’t give them more reasons to hate you.

The two of them panted, locked in a glare that felt like it had been burning since they were fifteen. Neither wanted to back down. In the end, Eren gave Jean one last shove, dropping him flat on the table before sitting back down in his seat like nothing happened.

Jean brushed himself off, muttering curses under his breath.

“Great. Food’s ruined. Guess I’ll just starve, thanks to you.”

Connie picked up his fork with a sigh, completely unfazed.

Armin thought back to when things felt simpler—when trading punches with Jean carried no weight, no bitterness. Now every glance was a spark, every word an excuse to fight, and there was nothing funny about it anymore.

“I can’t wait to see Paradis,” Gabi blurted, breaking the tension. “In school, the books said it was this beautiful island, full of green fields and animals.”

“You really think it’s gonna be like that?” Jean cut in, his usual pessimism seeping through.

“Maybe not,” she admitted with a small shrug, “but I’m glad to leave my own country behind. Too many bad memories. I just want to meet the Eldians and actually help them.”

Her sincerity settled over the table, and for once no one challenged her. They all longed for that little island, in their own way. Slowly, conversation began to flow again—halting at first, then easier, helped along by the faint warmth of alcohol. Levi, despite his reluctance, had ordered the chef to bring out wine. He knew all too well how badly it had gone the last time he let his squad drink, but for tonight, he allowed it.

Even Eren and Reiner, after refusing at first, gave in to a small sip. Mikasa stopped after only a taste, the burn in her stomach too sharp, but she didn’t mind. For once, she could breathe easy among them.

In the end, no one left the dining hall. Even Jean, who had complained about everything from the wine to the sea itself, stayed. Because no matter what, this was still his group, still his family. Flawed, broken, and stained, but his family, nonetheless.

But Eren did leave. At some point he pushed back his chair, muttered something about being tired, and walked away under Mikasa’s gaze. She almost called after him—wanted to, needed to—but the words stuck. She knew it wouldn’t change anything.

Armin saw his chance.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured to Annie, who was laughing a little too loosely at something Pieck had said, her cheeks flushed with wine.

Outside, the sea was restless under a bruised sky. The air was heavy, no rain yet, but close. Armin didn’t have to look far. Eren was there, leaning against the railing, too far, too carelessly, as if daring the waves to take him.

“Eren!”

Armin lunged, grabbing his arm just as the boat lurched. They both crashed to the deck, breathless, Armin clutching him with white-knuckled desperation. His voice cracked, raw and panicked:
“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Eren spat back, eyes wild, but trembling. “I shouldn’t even be here, Armin! No one wants me here—not them, not you!”

“I can’t let you do that!”

“But I can’t!”

The words broke him. His chest heaved, and then the tears came—tears Eren had never been ashamed of, tears that were somehow his greatest weakness and his only release. He wept like a child, his body folding inward, the weight of the world pressing down on him until it seemed he would disappear into it.

“I’m tired,” he choked out, hiccups cutting through his sobs. “So tired of everything. Of waking up, of carrying all this hate, of watching everyone’s eyes and knowing they wish I was dead. I just want it to stop. I just want to disappear.”

And then came the knife, the words that carved through Armin’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Armin. I’m so sorry. I wish you had killed me when you had the chance…”

Armin’s breath caught. His throat burned. The pain was unbearable—not just for the lives lost, not just for the sins they carried, but for this: Eren, shattered before him, hollowed out by despair, begging for an end.

Because the truth was there, plain as day. Eren Jaeger had destroyed half the world. He had murdered countless innocents. Justice demanded he pay. Every fibre of morality screamed that he deserved to fall into the sea and never rise again.

But Armin couldn’t. He couldn’t let him go. Not again. Not after everything.

“Eren,” Armin whispered, his voice shaking, his arms tightening around him as though sheer force could anchor him. “Stop fighting me. Please. Just stop.”

Their tears mixed with the salt of the sea air. Both broken, both guilty, bound together in grief and sin. Armin’s thoughts spun—was it selfishness? Cowardice? Or was it hope, fragile and foolish, clinging to the twenty percent left alive, the twenty percent that might still be enough to build something new?

Whatever it was, Armin refused to let go.
He couldn’t lose Eren again.

And so Eren stilled, drained of struggle, of will, of everything. His body sagged into Armin’s hold. He had asked for only one thing—to be forgotten, erased—but fate, cruel as it was, denied him even that. Instead, he was left alive, trapped in his own hell, condemned to carry the weight of what he had done.

And Armin, knowing all of it, chose to carry him anyway.

“Why, Armin?” Eren cried, his head thudding against the soaked wooden deck.
Above him, the sky was smothered in heavy clouds, hiding the stars he once dreamed of. It mirrored his own heart—dark, suffocating, yearning only to vanish.

But Armin wouldn’t let him. Not again. He clung to him with desperate force, as if sheer will could anchor Eren to the world.

“I’m a mess,” Eren rasped. “I dragged you all into this—forced you to fight for something you never asked for. I betrayed you. I betrayed everyone… I shouldn’t even be here, Armin. Ymir and I were meant to disappear from this world forever…”

“Stop it!” Armin’s voice cracked, trembling with fury and grief. “Stop saying that. I hate it. I’ve done things too—things I can’t take back. Maybe not as bad as you, but still… if I hadn’t shown you that book, if I hadn’t dreamed about the outside… maybe none of this would’ve happened! Maybe this is all my fault!”

“Armin…” Eren’s voice softened, ragged and tired. He closed his eyes as the first drops hit his face—rain, or maybe just the sea breaking against them. “None of it is your fault. Remember that.”

Armin had no words strong enough to strip away the poison thoughts worming through Eren’s mind. And deep down, both of them knew the truth neither dared to say: Eren wasn’t meant to live. Not after everything.

“Eren… do you remember?” Armin whispered. “We promised, when we were little. We’d see the world beyond the walls. We did… but only a piece of it. You can’t leave. Not yet. Not until we’ve seen everything this planet has to offer.”

“I don’t deserve—”

“You can’t die,” Armin cut him off, his voice shaking with anger and grief, “not until we’ve finished that dream.”

The sea spoke for them, slamming against the hull. Thunder cracked in the distance. The boat pitched so hard Armin had to clutch both Eren and the railing to keep them from being thrown overboard. His arms trembled, his body just as tired, but he refused to let go.

“If you die,” Armin hissed, his bitterness a blade, “Mikasa will follow you. Even if she doesn’t remember everything… she’ll follow. Is that what you want?”

The words lodged in Eren’s chest like a spear. His breath faltered, strangled in his throat. It worked. Forcing him to stay alive meant playing dirty, ripping at wounds that had never healed. But Armin didn’t care. Surrender wasn’t an option. Not for them.

“…Did you tell her?” Eren asked hoarsely.

“No. I did what you asked.”

“Good.”

They finally pulled themselves up, staggering back under a sheltered awning. Their clothes clung heavy and cold to their skin, their hair plastered to flushed cheeks, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. But sitting there, side by side, it almost felt like they had crossed some invisible threshold—the brutal level of acceptance.

For a while, they only listened to the raging sea. Nausea gnawed at them, from the storm, from the tears, from everything. And yet, in that storm, something quiet lingered: they were still together.

“But” Armin said at last, his voice small but steady, “she’s trying, Eren. Even without her memories, she’s trying to remember you. She… she likes you. Somehow, even now. Isn’t that incredible?”

Eren’s jaw clenched. “I don’t think it’s incredible.”

“One day, you’ll have to face it,” Armin pressed. “Her. And the truth. When those memories come back.”

Eren’s hands clenched until his knuckles turned white. Then he dragged his fingers through his hair, almost violently, as if he could tear out the thoughts clawing at his skull. He was lost. Terrifyingly lost. The future that had once been his compass was gone, the path broken. He wasn’t brave anymore. He wasn’t reckless. He had grown into something else entirely—dark, ugly, monstrous.

And he couldn’t look at Mikasa the same way ever again.

“If Levi, Reiner, and I can forgive, then anyone can. Because we’re monsters too, Eren. We killed people—doesn’t matter who. We stole their dreams, their freedoms… But if there is one thing that we haven’t torn apart, is that we’re Scouts Eren, it is what makes us, us, a family.”

Eren’s tears had run dry, but the grief still lived inside him, shaking his body against the deck. Somewhere deep in the fractured part of his mind—the piece that still clung stubbornly to life—he knew Armin was right. They had never given up before. They had followed Erwin, followed him, fought through hell itself to survive. So many had sacrificed everything, believing the future was worth it.

And yet, here he was—alive, broken, begging for a reason to keep breathing. He had reached for Ymir, searched for some sign, some justification. But there was only silence.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Armin said, his voice steady now, burning with sudden determination. “Not on you, not on anyone. You’re all I have left in this world. And I’m sorry… sorry for not being there when you needed me most. I should’ve reached you a long time ago.”

Eren didn’t want his apology. But hearing those words—the first true confession Armin had spoken since the Rumbling—something inside him cracked. They were too sincere, too raw. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much he had missed it. Four years of trying to push them away, and still… it hadn’t worked, had it?

With a sudden, almost desperate force, Eren grabbed him. He pulled Armin into his arms, burying his face against him. Armin gasped at the suddenness of it, but then he heard it: the sobbing, the relief, the raw sound of a boy who realized he wasn’t alone.

So, he held him tighter. Harder.

And together, they cried again beneath the rain—two broken souls clinging to each other in the middle of an endless ocean, against a world still burning.

Chapter Text

Things afterward carried a weight that none of them could quite shake. It was uneasy, bittersweet, like standing on a shoreline between storm and calm. Against everyone’s expectations, Armin had begun talking to Eren again. That alone had been enough to stir the group, though Eren himself still held his distance. But with Armin’s quiet persistence and Reiner hovering over him as if he were some reckless younger brother in need of constant watching, Eren found himself cornered into acceptance. Not that he had much of a choice—he never really did.

For Levi, it was like finally drawing a clean breath after holding it far too long. Tension had begun to loosen its claws, the edges dulling. He hadn’t asked how reconciliation had taken root, nor why—but if Armin had seen a way forward, Levi trusted him. That alone meant something might still be salvaged.

Today was different.

Today, they would set foot on Paradis’ port—the one they had helped build four years earlier. Against all odds, it still stood even after the Rumbling had swept across the earth. Yet survival didn’t mean safety. They had to move carefully, because even as time passed, memory clung tight. Forgiveness wasn’t something freely given, and on this island, faces like theirs were remembered too well. The queen’s words had granted them passage, but there were plenty who would gladly put a blade through anyone tied to the chaos of the Exploration Battalion.

“I know someone who might help,” Annie said quietly as they gathered around a table, the scent of salt from the sea drifting in through the shutters. “When we first came here, an old couple welcomed us. They gave us shelter, a way to—”

She stopped herself, her words faltering as a shadow crossed her eyes. That memory lived sharp inside her: how young they had been, all fire and determination, believing the only way forward was destruction. She could still feel the guilt buried there, the weight of what they had almost done.

Armin caught it, the flicker in her expression. Without thinking, he reached under the table and closed his hand around hers. A small gesture, meant to tell her that the past didn’t have to choke her now. That she wasn’t alone in carrying it anymore.

Levi watched, arms crossed. He scoffed under his breath. At least she remembered. That was something. He hadn’t yet made his peace with Annie, not fully. There were reasons for that—reasons he didn’t voice. But whatever his own bitterness, he couldn’t afford to tangle it with what needed to be done. They were all in this together, whether he liked it or not.

“Good idea, Annie,” Pieck said, smoothly stepping in before the silence could stretch. “Maybe I could go. Ask if they still rent horses. No one here would recognize me anyway and I’m a woman, they can’t suspect me.”

“Can I come too?” Gabi asked, eyes bright with a mix of hope and reckless eagerness. There was a spark in her, one that always seemed drawn to danger.

Levi’s brow ticked, his patience stretched thin. He could already tell this wasn’t a battle worth fighting—when that girl wanted something, she didn’t let go.

And, right on cue, Falco spoke up.

“I can’t let Gabi go alone. If something happens—”

“Oh, stop it,” Gabi cut in, rolling her eyes. “I’m not a child anymore. And you’re acting weird.”

Falco flushed red, the words catching in his throat.

Eren, for once, noticed. He sat quietly across from them, observing in silence. Something about Falco’s determination—his constant vigilance over Gabi—pulled at Eren in ways he didn’t expect. It reminded him of himself and Mikasa, back when the world was smaller and simpler. When protection had been instinct, not burden.

His gaze shifted, inevitably, to her. Mikasa.

She sat at Pieck’s side, listening with her usual calm. Her face was softer now, no longer shadowed by constant strain or the ever-present threat of death. The quiet suited her, though it unnerved Eren in its unfamiliarity. Her hair had grown longer, framing her sharp features and accentuating the heritage she carried from the last Asian lineage of Paradis. She had always stood apart, different even here, the only one of her kind until she met Kiyomi Azumabito.

Eren’s eyes caught on the scar across her cheek—the mark of a wound he himself had inflicted years ago. Another mistake, another reminder. And yet, here she was. Still standing. Still fighting.

Jean let out a quiet sigh, saying nothing, though the tension in his shoulders eased.

“It be good if you two come along” Mikasa said finally, cutting through the squabble with her usual steady tone. “Pieck can pretend we’re travellers in need of horses. That should be enough.”

Pieck nodded.

“That works.”

Gabi muttered, half under her breath, about something to complain about Falco and his need of protecting her at all costs.

Pieck’s lips twitched. She’d already noticed the way Gabi looked at Falco—the way she denied it, the way children did when they weren’t ready to name what they felt.

Eren’s attention hadn’t left Mikasa. The way her scarf framed her face, the sharp gentleness of her grey eyes under the sun. He let himself linger too long, caught in the memory of what he had once pushed away.

Reiner’s foot nudged him beneath the table, pulling him back before his gaze gave him away.

Mikasa turned, as if sensing it, but by then Eren had already looked elsewhere. The familiar weight of disappointment softened her features, though she hid it quickly.

Eren exhaled, quietly thankful for Reiner’s intervention. He couldn’t risk that closeness, not anymore. Not after everything he had done. Letting her go was the only choice left to him, even if it carved him hollow.

And yet—his eyes betrayed him. He stole one last glance.

“Guess it’s a day off for us,” Connie said, breaking the quiet as he stretched, joints cracking.

“You’ve been sleeping like the world hasn’t had a single problem,” Jean muttered dryly.

“You should try it sometime,” Connie shot back with a grin. “Might actually do you some good.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Reiner added with a smirk.

“Bastards,” Jean replied, but there was no heat behind it. Only the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

After this, Pieck and the children left to fetch the horses, following Annie’s directions to where the old couple might be. The others would wait by the edge of the small town, near the port. Strangely enough, the place seemed untouched by the Rumbling, as though the horror had never reached it—a fortunate thing, if their goal was to reach the capital at Mitras within a few days. Levi thought back to the first time they had ventured beyond the Walls. It had taken them three days to reach the farthest stretch, all the while skirting the remnants of Titans. Now they were about to retrace those steps, only in reverse, and with no Titans left to haunt their path.

He wondered what life was meant to be now, stripped of orders and missions, without the endless call to fight that had, constant survivals and prospect of death, in many ways, defined his entire existence. What did it mean to live, when all that remained was to endure alongside the others? With such thoughts lingering, Levi joined the boys, who lounged idly against the deck’s railing. They had already arrived, but they couldn’t risk stepping ashore, not yet. The sun was sinking low, almost swallowed by the horizon, streaking the sky in trails of orange and fading pink.

✹

By the time they reached the outskirts of the town, Pieck was already waiting with the horses she had managed to rent. Eleven in total—far more than she had thought she could bargain for—and a feat that had cost her more than a few words of careful negotiation. After wandering through the place Annie had described, she had discovered that the old couple no longer lived there. Instead, she had found a younger woman in their stead, accompanied only by her dog. A farmer’s daughter, raising horses on her own. Convincing her to part with so many, and on such short notice, had been no easy task. But with the children’s help, and a mixture of promises and persistence, Pieck had managed not only to secure the mounts but also a few provisions for their journey to Mitras.

By then the sun had long dipped beyond the horizon, and the night had spread its shadow across the land. A strange weight came with it. For most of them, it was the first time they would be venturing in the wild, without the safety of an established camp. For Pieck, the feeling was heavier still. She had walked these paths once before, in another time, when she had been ordered to aid Reiner, Bertholdt, and Zeke in their mission to capture Eren. That mission had failed, and now the thought of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wondered—if she had stopped Zeke back then, if she had resisted instead of obeying—would he still be alive? Would he have found a way to meet his brother without dragging the world into war?

But Pieck had long since learned that life never offered what one wanted most. The war had proven that better than anything else: the endless struggle where every nation had sought the same thing—the annihilation of Eldians, cursed as the children of Ymir. Like Falco, like Gabi, she had been taught to hate her own kind, forced into it if she wanted to survive. That had been the only way to live freely in Marley. Only now did she realize she could have fought back against it. And now, all she could do was try to repay what little she could.

“Look—it’s them!” Falco exclaimed, pointing at a small group of figures approaching with a torchlight flickering in the dark.

“Finally. I thought they’d ditched us or something,” Gabi muttered, exhaling in relief.

Levi wasted no time, taking Pieck’s report and assessing the situation. The young woman had warned them clearly: the horses had to be returned within five days, or she would alert the authorities. Even if they honoured the agreement, Levi knew he couldn’t risk being traced. He planned to send word to one of the scattered squads still stationed discreetly within Paradis, men and women whose identities remained hidden and who kept in touch with him through coded letters. They were safe for now, but Levi knew safety was never permanent—security would tighten, suspicion would grow, and their window would close.

They mounted their horses one by one. For Mikasa, the moment stirred something deep, a familiarity she couldn’t quite name. The animals felt natural beneath her, their strength and steadiness a comfort. She wondered if she had ridden often as a child. The fondness she felt suggested she had, though the memories remained unreachable.

Jean noticed, slowing his own horse beside hers as they set off.
“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Actually… it feels like I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Mikasa admitted softly.

“Yeah,” Jean said, glancing at her, “I guess you were always a good rider.”

“I was?” she asked, genuinely curious.

The question made Jean flush, and for a moment his thoughts strayed where they shouldn’t. Eren was just ahead, pretending not to listen but very much aware. Jean clenched his jaw, torn between irritation and opportunity. If Eren wasn’t going to make the effort, why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he at least try?

“Don’t cut your hair,” Jean blurted suddenly.

Mikasa blinked, taken aback.

“What?”

“If anyone ever asks you to cut it—don’t,” Jean said, fumbling for composure. “It… suits you.”

Mikasa tilted her head but gave no answer. She hadn’t thought of cutting it, not for now.

But Eren had heard everything. His grip on the reins tightened, knuckles pale, the leather straining under his hold. Jean’s words clawed at him. He knew better than anyone how much he loved her hair, though he still couldn’t explain why. The thought of Jean admiring it—or worse, touching it—burned inside him, searing and unbearable. He wanted to tear his hands away if he ever dared.

The idea that she could belong to anyone else, that she might let someone close enough to reach for her, was unthinkable. Unacceptable. He hated it. He hated all of it.

And yet, beneath that rage, a darker truth twisted inside him: if she couldn’t be with him, then perhaps she shouldn’t be with anyone.

Or maybe she should.

“Hey… are you okay?” Armin’s voice broke the silence.

“Yeah. Could be worse,” Eren muttered, his eyes fixed ahead.

“Try to relax. We’re traveling by night—we’ll make to  the city tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m fine, Armin.”

“You don’t look it. You’re holding your reins like you want to rip someone’s head off.”

Eren didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly whose head he wanted to tear from their shoulders, but he also knew he had no right. Not anymore. Not after everything he had said, everything he had done. Anger was a luxury he didn’t deserve. He had promised himself he wouldn’t drag her into that place again. She deserved peace, even if it meant him locking every thought, every feeling, every desire, behind clenched teeth.

They pushed through the night in silence, the horses moving at an easy pace across the empty plains. When the children grew too tired to stay awake, they dozed on Pieck’s and Annie’s mounts, their small heads lolling against the women’s shoulders. Levi and Connie rode at the front, keeping the line steady. Eren and Armin lingered in the rear, eyes scanning the horizon, though there was nothing left to fear. No wolves, no bears, not even the threat of titans. The land felt emptied of life, scarred and silent. Once, predators had haunted these fields. Now there was only dust, footprints fossilized in earth, and the weight of everything humanity had done to itself.

By the time they found a place to rest, far from the last signs of civilization, the night was heavy and still. They rationed what little they carried, enough to keep their strength, while the horses grazed on their own feed. When the question of guard duty arose, Eren spoke first.

“I’ll do it.”

“Eren—” Armin began.

“No. You sleep. It’s the least I can do.”

Armin didn’t push. Neither did anyone else. One by one, exhaustion dragged them down. Even Levi, who once had the uncanny ability to stay awake through entire missions, had succumbed to slumber beneath a blanket. Soon the air was filled with the faint chorus of snores, mingled with the soft song of crickets.

Eren sat alone, eyes tracing the horizon, though his mind wandered far elsewhere. He hadn’t thought this day would come—that after everything, after the Rumbling, after what he had become, he would still sit here breathing, guarding the people he should have destroyed. He thought of the fight with Jean, the sharp truth in his words, words he had hated but couldn’t deny. He thought of Armin—always Armin—reaching for him, refusing to let him fall completely into the abyss. He thought of Mikasa, of the moment she should have ended him, and of the hand that had intervened. Ymir’s hand.

Why had she stopped it? Why was he still here, when he should have been gone?

“Can I join you?”

The voice startled him. His fists clenched before his mind caught up. He turned sharply, heart hammering—and froze.

Mikasa.

His throat dried in an instant.

“You should be asleep.”

“I can’t.” She stepped closer, the shadows hiding her expression.

“Then… count sheep or something. I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry about it.”

“Eren,” she said, her voice softer, stripped of the strange distance she had carried since waking. This was closer to the voice he remembered—cool, steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of vulnerability that cut deeper than a blade. “Why do you always try to push me away?”

He swallowed hard. He didn’t want this conversation. Not now. Not ever. If he said the wrong thing, if he stirred the embers of her memory, if she remembered all of it… he wasn’t sure he could bear it. And yet, he knew she wouldn’t let go. She never had.

She sat beside him without waiting for an answer. Her arm brushed against his, a fleeting touch, but it sent a jolt through him like lightning in his veins. He fought for composure, each breath suddenly a battle. The closeness burned and soothed all at once, and he hated himself for how much he wanted to stay in it.

“I don’t remember what happened,” Mikasa said quietly, her gaze fixed on the stars, “what could’ve made you like this. But… whatever it was, I don’t want you to carry it alone. Share it with me.”

He couldn’t. Not with her. The truth would crush her, twist her kindness into the same chains he had worn his whole life. Yet he couldn’t look away from her, either. He found himself studying the lines of her face, the starlight catching in her eyes, the way her scarf brushed against her lips. For a moment, impossibly, he allowed himself the selfishness of stillness. Of simply sitting beside her and pretending. Pretending that things could have been different.

Because right now, against all reason, it felt like home.

Armin had been right—he would never leave her to face this world alone. Not again. But he couldn’t trust himself, not with the curse, not with the power still coiled somewhere inside him like a snake waiting to strike. He didn’t know if he could keep the monster buried, or if he would one day turn it against them all over again.

“Please… let me be with you,” Mikasa whispered, her nose sinking into her scarf.

Through the fabric, her memories stirred. Fleeting images—of a boy with fierce eyes, of a bond that had once made her feel unstoppable, of a warmth she had never wanted to lose.

She appreciated these moments.

Eren said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only with the night’s chorus, the faint rhythm of breaths and snores. But beside her, he stayed.

And for both of them, that was enough.

✹

“Huh… why are we doing this again?”

Falco couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening. He and the others had been intercepted—halted in the middle of nowhere—by people he didn’t even know existed. They were apparently part of Levi’s squad, though hidden, camouflaged in plain sight under the shadow of the government. Silent figures, working between order and chaos.

And now, here they were, stuck on vast, endless plains that the Rumbling had miraculously left untouched.

The woman standing in front of them had told them to form a line, as if they were prisoners about to be paraded. Falco shifted uncomfortably, his confusion written all over his face.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered again.

“It’s simple,” the woman replied, her voice bubbling with a strange, almost contagious energy. She had that spark in her tone—reckless, disconcerting. “I want each of you to stand before me and bite yourselves, with one thing in mind: a goal. A clear, precise intention.”

Falco blinked at her, incredulous. Bite himself? For what?

He glanced around. Not everyone had stepped forward. Only Eren, Reiner, Annie, Armin, and Pieck stood there, tension radiating between them like sharp glass. The air was thick with unspoken distrust, as though none of them fully believed they’d be allowed to walk away once this strange ritual was done. And yet, here they were, gathered again—barely a few kilometers from the ruins of Shiganshina’s walls.

Falco’s frown deepened. She smiled back at him—bright, wide, unsettlingly casual, as though asking a child to hurt himself was the most ordinary request in the world.

Levi watched in silence, his gaze unfocused, though a faint stirring pressed against his chest as he studied the woman before him. She reminded him of someone—someone he had once known closely and had lost not so long ago. He disliked lingering on that past; mourning would serve no purpose now, would not alter the fact that his path was already carved, carrying him ever forward. Yet seeing this woman, standing so vividly before him, unearthed fragments of memory he had buried.

There was something unsettling in the way she carried herself, a quiet chaos in her presence, as though every movement, every inflection, was charged with meaning only she could truly grasp. Her hair, touched by the dim light, caught a soft gleam of chestnut-blond that contrasted sharply with her otherwise unassuming frame. But nothing about her spirit was modest. She brimmed with a tireless energy, every word threaded with urgency, every smile edged with discovery. Curiosity lit her eyes, passion defined her, and her need to push boundaries seemed insatiable.

That spirit—brilliant, irrepressible, unrelenting—struck Levi with an almost painful familiarity. The resemblance was uncanny, haunting in its precision. For those who had known Zoë Hange, it was impossible not to see the echo.

He needed no sketch to draw the conclusion. She was her twin. Hange had spoken of no family, not to anyone, except him. Which left Levi wondering: had the woman he encountered yesterday been driven only by the thrill of reunion, eager to step closer to those her sister once trusted? Or was she here for something more—for the continuation of the work Hange had devoted her life to? The thought of renewed studies into the titans no longer surprised him. It was, after all, exactly what Hange would have done.

“And who are you exactly?” Reiner asked, his voice cold, each word heavy with suspicion.
He didn’t like this one bit. The curse was gone — he knew it. Everyone had returned to human form after being forced into Titans, so there was no way she could do anything now. And yet, the sight before him unsettled him deeply. The squad at her back, armed and sharp-eyed, had them boxed in, as though they weren’t allies but captives being tested, weighed, and possibly condemned.

Strangely, only those who had once borne the power of the Nine Titans had been called forward. It was too precise to be coincidence. How could she possibly know? Unless someone had been spying on them. The thought made Reiner’s chest tighten, heat rising under his skin.

The woman looked at him, smiling with her whole teeth — so casual, almost reckless in its brightness. It disarmed more than it reassured. Reiner didn’t know how to respond, and by the looks exchanged among the others, he wasn’t alone. Her face… her spirit… there was something familiar there, something none of them dared to put into words. Because to say it aloud would be to admit they were hoping against reason that Hange was still alive.

“At least someone’s polite enough to ask,” she said, stepping forward until she was nearly nose-to-nose with him. Reiner instinctively drew back. “Well, my name’s Iris Hange — and yes, you guessed it, Zoë’s sister. Nice to meet you all!”

Silence. No shock, no cries of disbelief — only the sinking weight of disappointment. Zoë Hange was gone, and nothing could change that. Her twin was here now, brimming with energy, her grin unshaken even as she read their guarded faces.

But Iris didn’t linger on their grief. She never did. There were more pressing matters at hand, and she had been chasing them for years — studying Titans from afar, even when her sister had long since left to join Erwin’s squad. While Zoë had thrown herself headfirst into the field, Iris had stayed behind, helping their parents, keeping the home intact, and working on her own research in secret. Titans fascinated her too, not as monsters but as another way of life, a mystery begging to be understood.

She had always pressed her sister for every detail in her reports, scribbled her own theories, sketched designs that could topple a Titan. And when Zoë once asked her to craft a weapon, Iris knew her place in this world was sealed. Slowly, quietly, she had begun working in the shadows, a hidden counterpart to her sister’s brilliance. Levi had been the only one entrusted with the truth — the cold, unreadable man her sister admired more than anyone. Iris never understood what Zoë saw in him. Maybe she would now.

Her gaze swept the group, sharp and lingering, until at last it landed on a familiar face.

“Hey, but I know you!”

Eren flinched. That was never good—being recognized by someone from the interior of Paradis. Outside of Levi’s squad, he couldn’t think of a single place he might have met her. He had never roamed the cities as an ordinary teenager, never sat down with strangers to eat, laugh, or share in something as simple as small talk.

Still, her face tugged at his memory. She was unmistakably Hange’s twin—same sharp features, same restless spark in her eyes. But unlike Hange, she didn’t wear glasses, and her hair was a lighter shade. Her spirit, though, was uncannily familiar: hungry for answers no one dared ask, too eager, too thrilled by things that should have been terrifying.

“My sister talked about you all the time,” she said with a grin. “Honestly, I got a headache just hearing your name so much. But I’ve gotta admit—you’re pretty handsome.”

Eren shifted back as Iris leaned in, studying him like he was some rare specimen. The attention burned against his skin. He hated it—being seen, being noticed. He didn’t deserve it. Not from her, not from Mikasa, not from anyone.

From a few steps away, Mikasa watched in silence. The scene unsettled her. Yes, Iris reminded her of someone who had once been close to them, but there was something sharper beneath that resemblance, something she couldn’t quite name. It was the same gnawing ache she always felt whenever a girl drew too close to Eren. Annie never bothered her—Annie’s gaze was fixed on Armin. And Pieck had never shown the slightest interest. But this—this felt different.

She wanted to step in, to pull him out of the moment, but she didn’t move. She knew that if she spoke now, it wouldn’t be for his sake—it would be for her own. And she still felt too weak to act on that, too fragile to face the weight of her own feelings.

“Anyways,” Iris said at last, after finishing her almost clinical inspection of them. “What I want here is obvious—to see if you can still transform, even after the Rumbling or whatever we’re calling it now. I believed the curse of Ymir was lifted… but as descendants of Eldia, we need to make sure. We need to be certain there are no more Nine Titans left. Got it?”

It wasn’t really a question—it rang more like a statement carved in stone.

Falco’s eyes flicked to Eren, searching for reassurance he didn’t have himself. The boy still hadn’t learned how to read him, but in moments like this, he hoped for it anyway. And to his surprise, Eren’s gaze met his. A silent understanding passed between them. For all the bitterness Falco still carried—for the manipulation back in Marley, for the lies—something had shifted since then. Eren wasn’t the type to care for children, not really. Yet somehow, Falco had found himself tethered to him, like an uneasy ally who had, against all odds, become something closer to a friend.

“Hey, Iris,” Annie’s voice cut through, sharp and cold, slicing into the silence. “What makes you think we can still transform?”

Iris smiled, tilting her head as if the answer was already obvious. “Oh, we’re about to find out.”

“I’ll make sure to kill you first,” Annie replied, venom lacing her words.

“Nah, nah.” Iris clicked her tongue, wagging a finger in mock disapproval. “Not enough for you to kill countless innocent people who just wanted to live in peace? Need I remind you—you’re in Paradis now. The very island you tried to wipe out to the last child. And for what?”

The words landed like blows. Annie froze, her chest tightening. The weight of it forced her to look away, shame prickling her skin. Of course she remembered. Every scream. Every crushed body. Every family broken because of her hands.

She had believed, back then, that it was survival—that Marley demanded it, that it was duty. But it had gone too far. Always too far. And the faces of those she had killed had never left her. Even now, they followed her like ghosts in the dark, burrowing deeper into her, festering like a wound that would never heal.

She thought of the old scouts, of the way they’d looked at her when they realized the truth of who she was. The hatred. The fear. The betrayal. And how, when they cornered her, she had fought back with the same blind brutality Marley had taught her.

But things had changed. Too much had changed. And nothing—nothing—could ever erase what she had done.

“I can only thank my sister and Levi here,” Iris said brightly, her eyes scanning the group with unnerving ease. “Without them, I’d have no idea about everything that’s gone down. And while you lot were busy, I managed to secure us a little private fort—somewhere safe, away from curious eyes.”

“Levi?”
Connie and Jean turned on him at once.

Levi didn’t flinch at their surprise. He only cast Iris a tired glance and muttered, “Can we get this over with? I don’t want to waste the day with a gun pointed at my head.”

“Oh—right! Almost forgot!” Iris clapped her hands once, then waved at her men. A few lowered their rifles, though others continued circling those who had once borne the Nine Titans.

Reiner’s fist tightened at his side. Behind him, Pieck and Armin stood motionless, guarded. Annie still hadn’t lifted her gaze, though her hands curled into fists, nails biting into skin hard enough to draw blood.

Falco felt Eren shift beside him, subtly leaning forward as though to shield him. His eyes had sharpened, cold and cutting, as though daring any of them to try.

Mikasa’s body coiled, ready to act, but Gabi grabbed her sleeve, whispering through her teeth, “Don’t. There’s no point in fighting. Just wait.”

Mikasa hated it—hated standing still, hated doing nothing. But she couldn’t break away. Not yet.

“Come on, it’s easy,” Iris said cheerfully. “Just bite. See if anything happens.”

Eren didn’t move. He didn’t want to obey her, to dance to her command. But Iris caught his eye, her tone dropping suddenly, her voice sharp as glass.

“Or else,” she said, her smile slipping into something harder. “I’ll hurt someone you care about.”

The threat wasn’t veiled. It was direct, merciless.

Eren stepped forward, and immediately the soldiers raised their weapons, fingers twitching on triggers. But he ignored them, his eyes locked only on Iris. His intent was written plain across his face as he raised his hand.

He knew it was a bluff—a sadistic ploy to test him. If Levi was in on this, then Iris’s twisted performance wasn’t surprising. But even knowing that, he couldn’t risk her making good on the threat. Not if she dared touch someone already broken.

Without another word, he bit down on his hand.

Gasps. A ripple of held breath.

Nothing happened.

Eren’s eyes narrowed. He bit again—harder, deeper—tearing his skin open, determined to prove her wrong. Blood spilled freely, running down his arm.

Iris watched with unsettling fascination, her grin wide, drinking in his stubbornness. She knew he couldn’t heal anymore. His hand would need stitches now. And part of her wanted to let him keep going, to see just how much he’d destroy himself out of sheer defiance. But then Levi’s stare cut into her, cold and final. Silently, he ordered her to stop.

She exhaled, disappointed. “Okay, that’s enough.”

Eren’s chest heaved, tears sliding unbidden down his face. His hand throbbed, slick with blood, and the bitter tang of metal coated his tongue. No sweetness this time. No sign of Titan regeneration. The curse was gone. He should have felt relief. He should have rejoiced in the thought that his life was no longer ticking away by the year. But relief felt impossible. Not after what he had done. Not after what he had become.

“Too bad,” Iris said lightly. “I would have loved to see a Titan.”

Jean scoffed, voice dry. “Maybe you should’ve joined us at Fort Salta then. Not that you cared—your sister died chasing that dream.”

For the first time, Iris didn’t smile. Her voice came quieter, steadier. “Of course I cared. Everyone lost someone. But my sister… she always told me she’d still be here.” She pressed a hand to her chest, over her heart. “And she is. As long as I breathe.”

The group fell silent. Her words carved too close, cutting into wounds still raw.

“I don’t want to live unhappy,” Iris continued, her tone firm now, eyes flashing with something familiar, almost Hange-like. “Even as I mourn, I want to move forward. Same as all of you, I suppose. We all have sins to atone for. But life doesn’t stop for grief. We can’t stay buried in it. No matter how much it hurts, we have to move forward.”

No one answered.

For Eren, the words felt like poison. To move on, to one day let it fade—that was unforgivable. He would never forget what he’d done to his friends, to the world.

Jean muttered a bitter scoff but left it there.

Levi was the one who finally broke the silence. “Oi. Let’s go before my leg rots off. We’ll talk when we reach your damn fort.”

Falco lingered, his stomach twisting. He was only a Titan for a short time, yet he too had killed, hurt, destroyed. Iris’s words echoed inside him—atonement, sin, moving forward. He almost wanted to believe her. But he knew how easily that belief turned to ash when you were the one who had pulled the trigger.

His eyes fell on Eren. The older boy was still staring at his bloodied hand, disgust etched into his features. Falco saw it clearly: Eren hated himself, hated the weakness that made him dangerous, hated that no matter what, he would always carry the monster inside.

But before he could spiral further, Mikasa stepped forward. Gently, she took his ruined hand in hers. Her touch was soft, fragile, nothing like the bloodied wreckage it covered.

Eren swallowed hard. That familiar ache swelled in his chest. Disappointment. Because nothing had changed. No matter what, he always managed to ruin something beautiful, to stain it with his own darkness, and call it life.

“Eren.”

He lifted his eyes, meeting hers as though for the first time in what felt like a year. She offered him a soft, reassuring smile, as if the simple curve of her lips could erase every trace of what he had done. His gaze lingered, heavy with unspoken grief, until he felt the tears slip down, burning his cheeks before reaching his lips.

But then clarity struck him, cruel and sharp. He remembered—he had to stay away. Like a sickness, a curse woven into his very being, he could only bring ruin to those who drew too close. And this moment, this fragile spark of closeness, only reminded him of the truth: he was not meant to be trusted, not meant to nurture, never meant to create life. Slowly, painfully, he turned his back to her, ignoring the small sound that left her—half gasp, half sob—whether of disappointment, sadness, or both. The sound cut deeper than any blade, but still he forced himself away.

Because even as she silently asked the impossible of him, he knew, beyond doubt, that the only way to protect her was to stay apart. If he wanted her to live—truly live—he could not let her close again.

Mikasa let his hand fall from hers, fingers lingering at her side. She stood waiting, desperate for something—an answer, a reason why he still treated her presence as poison seeping into his veins. She refused to let go, stubborn as ever, clinging to the boy she had once seen in her dreams. In those memories, she found proof that it had always been him—the one who had saved her when no one else could, the one who had given her the scarf that had come to mean everything. She couldn’t let that go. She couldn’t let him go.

But for now, she had no choice. She would bury the ache, mask it beneath strength, and pretend that nothing had broken her—that nothing could break her again, even after being hollowed out by darkness she had never imagined.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, they had mounted and followed Iris Squad, arriving at their destination.

So, for this part, I really tried to find a way to bring Hange back without tearing apart the canon. And yeah, I know she never had a sister—but probably like a lot of you, I never really digested the way she died. Apart from Mikasa, she was one of my favourite female characters in AOT. That’s when I thought—why not give her a twin? I mean, even as I stick close to the canon of the anime, I wanted to add something different, a familiar presence to hold onto. Someone who could maybe bring back a piece of her spirit, while still being her own person. And maybe, just maybe, help the squad heal too.

So hopefully, this isn’t too much. I know things are moving slowly, but I’m not the type of writer who wants characters—especially ones who’ve lived through trauma—to suddenly forget or move on without reason. This is about character development, about following their journey out of the darkness and toward a point where nothing they endured feels wasted. I like when stories make sense and don’t feel rushed, so I apologize if the pacing seems slow—but I need it this way for the characters to truly grow.

Chapter Text

Levi knew her sister had been the same way, but he hadn’t expected this. Iris wasn’t just curious like Hange—she was restless, untamed, and endlessly extroverted. God, she loved to talk. She piled nonsense over nonsense until his head threatened to split in two. More than once, Levi felt the overwhelming urge to just muzzle her and buy himself some silence.

Still, for all her exhausting chatter, she had proven herself. More than once. When she was first introduced, back after Erwin’s final strategy meeting, the squad had seen her potential. She wasn’t afraid of titans, carried that same fearless thirst for knowledge her sister had. And thanks to her work, they had uncovered new methods and even weapons—especially by combining what remained of Military Police supplies. The result: they had managed to push their investigations further than Levi had dared to hope.

Of course, the others hadn’t been thrilled with him. Some were outright angry. He hadn’t told them about Iris until too late, keeping her existence close to his chest as if testing them—or her. But Levi hadn’t cared. Not then. Not when Iris’s squad was the one keeping their finger on the trigger, ready to shoot Eren at the slightest excuse. Trust wasn’t cheap, not anymore. If Iris hadn’t been their leader, the boy wouldn’t even be alive.

And for now, they were allies. That was enough.

Levi sighed into his mug, letting the bitter coffee burn against his tongue. These days, it was the only thing he could stomach.

“Here you are!”

He almost rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed tonight was her. He had accepted Iris because she was Hange’s sister, but he would never have invited her. The fort they had been given wasn’t far from the second inner wall—remote enough to be safe, tucked away from the larger population. The others had collapsed into bed the moment they arrived, too drained to think about dinner. And here he was, in a cavernous hall, alone—until Iris stormed in, glowing with a relentless energy that made his muscles ache.

“Please tell me you’re not here to waste my time,” he muttered.

“Me? Waste your time? How could I?”

She dropped a book onto the table with a flourish. Levi stared at it, then at her. She bounced slightly on her heels, impatience radiating from her frame, waiting for him to take the bait.

He exhaled slowly.
“What’s this?”

“It’s a book.”

“No shit.”

“Historia just delivered her son.”

That caught him. For a moment, his hand stilled on the mug. He hadn’t thought much about Historia’s decision—pregnant at such a young age, in a world so broken—but who was he to judge? In the end, she had chosen life, a fragile thread of hope in the middle of ruin.

But the weight in Iris’s voice told him this was more than idle news. Historia couldn’t care for her people right now. Couldn’t guarantee their safety. And they both knew what that meant.

“That’s why she asked me to step in,” Iris said, her cheer fading into a calmer seriousness. “This place is secure, at least as far as my squad can confirm. There’s a village nearby, quiet, untouched by politics. No one there knows you. It’s a place to work to rest… maybe even to start over.”

Levi narrowed his eyes. “For how long?”

She shrugged, tone careful. “Depends on her recovery. Historia says she’ll still try to handle things from her side, but security around her is tighter than ever.”

Levi clicked his tongue, more weary than angry.
“Great.”

“For now, we’ve got a temporary figure acting as king—just to keep things steady inside Mitras.”

“Let’s hope this one doesn’t turn out like the last,” Levi muttered.

“Even so,” Iris continued, tone sharpening, “she’s demanding to see all of you.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like it. Especially not for Eren. The boy was still fragile, barely holding himself together, drowning in guilt he refused to release. Levi could feel it in the way Eren carried himself—resentful, broken, convinced he had dragged them all into hell. Armin might be keeping him steady for now, but hope was dangerous. Too much of it, and Eren could tip over the edge again. He had already proven how quickly darkness swallowed him when pressed.

Levi couldn’t allow that kind of risk. Not near Historia. Not near her newborn son.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he said, letting the words leave him like smoke.

Iris slid the book back into her arms—thick, worn, the kind that looked like it belonged in a scholar’s study. But this wasn’t about life in general. It was about titans. Always about titans.

“Of course,” she said after a pause, thoughtful. “Though, if you’ll let me, there are a few things I’d like to examine.”

Levi arched an eyebrow. “Again, with the titans?”

“Well, yes,” Iris replied, smiling faintly, though her eyes carried something heavier. “I want to make a proper record of what we know—an official disclosure, if you will. About the mysteries around them, around Ymir. And…” she hesitated, then added quietly, “I want to finish what my sister started.”

Levi didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what answer there was. Iris was not Hange, yet every time she stood before him, the resemblance cut deep. She carried the same hunger for knowledge, the same refusal to back down. But she also carried a spark of her own, sharper, louder, unafraid to clash with the silence Levi craved.

Still, he couldn’t let himself trust her—or anyone from Paradis, not now. Not when their lives were balanced on a knife’s edge. Only Historia held enough weight to tip the scales, and even she was bound by the chains of her position. The so-called temporary king was a stranger, not to be trusted. Sometimes Levi wondered why they had come back here at all, where memories of their faces still burned in the people’s minds. He had thought of leading them somewhere else, untouched by the Rumbling’s scars. But still, he couldn’t cut this place loose. Not yet.

“You’ll need patience,” he said at last, voice flat.

Iris had just reached the door when she turned, her grin snapping back into place like sunlight cutting through storm clouds.

“Don’t you worry. Nothing’s gonna stop me. Not even you depressing lot. I’ll earn your trust—you’ll see!”

She was the opposite of her sister. And yet, she was her sister all the same.

Levi drained the last of his coffee, the bitterness coating his tongue. He hated the way his mind betrayed him, comparing them at every turn. Iris wasn’t Zoë. If he wanted to keep them alive, he couldn’t afford the weight of ghosts.

Distractions weren’t an option. Not now.

✹

Once again, Mikasa found herself in that endless wasteland of sand, the night sky stretching infinitely, scattered with stars. She often wondered why this dream returned to her so often. She always sensed another presence—someone who never spoke, yet whose gentle smile could dissolve every doubt.

But tonight, she was alone. Her footsteps carried her aimlessly across the desert, as though the stars themselves might guide her. Slowly, the ground beneath her began to shift—sprouting with shapes of vegetation, drawn as if by an unseen hand. The sky brightened, transforming into day, and the landscape bloomed around her in a quiet, majestic cycle.

Soon, she was surrounded by a forest. And there, in front of her, stood a cabin. Familiar. Instinctively, it reminded her of home. A wave of safety washed over her.

She lingered, taking it in, her memories rising to the surface. There was something tender and nostalgic in the sight, as if she had stepped back into the past, trying to alter what had already been written.

And then—she wasn’t alone anymore. At her side stood the same silent woman, her gaze turned elsewhere, her smile warm and infinite. A smile that carried every form of love—like that of a mother, a child, a lover, a wife.

Mikasa wondered what this dream was trying to tell her.

“Mikasa?”

She squinted her eyes, her senses sharpening. Two figures stood before a door—one an adult, the other a younger boy.

She studied them carefully. Even with their backs turned, there was a disturbing familiarity in their appearance. She knew them. The tall man wore a hat and a long coat, his features partially hidden. But the boy—her gaze locked on the red scarf wrapped around his neck. The same as hers.

Her hand instinctively rose to her own scarf. A faint smile tugged at her lips as warmth spread across her face. She blushed, just a little.

I’m remembering… these are my memories, she realized, guided by the presence of the silent woman beside her.

“That’s right,” the man’s deep voice answered the boy. “She’s a girl your age.”

The man turned, his profile coming into view. He looked at the boy—his son, she presumed.

It was like seeing two versions of Eren. The resemblance was undeniable. She remembered now—his father. Grisha Yeager, the quiet, imposing doctor who always carried an air of secrecy, as if the weight of something vast pressed upon him.

Her memories returned with surprising ease. The fog of her amnesia felt lifted, as though some unseen hand had broken a curse. She breathed freely for the first time in what felt like ages.

She turned to the woman, whose gaze remained fixed on the pair.
“Thank you… for showing me this,” Mikasa murmured.

These days, comfort was rare. She realized just how much she needed even the smallest fragment of it.

Her eyes returned to father and son.

“There aren’t many children around here, so try to get along with her.”
“That depends on her attitude,” the younger Eren replied, unfazed.
“Eren, this is why you only have one friend,” his father sighed, exasperated.

Mikasa couldn’t help but smile, her lips curving wider at the strangeness of the moment. This Eren felt so different, and the uncanny sight tugged at her, stirring the urge to step closer, to really see him. Her heart was already racing.

But the scene shifted before she could move. The forest dissolved into a small, sunlit plain, a river cutting gently through it, a large stone standing as if it had always been there. The sudden change made her hesitate, taking a cautious step back, uncertain of what had just unfolded. The woman before her did not move, only let her eyes close once, as though concentrating, before the memory reshaped itself again.

Two figures appeared at the river’s edge. They stood close, their presence calm and unhurried, as though she were being offered something precious—a fragment of the past, a reward carved from a life of struggle.

Mikasa’s longing deepened. She wanted more, wanted all of it now. But she stayed rooted, watching quietly as the vision found its shape. It was them—Eren and herself—much younger, sitting beneath the tree as the sunlight spilled across the grass, gilding every surface it touched.

There was no sound coming from their mouths, yet somehow Mikasa understood the conversation. Eren was telling her about the city he lived in, the only friend he had—the one who dreamed of the outside world—and his own desire to join the Scouts. The younger Eren was full of life, determination, and that stubbornness she remembered all too well. And beside him, the younger version of herself listened intently, her eyes shining with curiosity as she wondered the same thing: if she could go, if she could follow him wherever he went.

Slowly, the scene shifted once again. This time it was dark. Everything felt cold, silent, and mysterious. A chill ran down her spine as she quickly searched for the woman’s warmth nearby, though she kept her gaze fixed ahead, as if drawn forward by an invisible force.

In front of her stood her younger self, Eren as a boy, and his father. The only light in the scene came from a firework bursting in the sky.

Mikasa’s chest tightened. She knew this moment—this was the day she had lost her parents, the day her life had changed forever, for better and worse. But most importantly, it was the moment Eren had given her that scarf. His scarf.

“Come on, let’s head back already,”
Eren tugged at her sleeve right after wrapping it around her. Mikasa had been in shock then, she remembered. She had wondered what she would do in that instant: she had no parents, no way of surviving alone after being driven from her home.

And yet—

“To our home.”

Mikasa gasped as she heard young Eren’s voice. It was like a missing piece to a puzzle she had desperately been trying to solve. That single phrase became the key, the one that bound her to this life forever. Because she knew, no matter what, Eren would always be there with her.

She only had to find the way—back to her home.

When she woke, Mikasa felt less confused, less lost. For the first time in weeks, it was as if she could brave the world again and face the others. The dream had given her back fragments of herself—reminders of who she was and where she had been. Watching it unfold in her sleep had been like a bucket of ice poured over her, harsh but awakening, forcing her to open her eyes to reality.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Pieck drew the curtain, letting sunlight spill into the room. Mikasa didn’t recoil like she once had; instead, she smiled faintly. The sight made Pieck falter for a moment, surprised by this sudden change, though it was far better than dealing with the lost, hollow girl she had been before.

“Before you ask,” Mikasa said as she stretched her arms overhead, “I’m feeling good.”

Of course, she already knew the routine.

Pieck’s lips curved into a smile, that same strange, motherly feeling stirring in her chest like it always did when she was near the girl.

“We’ve got an interesting day ahead. Want to hear about it?”

Mikasa gave a small nod.

“We’re heading out to a small town. It’s safe from Iris’ squad, but—you know Levi. Anyway, we’ll see if we can find some work there. Better than rotting away here.”

“Sounds good.”

The ache in her chest had vanished. The metal and skin graft had finally sealed the wound, though she knew she’d still have to be careful, especially if she needed to defend herself.

Pieck left her room to get ready. The rest of the camp was slowly waking as well, drifting toward breakfast before preparing to move out. Horses were still their most urgent need if they wanted freedom of movement. Stealing them was risky business—even if Jean and Connie kept insisting nothing would happen, swearing no one would ever track them down.

But they knew better.

Down in the hall, all the boys had gathered around the table. Even Eren, who had always been reluctant to sit with them, was now casually eating his breakfast, listening in on the conversation. For once, their words weren’t heavy with war or regret — they were talking about jobs, of all things.

“I’ll be a farmer or maybe a blacksmith,” Reiner said, arms crossed as though he was already picturing it. “I’ve got some experience with the forge, and I know my way around a blade. I could make something useful… maybe even turn a profit.”

“And I’ll serve in a restaurant,” Connie declared proudly. “Yeah, I’m sure I can cook.”

Jean nearly choked on his bread.

“Bro, you don’t even know what a scrambled egg is.”

“Oh, shut up. What do you wanna do, Jean? Not something too lazy, though honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Real funny,” Jean shot back, leaning back in his chair. “But I guess you’re right. I’ve had my ass kicked all my life, especially to save this dumbass here—” He jerked his thumb at Eren. “So yeah, I want something I can rest my feet on.”

Eren scoffed under his breath, which was enough to draw Jean’s eyes.

“Got a problem, Yeager?”

“Maybe.”

They locked gazes, and for a moment the air tensed, the lightness about to snap. But before it could, Armin cut in smoothly, his tone calm, neutral — the practiced voice of someone who had learned to avoid confrontation without backing down.

“I’d want to be an explorer,” he said, looking at no one in particular. “Maybe a guide, maybe a writer. I’d travel the world, write books about everything I’d see, and teach the next generations about the mysteries out there. So they’ll know there’s more to life than walls and wars.”

Jean rolled his eyes.

“That’s a nice dream, Arlert.”

Armin’s lips curved, though his tone stayed steady, almost cool. “You don’t believe me, Jean. But I swear, I’d make a whole tour of the world and bring back everything you missed because you were too busy slacking off — if that’s what you call a job.”

Reiner barked out a laugh, Connie joined in, and for the first time in a long while, the sound felt real — boys laughing about nonsense, not soldiers remembering pain.

Eren couldn’t stop the faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Cruel as Armin’s jab was, it reminded him of old times, when their fights were harmless. Armin noticed it too and smiled back at him — just a flicker, but enough to make Eren feel, for a fleeting second, like he was home again.

But it didn’t last.

“What about you, Eren?” Reiner asked carefully.

The table went quiet. Eren could already sense the words bubbling on Jean’s tongue, and he wasn’t wrong.

“I wonder what he’d do,” Jean said flatly, “besides destroying and killing.”

The words dropped like a stone. Eren tried to ignore them, tried not to let the familiar sting drag him back into the reckless boy he used to be. He knew their relationship had always been messy, but back then it was rivalry. Now, after everything… it was heavier. Almost poisoned.

Armin had already forgiven him. Reiner too, in his own way. Connie didn’t say much, but at least it wasn’t hostile. With Jean, though… it was always this, always the bite. Maybe one day it would fade. But not yet.

Eren’s eyes lifted just once, throwing a glance at Jean. It was enough to chill the table, the laughter gone, leaving only silence in its wake. The others didn’t say anything, maybe because they didn’t want to ruin the fragile moment they’d had — daring, for once, to dream of futures and forget their past.

A cruel reminder that it would never let them go.

But just as Eren was about to reply, the door burst open.

“Well, good morning everyone! Hope you guys rested well, because today looks like a heavy schedule!”

It was like a bowl of energy had been dropped into the room, scattering the tension that had been suffocating them. But for Eren, the effect was the opposite. His jaw clenched the second he saw her. Iris. The memory of yesterday — of what she had pushed him into — flared back hot, souring the taste of his breakfast.

“How come Zoë never told us she had an annoying sister?” Connie muttered, half-joking but mostly serious.

The others didn’t laugh. His words landed too close to a truth they all felt. Levi had kept so many things from them. They had bled, fought, and lost everything together, yet still, there were secrets waiting in the shadows. Was it really that impossible for their so-called comrades to trust them?

Iris didn’t flinch. Her smile didn’t waver, though her eyes sharpened just a little.

“If you don’t mind, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you—” she began. “Especially those of you who have the ability to transform…”

“Out of the question.”

Jean and Eren’s voices overlapped, sharp and final. Both had already pushed their chairs back, rising to their feet in perfect, unplanned unison. For once, their reasons aligned.

Eren couldn’t stomach another word from her. The way she looked at them — at him — with that insatiable curiosity, that hunger for titans… it was unbearable. She was worse than her sister, he thought bitterly. At least Zoë’s obsession came from something he could almost respect. Iris, though? She was reckless. And in his mind, she had no right to be alive, not with that attitude.

Jean’s frustration was simpler: he was done. Done with hidden agendas, done with endless questions, done with people like her pretending they could play scientist while everyone else bled. He only wanted peace — a quiet corner where he could breathe without someone dragging him back into the madness. Even that, it seemed, was too much to ask.

“Oh, come on!” Iris clapped her hands together, tilting her head with a forced cheerfulness. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m sure we could be friends if you just gave me a chance—”

“Just give up already,” Jean cut her off flatly.

Without another word, he and Eren left the room, their steps heavy against the wooden floor.

Iris let out a long sigh, her hands falling limply to her sides. She had expected this. In truth, she had hoped for better, but her sister had been right. Always right. Stay away from titans, stay away from soldiers, stay behind the walls where it was safe. She had been forbidden from joining the expeditions, forbidden from standing alongside the very people she envied most.

She understood why — Zoë wanted to protect her. Wanted her to have a quiet future, a safer one. But safety was a cage. Safety was never stepping beyond the walls, never seeing the vast lands, never discovering the strange creatures that still roamed free. Safety meant living a life that was not hers.

No, she thought. Her future was already sealed if she obeyed. That was something she could never accept.

More than anything, she longed for what the others had. The courage to walk beyond the walls. The chance to face titans and understand them, not just fear them. To dream of coexistence, even if the dream was fragile.

That was the future she craved.

Outside, Jean and Eren walked in silence, heading back to their rooms. They kept their distance yet shared the same simmering anger toward Iris. How could she dare? How could anyone still envy the Titans—after everything, after dragging them through more than a decade of blood and ruin? Didn’t she have enough? Or was she so desperate, so blinded by obsession, that she would throw her life away like her sister?

Jean believed the latter.

And then, as if fate wanted to test them, Annie and Mikasa appeared, walking down the corridor from the opposite side. The two women were talking quietly, almost casually, as though the years of hatred and bitterness between them had melted into something tolerable.

That sight was like a spark to Eren’s temper. To him, it felt like betrayal. How could they just move forward, forget the very chains that had dragged them into this nightmare? Mikasa… she was lucky. Lucky to be able to forget, to let go. He had wished for the same—for the chance to disappear into oblivion, to be forgotten forever.

And yet—

Her eyes caught his. Just for a second.

But that second stretched endlessly. Her stare was cold, guarded… and yet beneath it, something old flickered. Something he remembered. The Mikasa he had once known. And it was enough. Enough to reignite the fire he had been trying to smother for years. That same pull had haunted him since Marley—since their youth was stolen, since the world had begun to unravel. Back then, he told himself it was a test: who they were, what they meant to each other.

But the truth was far heavier.

He could never admit it—not out loud, not even to himself—but he had always been drawn to her. From the first time he saw her, he had pretended not to care. Pretended to look away when, in truth, he was captivated by her strength, her calm where he had none. And now… all of that was poisoned. Because she had bled for him, suffered for him. And in the end, he hadn’t protected her. He had only destroyed.

So, before she could open her mouth, before her voice could reach him, Eren looked away. He walked forward, disappointment burning deep in his chest. His resolve hardened, black and heavy as tar: he would stay away from her. For her sake. For both of them.

Jean saw it. He saw everything.

And in that moment, his decision crystallized. If Eren was truly done with her, if he had stepped aside, then the path was open. For the first time, Jean felt he had a chance, something to hope for. Years ago, when Mikasa never left Eren’s side, there had been no space for anyone else. She had been bound to him, inseparably. Jean had waited—patient, stubborn—clinging to the hope that someday she would see Eren for what he really was: not a saviour, but a curse.

Now, watching Eren retreat, Jean felt his chance spark to life. Maybe Mikasa would finally turn elsewhere—toward someone grounded, someone steady. Someone like him.

Not a suicidal maniac.

“Eren.”

Jean’s voice cut through the air just as the girls disappeared from sight.

Eren froze, like he’d slammed into an invisible wall. His body tensed, already bracing for a fight, his instincts screaming that Jean was about to provoke him again. He couldn’t stand another day locked in this endless back-and-forth with him, this stupid rivalry that never seemed to die.

Slowly, Eren turned, his teeth clenched tight.

Jean tilted his head, his tone deceptively casual.
“Tell me… you’re not planning to do anything with her, are you?”

The words threw Eren off for a moment. He hadn’t expected that. But then it clicked—the memory of Jean’s pathetic attempt on Mikasa years ago and then again, last night, begging her not to cut her hair.

Eren’s fists curled until his nails dug into his palms. Just the thought of Jean daring to say her name like that made his blood boil. Jean noticed the reaction instantly—the same stubborn fire that had never left Eren’s eyes. He smirked.

“You’re gonna hit me If I ask if I’ll marry her?” Jean scoffed.

“You know I can’t,” Eren snapped back. The words left his mouth too fast, too raw, betraying just how much he wanted to.

“That’s what I thought.” Jean’s voice turned colder, sharper. “I guess the only thing she has left of you is that stupid scarf. Don’t worry, though, one day she’ll forget even that, just like everything else—”

That was it.

Before Jean could finish, Eren’s fist connected with his face, splitting skin under his nose. The sound cracked through the corridor, and for an instant, it felt good. The pain that shot through his knuckles was a release, an outlet for all the rage he’d been burying. His pragmatic side told him to stop there. But the other—the darker part—wanted to keep going, to smash that smug, horse-faced grin into the ground.

Jean staggered back, blood dripping onto his lip. And then—he laughed. A deep, genuine laugh Eren hadn’t heard in years.

“God, I missed that,” Jean grinned through the blood. “That one came straight from your heart.”

Eren stood frozen, glaring, chest heaving. Jean’s laughter shouldn’t have shaken him, but it did. Because behind it was the truth—Jean wasn’t going to back off. Not now. Not ever.

“Let’s see who she chooses in the end,” Jean muttered, wiping the blood away with his hand. “If she wants to stay chained to you, fine. But don’t kid yourself, Eren, you’ve never wanted her to be happy.”

“Of course I do!” The words tore out of Eren before he could stop them. His fists trembled.

Jean smirked bitterly. “Look at yourself, still trying to act so though. You think this is what she needs?”

Eren’s rage spiked, but the words lodged deep. He couldn’t even answer.

“You don’t deserve to be here,” Jean spat, his voice thick with venom.

The corridor went silent. They stood locked in each other’s gaze like two dogs circling for the kill. Eren’s chest rose and fell, heavy, but he had no words left. Because Jean was right.

Slowly, Eren dropped his gaze, his jaw tightening. Without another word, he turned and walked away. He could hear Jean saying something behind him—more barbs, more poison—but he didn’t care.

None of it mattered.

Not anymore.

His chest felt heavy, crushed by everything unsaid. He hated Jean, but what he hated more was how right he was.

Chapter Text

Don’t deserve to be here…
The words repeated like a curse.

He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He knew. He knew he didn’t deserve them. Not Mikasa’s gentle eyes, not Armin’s loyalty, not even the uneasy peace that held their broken group together. He had ruined all of it.

And so, the thought formed—clear, sharp, undeniable. The one that had haunted him every night since the dust of the Rumbling settled:

If he was gone, they could breathe again.
If he disappeared, Mikasa could finally live, maybe even laugh again.
If he ended it, the weight would lift from all of their shoulders.

He stopped walking, gripping the stone wall until his knuckles whitened. His body shook—not from hesitation, but from a grim kind of relief. For the first time in years, he felt something close to clarity.

Yes. That was it. The path was ending. His path.

And this time, not even his friends—not even Mikasa—would stop him.

He lifted his head, his eyes glinting in the shadowed light, carrying the same fire that had once pushed him to destroy the world. But now, that fire burned for one last purpose: to erase himself.

As his shadow stretched down the corridor, his resolve hardened like tar: he would end his life here and now, while he still could. And then, maybe, she would finally find peace without him.

Eren stepped outside, drifting away from the fortress. For the first time in days, he almost felt light—like something inevitable was finally about to happen. A decision. Quick, clean, effective. He didn’t dare let himself dwell on the conversation with Armin on the boat, the raw pain in his voice. None of that mattered anymore. No matter what he did, Eren would be hated, hunted, caged. Better to disappear. Better to have never been born at all.

He walked without thinking, until the sound of a soft sigh pulled him back. He stopped, realizing he had wandered toward a small pond. Not the forest, not yet. The surface of the water glimmered under the clear sky. No birds circled overhead—they had all flown south, toward the warmth.

And sitting there, by the bank, was Falco.

The boy’s head was tilted back, staring at the empty stretch of sky as though searching for something that wasn’t there. The sight made Eren hesitate, his feet rooted. The stillness, the posture—it reminded him too much of himself years ago, sitting alone, dreaming of a freer world beyond the walls.

He thought about leaving. About disappearing into the trees before Falco could notice. But instead, he moved forward and lowered himself onto the grass beside him.

Falco tensed at the sound of footsteps. When he glanced sideways and saw Eren sitting there, his heart kicked hard against his ribs. Eren looked different than yesterday—emptier. The wild anger was gone, hollowed out and replaced by something darker. A quiet weight that made Falco’s chest tighten.

He was still afraid of him. He still remembered Marley, the lies, the manipulation, the way Eren had used him like a pawn. He would never forget.

And yet—

“Falco,” Eren murmured, eyes fixed ahead, shoulders sinking as though under an invisible load. “Are you still mad at me?”

The question came so suddenly that Falco blinked, caught off guard.

He didn’t answer at first. He glanced at Eren, then back up at the sky, his voice low.
“…I guess I am. You used me. Manipulated me. But… I know you thought it was to save Paradis.”

“So you accept what I did?” Eren cut him off, his tone flat, impatient.

“I don’t know.” Falco’s reply was quiet, honest.

Silence stretched between them. For once, Falco didn’t feel the sharp menace that usually radiated from Eren. He didn’t seem to be here to provoke or to intimidate. Just… to talk. As if no one else in their group would listen.

“Why are you asking me this?” Falco finally said, suspicion creeping in. “What are you planning?”

Eren’s gaze drifted toward the forest, his hands clenched tight at his sides. His voice was calm—too calm.
“Because I did things that can never be forgiven. And I’m tired. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time anymore.”

Falco’s stomach twisted. Something about the way Eren’s body leaned forward, the way his eyes fixed on the tree line, sent a chill through him. Déjà vu. A warning.

“There’s one last thing I need to ask you,” Eren continued, his voice low, certain. “I’m going to die. I don’t know how, but it has to be soon, now. And I don’t want anyone to stop me. Don’t tell them.”

Falco shot to his feet, blood rushing hot through his chest.
“What? You can’t—you can’t ask me that!”

His fists trembled. Anger, fear, betrayal all surged at once. What was Eren thinking? That he could trick him again, tie him up in another secret, another plan? That he was still some naïve boy desperate for approval?

No. Not anymore.

“Do you really think I’m just going to sit here, listen to your nonsense, and do nothing?” Falco shot back, his voice trembling with anger. Shock, too—shock that Eren would even ask him this. “If you try this, you know damn well I’ll tell everyone!”

“Maybe…” Eren’s reply was flat, stripped of any fight. “But at least wait until I’m done.”

“No, Eren!” Falco’s breath caught, his chest tight. “I won’t let you!”

Eren scoffed quietly, though it sounded more like he was trying to smother the ache in his chest than mock him. Nobody listened. Nobody ever really did.

“I guess I don’t have a choice, then.”

His eyes turned on the boy. There was no fury in them, no threat—just that hollow stare, steady, piercing. Falco faltered, his defiance wavered as fear crawled up his spine. The same fear that had always shadowed Eren Yeager, the boy who carried the Founding Titan, the boy whose name itself felt like a curse.

“You’re still afraid, aren’t you?” Eren said, the bitterness lacing his voice cutting deeper than anger ever could. He sounded like a man spitting out poison he’d been forced to drink himself. A reminder of who he was, what he carried, and why maybe he should vanish from this world.

Falco swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let Eren’s death stain his conscience. If he stayed silent, if he let this happen, it would mean he’d agreed to it. That he’d failed. And what then? Would the others look at him the way he looked at Eren—like a monster who let life slip away when he could have stopped it?

And yet, some traitorous whisper in his head asked: what are you really trying to save—him, or yourself?

“It’s ironic, you know,” Eren murmured suddenly, as if dragging his mind elsewhere. “Something I’ve learned these last years. Everyone’s got something to lose. Something to hold on to. Something to hate. But we never really change. We make the same mistakes, again and again. Maybe we like it that way. That’s why Ymir could never let go of the man who used her.”

Falco blinked, confusion knitting his brow. He didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. And Eren wasn’t looking for an answer. His voice was calm, almost serene, as if every word was part of a trap only he could see.

Eren stood and moved closer to the edge of the pond. Falco hesitated before joining him. Together, they stared at the water—clear, glimmering under shafts of sunlight, where tiny fish darted, oblivious to the chaos that consumed everything above them.

“You’ve never been in love, have you, Falco?”

Of all the things Eren could have said, that was the last he expected.

Falco stiffened, heat rising to his face. Words jammed in his throat. After everything—death, guilt, betrayal—Eren was asking about love?

And then, without warning, his thoughts drifted to Gabi—the only one who mattered to Falco. He would have followed her anywhere, through fire or ruin, just to prove how much he loved her. That desperation clung to him, tightening its grip the longer he thought about her. Gabi was impossible to read. Sometimes, she was unexpectedly kind, her smile brighter than anything Falco could have imagined, and on those days it felt like the whole world made sense. But when her warmth vanished, when she turned distant and sharp again, he couldn’t understand why. He would try, over and over, to make it right, but it never worked.

He was lost.

“Women are complicated,” Eren murmured suddenly, as though he had reached into the boy’s mind and spoken his hidden thought aloud.

Falco blinked, caught off guard, then leaned forward, curiosity cutting through his hesitation.

“What about you?”

The question felt strange on his lips. He had never imagined Eren Yeager—the man who had razed nations and dragged the world to its knees—as someone who could care for another, much less love them. Eren had always seemed like war given flesh, violence in human form. And yet… here, now, maybe there was more to him. Maybe if Falco could earn his trust—if forgiveness was even possible—then there was a reason for it. Maybe there was hope.

So many maybes.

“I guess I was,” Eren answered at last, his voice low.

Falco noticed how the man’s face changed, the faintest flush crossing his cheek, as though he was remembering someone who once made his heart race. It startled Falco—this glimpse of softness from the very man he’d been taught to fear. And somehow, he wasn’t afraid anymore.

He wanted to know more.

“What happened?”

“I fucked up,” Eren said flatly.

“What do you mean?”

“I… I don’t know what to do. The one I care about doesn’t even remember me anymore. Not a thing…” His hands curled tight against his hips, eyes closing as if he could block the ache from spreading further.

Falco stayed silent, waiting.

Eren didn’t want him to know, didn’t want to say it out loud. Even Armin, who had carried the truth all this time, had guarded it quietly. But a child? Children were too quick, too honest. He couldn’t trust them. And yet the words hovered dangerously close to slipping free.

“Is it Mikasa?”

The name landed like a blade. Of course, Falco knew—it was written too clearly in him, too obvious to hide. Eren wanted to leave, to vanish, to crawl back into the thought that had consumed him when he first came here.

End myself.

But when he opened his eyes again, Falco was still there. Waiting. Not judging, not condemning. Just curious. Pure curiosity—the same kind Eren remembered having in his own eyes, long before the world broke him.

And for a fleeting moment, Eren felt something stir. Empathy.

Because Falco, despite everything, was still fighting. Still clinging to what remained despite being so young, even if it meant being crushed under the weight of those who claimed to be stronger.

The world was cruel. And yet, somehow, it was beautiful.

Eren saw not just a boy, but a future. A chance. A reminder that even in the ashes, some people still fought to live without surrendering to despair. That even in a world this cruel, there could still be beauty worth protecting.

Maybe this was what it meant.

Looking at Falco, Eren felt—for the first time since the Rumbling—the faintest urge to live. To fight, not for himself, but for the boy beside him and any child still left in this broken world. If there really was such a thing as a second chance, if the curse of Titans was truly lifted, then maybe this was it.

And he couldn’t waste it. Not again.

“I get that,” Falco said quickly, not even waiting for Eren’s reply. “Me too—I love someone. But she hides her feelings. I know she does, I just don’t understand why. It’s like playing a game no one can win.”

A faint smile tugged at Eren’s lips. For a moment, it almost felt like an ordinary conversation, just two people talking about love. Except one was still a boy, and the other carried the weight of a ruined world.

“I guess we’re just two doomed guys,” Falco added with a hint of sadness. “Destined to be lonely.”

“All you need is courage,” Eren said softly.

“But you never had it.”

Eren’s smile faded, his eyes shadowed.

“Because back then… my time was limited. I had four years left. I couldn’t risk saying what I felt.”

“And now?” Falco pressed.

Eren didn’t answer. His silence stretched, heavy.

Above them, clouds began to gather. The air shifted as autumn crept in, leaves burning into gold and red. It was beautiful, almost cruelly so—it had always been Mikasa’s favourite season. Eren felt the ache in his chest. He couldn’t let himself think of her, not after everything. Not after telling her to forget him. To return now would be selfish, an unforgivable cruelty. His mother would never have let him become that kind of man.

Would it still be the same if she ever remembered him? Could it be? He doubted it. And still—some stubborn part of him hoped. Hoped that one day, by some miracle, they could find their way back to that bond.

He was certain of one thing.

“Women are complicated,” Falco muttered, breaking the silence, almost echoing Eren’s earlier words.

Eren let out a dry breath of laughter. That they are. His mind flickered briefly to Ymir, and her endless, desperate devotion to the king who had shackled them all with this curse.

Well, that was probably the first genuinely sweet chapter I’ve written for this story. Honestly, it wasn’t easy—I didn’t want it to feel out of character, especially considering Eren’s personality and all the mess he’s dragged himself and everyone else into. But it felt necessary here, and I’d been really looking forward to that shift in him, where he finally starts to imagine a future for himself. Of course, it’s not going to be easy, but for now, we can thank Falco for keeping him grounded and stopping him from trying to end it all a second time, lol.

Also, it turned out to be a pretty short chapter since I wanted to give them a little exclusive moment.

Chapter Text

Of all the things Eren hated, being stuck with Jean for another day was easily at the top of the list. And of course, Levi had made sure to crank his misery up a notch. While the others had gone into town—looking for jobs, hanging out, just living—Eren and Jean had been ordered to stay behind.

“As if this wasn’t depressing enough,” Eren muttered, glaring at the mop in his hand.

Levi had assigned them to clean the entire fortress. Together. He called it “teamwork.” Eren called it torture. Neither of them wanted to look at each other, much less work side by side. The only silver lining was the faint bluish bruise still on Jean’s face—Eren’s own handiwork. Honestly, he thought he should’ve hit him twice.

But they had bigger problems. The hall was filled with heavy furniture that needed to be moved before the floors could even be scrubbed. Just minutes in and they were already exhausted. Eren swore he’d rather be out fighting titans again. At least those fights ended quickly.

Jean, predictably, complained through every second.

“Look at me, wasting my life on this shitty work instead of lying on a transat, drink in hand. Maybe even a hot chick beside me, if I got lucky.”

Eren ignored him at first, trying to zone out, but Jean’s voice was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Levi knew exactly what he was doing, sticking them together.

But Eren had made himself a promise after his talk with Falco: he would at least try. He couldn’t stay in the dark forever. As much as he believed he didn’t deserve life, he’d been given a second chance. It had to mean something. Ymir hadn’t stopped Mikasa for nothing.

Then Jean screamed.

Eren snapped out of his thoughts and turned. Jean had stumbled backward, his face pale.

“There’s a fucking snake! And it’s huge!”

Eren sighed and walked over. “What’s your problem now?”

He spotted it easily enough—a thick snake curled neatly on the floorboards, eyes fixed on them.

“It’s an Aesculapian,” Eren said flatly, like he was announcing the weather.

Jean blinked. “The fuck is that? Actually—forget it. Can we just kill it?”

“It’s nonvenomous. Strangles its prey instead.”

“Eren, I don’t give a shit about your nature lessons. Just kill it already!”

Eren studied the snake for a moment, feeling a strange sympathy for it. It wasn’t dangerous unless provoked. In its own way, it was just another creature trying to live. He couldn’t bring himself to kill it—not after everything. Not after all the blood already on his hands. Maybe this was another test: could he resist the instinct to destroy?

He looked back at Jean, who was practically frozen in place. Of course, Jean didn’t know—he didn’t have the memories, the knowledge, the cursed understanding Eren carried.

“If you’re so eager, do it yourself,” Eren said, turning away. “I’m going to find a broom.”

“What?! You’re not seriously leaving me here with it!”

“Not my problem.”

“Tch! What a dick.”

Eren sighed again. For once, neither of them had the energy to fight—they were too busy trying to get the damn hall clean before Levi came back to chew them out. And maybe, in its own twisted way, that was progress.

They had spent the first half of the day cleaning the hall. Levi had come by to check, making sure there wasn’t a speck of dust. But for once, thanks to Eren’s persistence—and his snapping at Jean whenever he slacked off—they managed to satisfy him. That small victory earned them a break: breakfast outside, as the sun finally appeared.

Jean hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill the snake and, against his will, ended up asking Eren—politely, for once—to deal with it. And now, here they were again, sitting together at a table, eating in silence, both wishing this whole ordeal could be over as soon as possible. The others were still out doing their own tasks. In some twisted way, Jean considered himself unlucky—forced to share house chores with the most infuriating person alive. Yet he couldn’t deny Eren’s usefulness. In the end, when it came to cleaning, Eren wasn’t so different from Levi: just as much of a neat freak, on top of being suicidal.

Jean sighed, dragging his eyes away from the sunlight flickering against the rim of his cup. The silence between them was heavier than it should’ve been. He wanted to hate Eren, and he did—God, he did. Every part of him remembered the screaming, the destruction, the hopeless march of those titans. Every part of him remembered the way Eren had stood in front of them, unmovable, as if their words had never mattered. That was the truth Jean had burned into himself to survive: Eren Jaeger had chosen the world’s end.

And yet… here he was.

Jean couldn’t make sense of it. Seeing Eren alive felt like betrayal and salvation all at once. Part of him wanted to grab him by the collar, shake him until every damn answer spilled out. Another part—one he loathed to admit—was almost grateful. After all the losses, after being forced to believe they had no other path, they had Eren again. Breathing. Cleaning floors like some stubborn recruit who’d never grown up.

It was unbearable.

The paradox clawed at him: the relief of seeing Eren alive was the same reason he couldn’t forgive him. If Eren could still exist like this, laugh, argue, live among them, then what the hell had all that suffering been for? Why had he made them carry that unbearable weight, only to leave them with the proof that another path had been possible? Jean didn’t know how to live with that. Accepting Eren back felt like betraying everyone they’d lost. But rejecting him entirely felt like betraying himself, the part that still clung to the idea of friendship they once shared.

He glanced at him, quietly chewing bread, as if nothing had ever happened. And Jean’s chest ached with something raw, ugly, and confusing: the feeling of finding someone again you wished you’d never lost, and at the same time wished had stayed gone.

“What you lookin’ at?”

Eren’s sudden question snapped Jean out of his thoughts, like being shaken awake after dozing off in the sun. Eren blinked, caught staring, and instantly braced himself—half-expecting another jab, another venom-laced remark. And maybe that’s exactly what Eren deserved. But then again, wasn’t everyone just doing their best now? Trying to live with what they had, and with what they had done?

Jean sighed inwardly. It wasn’t like he could pin it all on Eren alone. He remembered once believing in his words—enough to throw himself into the Survey Corps, enough to fight for humanity. It had meant killing. It had meant sacrifice. And sacrifice was what they all carried now.

Jean smirked faintly despite himself. Some things never changed. “Just wondering how many more punches I can get in on that face of yours,” he muttered, pointing at his own cheeks.

It hurt to say it—because deep down, it wasn’t about fists anymore. The real pain sat heavier: living with the choice they’d made, the cruelty they’d embraced, not because Eren had forced them into it, but because they had chosen it themselves.

Eren frowned at the smirk, confused. Jean wasn’t supposed to smile at him—not like that. He was used to the constant fight between them, the biting words, the tension that never seemed to fade. For them to be sitting here like this, trading remarks almost like normal people… it didn’t feel real.

The punch he had landed on him earlier that morning still lingered—a small bruise compared to everything else. Yet now, watching Jean’s half-amused glare, he felt something unexpected rise in his chest: the urge to apologize.

For the punch.
For the years of hell they have been in.
For everything.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t keep being “that guy”—the one who dragged everyone down into his own abyss. He’d been given a second chance, whether he deserved it or not. He didn’t know why. He only knew he couldn’t waste it, now.

But then…
Iris.

She came strolling toward them, humming as if the world wasn’t broken, two books tucked under her arm like a high scholar. Both Eren and Jean groaned almost in unison, their shoulders sinking. They hadn’t seen her all day, and they’d been hoping it would stay that way. But of course, when it came to these two, hope never delivered—only trouble did.

“How are you two faring?” she asked brightly, standing over them, eyes gleaming with an odd kind of energy.

“What do you want?” they muttered together, not even pretending to hide their irritation.

Iris gasped theatrically, though her smile didn’t falter. “Isn’t it normal to check on your friends?”

“We’re not friends,” Jean shot back immediately.

“Oh, but we will be,” she answered, far too cheerfully.

“Whatever,” Eren muttered, already regretting staying put. He shifted uncomfortably when Iris slid onto the bench right beside him, studying him with a fascination that felt almost sacred. It was impossible not to compare her to her sister, but he also couldn’t deny the eerie similarity—the curiosity, the unnerving closeness.

Eren stiffened. He didn’t know how to act.

“So,” Iris said suddenly, tilting her head. “How are you feeling? I mean really feeling—since the Rumbling?”

The question hit him like a stone. The real answer was simple: like shit. Since the moment he realized he was doomed to stay in this broken world, guilt gnawed at him. A million lives lost for his one. A second chance he didn’t deserve. He wanted to vanish, to let the earth finally swallow him whole. That was the truth. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, his eyes flicked to Jean—half hoping, half begging that his rival might somehow speak for him, because Jean had always despised him enough to put the right words out loud.

“Don’t go looking for comfort in him,” Iris cut sharply, catching the glance. Her tone shifted—colder, harder. “I’m talking to you, Eren Yeager. Answer me.”

It was startling—her voice, the edge in it. She wasn’t Hange, not really. She had her own fire, her own menace. And in that moment, she felt more dangerous than Levi ever had. Eren realized she wasn’t some replacement. She was her own brand of terror—another version of the same legacy.

“I’m trying,” he blurted at last.

“That’s not my question.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you had visions? Changes in your body? Strange dreams? My sister documented what she could about you and your titan powers, but she died without finishing. I intend to.”

“…Why?”

“Because my sister died not knowing. So it’s my job to find out.”

Of course it was. She had every reason. She had lost her sister because of him—because of his hatred, his blindness, his pursuit of some hollow ideal of freedom. And still, she kept fighting. She carried her pain the same way they all did, and still she stood here, demanding answers.

For once, Eren didn’t feel irritated. He felt… indebted. Like he owed her something for what he had taken. Like he owed everyone.

“I don’t have dreams,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “I still… get memories. From past Founding holders. But I can’t see the future. Or the past. And I can’t transform anymore. The curse is gone.”

Iris hummed, almost satisfied. “Good.”

Eren swallowed hard, throat dry. “I–I’m sorry. For your sister.”

The words burned coming out. They were worthless—Zoë Hange was still gone. Nothing could change that. He had meant everything he’d done as a way to protect them, but in the end, all he’d done was hurt them more. His apology was nothing but ash.

But Iris didn’t flinch. She didn’t scowl. She simply looked at him and said:
“I forgive you. We were all fighting for something in the end.”

And then she left, just like that, leaving them to their food.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Eren couldn’t process it. Forgiveness? For him? For this? It was impossible. Inhuman. He was a monster, and monsters didn’t get forgiven. His thoughts began to spiral again, dragging him back into that dark pit where he belonged. He should have died back in that forest. He shouldn’t be here at all.

“Hey.”

Jean’s voice cut clean through the air, slicing his spiral in two.

“Stop brooding. You’re making me sick,” he said flatly, stabbing his fork into his plate.

It was a reminder. A harsh one, but a reminder nonetheless—that no matter how much Eren wanted to crawl back into the dark, the others weren’t going to let him. Not again.

Jean didn’t need to ask; he already knew where Eren was headed. Once, the thought wouldn’t have stirred anything in him, but now it struck like a betrayal of justice itself—cruel, undeserved. If Eren walked away now, he would be spared the weight they all carried, and Jean couldn’t bring himself to accept that. For that reason alone, he was ready—yet again—to set aside his pride and make the effort.

✹

Mikasa was out with the girls. The weather had soured as the day dragged on, clouds pulling lower, rain threatening with every gust of wind. But she didn’t mind, and neither did the others. They had grown used to discomfort, to bleak skies and harsh air. Cold never quite left them—not after years of marching through mud and snow, wearing little more than a thin shirt and stubborn endurance.

They wandered the streets of Neümaria*, a modest town on the quiet edge of the old Wall Maria. It wasn’t large, nor particularly remarkable, but it was alive in a way that felt almost unsettling. Restaurants, bars, cafés, stables, even a hotel or two—it was as if the world hadn’t been shattered. People bustled about, smiling, bargaining, building. Ruins still lingered at the edges, patches of rubble left unattended, but no one seemed defeated. They rebuilt, they planted, they worked. Neümaria didn’t look like a place scarred by chaos—it looked like one stubbornly trying to pretend chaos had never touched it.

Pieck, unsurprisingly, had already found something that caught her interest. A gun shop—half firearms, half antiques—where she’d spent far too long chatting with the old man who owned it. She claimed she loved old things, relics with stories buried in them, but Mikasa suspected what she liked most was the way people opened up to her so easily. Pieck could melt into any space with her wry smile and soft voice, even under a false name.

Annie and Mikasa, however, weren’t as lucky. They trailed after her through streets and alleys, scanning windows, reading faded signs, but nothing seemed to fit. Annie’s face betrayed nothing, but Mikasa could tell she was restless. As for herself… she wasn’t made to stay in one place, she knew that much. And still, her mind kept drifting away, pulled toward the dream that had taken root and refused to leave. It clouded her focus, gnawed at her whenever Annie suggested trying elsewhere. Why had she been given those fragments of memory, why had that strange woman chosen her to carry them? And why—no matter how she tried to bury it—did it feel like the dream was tethered to Eren?

Her temples ached from the weight of it, from circling the same thought over and over.

“Hey,” Annie’s voice cut in, sharper than the drizzle that had finally started falling. Rain darkened the cobblestones, forming puddles where boots splashed. Passersby hurried to shelter, but the three of them lingered in the middle of the street, stubborn against the weather.

Mikasa blinked, realizing she’d been walking half-asleep. She forced her steps to quicken, muttering, “Sorry.”

“You seem elsewhere,” Annie said, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mikasa answered too quickly.

Annie didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further.

“Why don’t we stop in for some tea?” Pieck suggested, pointing toward a small café tucked at the corner.

Inside, warmth wrapped around them immediately, banishing the damp chill. The café was crowded, voices carrying over the clatter of cups and cutlery, but the liveliness only made their little corner by the window feel safer, cocooned from the storm outside.

Mikasa sat back, listening without listening, letting the heat seep into her bones. For a moment, it felt disarmingly ordinary. Too ordinary, almost cruelly so, for people like them. Sitting here, watching rain streak the glass, pretending the world was simple.

Annie, across from her, kept her gaze lowered, hands wrapped around her cup though she hadn’t yet sipped. Mikasa knew that look—it was the same one she sometimes caught in her own reflection. That faint flinch when the past pressed too hard against the present. Annie had killed without hesitation, once, believing in a mission that had burned everything else away. Now she sat here, alive, sharing tea in a café, chasing the impossible idea of a future. It was enough to make the air heavy, even in such a bright, noisy place.

But Annie didn’t turn away. She held her cup a little tighter, lifted her chin, and breathed in the steam. She wasn’t running anymore. She was trying. They all were. And though the ache of memory never faded, though the weight of what they had done would never vanish, there was something stubborn, almost defiant, in the act of sitting here together—of allowing themselves to want a life beyond the walls.

“I wonder what the boys are doing,” Pieck murmured, breaking the quiet between them.

“Probably debating what kind of job they’ll take,” Annie said, her voice neutral, but her gaze distant. “I still don’t even know what to do with my life.”

Pieck tilted her head, her smile faint but knowing.

“It’s hard. We were all meant for one thing, and now we’re left with… another possibility.”

“It’s weird,”.

“It is,” but we’ll get used to it.”

Mikasa let the words pass between them without adding her own. Instead, she turned to the window. Rain streaked the glass in heavy sheets, drumming against the street until the cobblestones blurred. It looked as though they would be here for a while.

They had split from the boys earlier in the day, deciding it would be easier to search separately. But Mikasa had noticed how Annie’s eyes had lingered on Armin as they parted. The two of them didn’t exchange much—not openly—but Mikasa wasn’t blind. Glances that lingered too long, fingertips brushing as though by accident… it was clear enough.

And it made her ache. Jealousy wasn’t something she liked to name, but she couldn’t pretend otherwise. What Annie and Armin had stumbled into—that quiet, fragile bond—was what she had spent her entire life reaching for without ever quite holding. Love, real love. The kind that made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Her parents had lived far from others, in their small, secluded home. There had been no children to play with, no easy warmth to fall into. She had grown up in silence, inventing her own worlds. Until Eren.

And now? Now she didn’t know anymore. She was lost in a way that felt bottomless, torn between memory and guilt and a hollow space inside her chest that threatened to devour her. She had tried to smile, tried to act like she could be different, but the truth was she was still the same girl—clueless, stumbling, holding onto fragments of a future she couldn’t shape.

The café blurred for a moment. Her breath hitched. And then, just for an instant, the world shifted.

A woman knelt in the mud before her, wearing the old Survey Corps uniform, ODM gear strapped to her sides. A girl stood opposite, hardly more than a child—thirteen, maybe fifteen—her blades shattered, shoulders sagging in despair. Mikasa didn’t know how she knew it, but the pull in her chest was unmistakable.

And then the memory slammed into her: the moment she thought she’d lost Eren forever, when the titan had swallowed him whole. The crushing despair, the way she had nearly given up, retreating into an imagined world where she could keep him safe forever. A dream. A lie. Because in the end, she had lost him anyway. And she would lose him again. That truth was unavoidable.

She had no home. Not anymore.

“Mikasa.”

Her name snapped her back, sharp and grounding. Pieck and Annie were both leaning toward her, Annie clicking her fingers in front of her face.

Mikasa blinked hard, shaking her head as though the dream could be forced away.

“Huh?”

“The rain stopped,” Pieck said gently, rising from her seat. “Come on.”

She nodded, forcing away her dark thoughts.

On the boys’ side, things were looking more promising.

Connie had stumbled into a restaurant whose owner had, surprisingly, agreed to give him a free trial. Cleaning chores, mostly. It wasn’t what he’d imagined, but he knew better than to complain. If this was his one shot at stability, he wasn’t going to waste it.

Reiner had gone in another direction, hunting for work with his hands. He found it in a small workshop, where wood and iron were shaped into furniture, tools, even trinkets. It was steady, physical, and honest—something he hadn’t realized he wanted until it was in front of him. For once, he felt almost… grounded.

Armin, though, was restless. The town offered possibilities, yes, but to him it still felt like another cage. He didn’t want to settle here. Not yet. He wanted to travel, to see the world outside, to collect stories and knowledge he could bring back with him. He could already imagine the books he’d write, the lessons he’d share.

But more than that, he wanted to keep a promise—to do something that included Eren. Even if they didn’t speak of it much anymore, the thought lingered. Armin hadn’t joined them today, and part of him was searching on Eren’s behalf, too. He and Reiner both disliked leaving him alone with Jean. The two clashed easily, and Eren’s state of mind was already fragile. No matter what words they had offered, Armin still worried.

He carried the weight of guilt with him. He couldn’t shake the memory of how he had failed Eren—how he hadn’t understood him, how he had looked away at the worst moments. As though their years of friendship hadn’t counted when it mattered most. He still remembered their exchange after the Rumbling, the disbelief that Eren was even alive, and Mikasa’s life hanging by a thread. The choice he had made then—was it even the right one?

“The girls are back!” Connie’s voice broke through his thoughts. He was leaning out of a shop, waving toward the street.

Armin lifted his head just in time. Annie was walking beside Pieck, speaking softly, but her eyes flicked up—and for a heartbeat, their gazes locked.

It wasn’t much. Just that—and maybe the ghost of a smile. The kiss they’d shared before lingered between them, unspoken, but neither had dared to repeat it. Too awkward, too raw, too complicated for people who had lived most of their lives fighting titans and waiting to die. Still, they couldn’t quite stop the small, clumsy gestures that slipped through. Fingers brushing when passing something over. Looking longer than necessary. A silent reminder that, somehow, there was still a thread tying them together.

It was strange. Unthinkable, even. To feel something new and fragile in a world that had almost ended. Annie didn’t understand it fully—only that her thoughts wandered to him more often than she admitted that his presence steadied her in ways she couldn’t explain.

And Armin… Armin didn’t know how to approach her at all. Too careful, too shy, too lost in his own overthinking. He never made a move. But God, he wanted to. He wanted to stay near her, even if he didn’t yet know how to say it.

But then Armin’s eyes shifted toward Mikasa, standing slightly apart from the rest. She looked more lost than ever. While everyone else was forcing themselves to move forward, she seemed caught in place, clinging to fragments of memory, searching for who she had been and why the world had collapsed the way it had. The doctor had said it was only temporary, but a month had already passed, and nothing had changed. The thought pressed on Armin like a shadow—that she might never recover those memories.

“So, how was the search on your side?” Connie asked, walking toward them with his usual briskness.

“I found an old shop that sells antiques,” Pieck replied easily. “The owner’s friendly. But these two…” she gestured toward Annie and Mikasa, “…haven’t had much luck yet.”

Connie frowned. “How’s that possible? There’s tons to do in this place.”

“It’s not that simple,” Annie said quietly, reminding him.

Of course, Connie knew. In truth, he was chasing something different—something he hoped would honour Sasha. Food had been her passion, and by working in the restaurant, maybe he could carry a part of her dream forward. He didn’t want to forget her, not ever. But he wanted to move forward with her memory beside him.

Mikasa, meanwhile, was staring down the main street, her eyes narrowing as if something about it pulled at her. Maybe it was a splinter of one of her dreams, or some buried memory she couldn’t reach—but it ignited a pressure in her chest, an ache that refused to fade.

“Mikasa.”

She startled when Armin stepped closer, though she didn’t step away. His face was too familiar, too steady, for her to recoil from. For a moment, she was grateful. Even with the holes in her memory, she still had this: a second chance at life, with him standing beside her.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

Armin raised a brow. He didn’t believe it—not this time.

“I want to do something,” she added quickly, her tone sharper than intended. “Something where I can still be with Eren.” She hoped he would accept that and not press further. She didn’t want him worrying over her.

“Like what?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know. What does he like to do?”

Armin exhaled. “But this isn’t about him. You should find something you like, too.”

“What I like,” Mikasa replied softly, “is what Eren likes.”

It was so typically Mikasa that Armin almost smiled. Part of him wanted to argue, to shake her for falling into the same patterns—but another part of him was oddly comforted. If nothing else, it meant she hadn’t vanished completely into the fog of forgetting. Some pieces of her were still here.

“Why don’t you just ask him?” he suggested.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Then he’s stupid.”

“What?”

“I mean…” Armin rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s complicated. He thinks he doesn’t deserve you.”

Mikasa froze. Her heart fluttered—not with clarity, but with something dangerously close to hope. Did Eren really think of her that way? For a fleeting moment, she felt alive again. Armin’s words quieted the storm inside her, even if just for now.

She wanted to ask more, to hear what Eren had said to him, what thoughts had passed between them in those moments she hadn’t shared. She knew the two had always been close—Armin’s recollections of their bond had been what carried her through her time in the hospital. If anyone knew, it would be him.

“Why don’t we buy him something?” Armin said suddenly, reaching for her hand.

She tensed at the contact—only for an instant—before allowing it.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

“Hey, where are you two going?” Reiner called, noticing them slip away.

“We’ll be back!” Armin replied, waving without stopping.

Still, he couldn’t help glancing back one more time. Annie met his eyes across the street. She didn’t say anything, just smiled faintly, as if to tell him she’d be fine. And that was enough for Armin—enough to step forward into this uncertain world, with his friends still here, with Eren still alive. He would do whatever it took to hold on to that, to reclaim even a fraction of what they had lost.

✹

Jean and Eren hadn’t managed to clean the whole fortress—not even half of it. The two of them were drenched in sweat, backs aching from dragging broken furniture, shifting crates, and mopping endless stretches of dusty floor. It was far too much for two people, and yet neither of them complained. They worked side by side in silence.

It shouldn’t have felt good. But it did.
For once, there was no shouting, no sharp insults flung back and forth. Just the rhythm of labor, the scrape of brushes against stone, the weight of their breaths. It reminded Jean—unwillingly—of training days long past, of that moment when they had fought together to pull Historia from danger. That memory felt distant, buried under years of blood and betrayal, and yet… it had been the start of something. Not friendship exactly, but the fragile thread of respect.

Now, though, every step felt like walking on eggshells. The shadow of the Rumbling pressed down on both of them. How could anyone move forward, when the world itself had been nearly erased by the person standing beside him? Morality demanded justice. It screamed that letting Eren live was impossible, an insult to every life lost.

And yet here they were.
Jean forcing himself to accept it.
And Eren, carrying the weight of his choices like chains that never loosened.

Jean finished scrubbing the grime from a narrow window. The last sliver of sunlight faded, clouds swallowing it just as quickly as they had revealed it. His shoulders sagged, his bones aching as if he’d aged decades in a single day. Every stretch made his joints crack, and he felt close to collapsing.

Eren wasn’t faring much better, though he wore that stubborn mask of endurance. He pushed through the exhaustion without a word, as if admitting fatigue would be a luxury he no longer deserved. Even Jean’s half-hearted jabs—sarcasm meant to lighten the heaviness between them—slid off him, unanswered. The silence around Eren wasn’t peace; it was poison, tightening around them both.

“Oi.”

Levi’s voice cut through the room. Jean glanced up as their captain stepped inside, his expression unreadable as ever.

“You two, take a break. The others are here,” he said, then his eyes snapped to Eren, sharp and unwavering. “You—Armin wants to speak with you.”

For a split second, Eren braced himself for a reprimand—some sharp word about sloppy work, or another reminder of the blood on his hands. But instead, Eren just blinked, caught off guard. Armin.

He hadn’t let himself think of them—not while his hands were busy, not while the silence kept him caged. But now curiosity stirred, unwelcome and persistent. Whatever it was Armin wanted, Eren knew he couldn’t avoid it. Not forever.

And Jean was just glad that he could finally stop cleaning around this damn castle.

Nemuria, small town i have invented using Wall Maria's name, located within the old walls...

Chapter Text

“Armin”
Eren had found him outside, in the small garden inside the fortress. The moon was up in the sky, surrounded by stars. There was no cloud, yet cold bit their skin off to the bone. But it didn’t really matter to them, as they were used to far worse weather.

Armin smiled as he watched him walk toward him. He secretly threw away his cigarette, hoping that the scent would fade in the cold night air. Maybe for the first time, the two men didn’t feel guilt or sorrow pressing on them, it was just two ordinary friends meeting each other at night, while the others were inside.

“You should quit smoking” Eren said, not blind to him.

“Here.”

Armin gave him a piece of envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Eren wasn’t particularly agile with his hands and, he wasn’t patient. But he tried, not to rip off Armin’s present – if that was. Eren pulled off the envelope and was now holding some kind of frame, it was small and made of wood. It wasn’t really heavy in Eren’s hand, with the small light coming from the little garden, he caught a handwriting on the back of the frame.

To our friendship.

Eren frowned, before turning the frame.

The sight caught his breath, as he immediately recognised the picture. It was them, back at Marley. The first time they had seen a camera and couldn’t help but immortalise this moment as a trio, inseparable.

That was before, and the last time they could enjoy something together. The picture was a bit old now, but somehow, it had stayed.

He stared at it, for a long time, seeing how different they were, they were slowly changing, coming into adulthood. They had just gotten taller, Eren remembered, as they celebrated it together, alone in the city. In the picture, Eren was wearing a simple black vest and a tie, his hair was a bit messy, too long as he tried to brush it. Armin had cut his hair, he had finally decided to change his hairstyle, he was holding his vest and a hat as he stood next to him. And between them, sat Mikasa. She was lively, smiling at the camera, like he had never seen her. She was wearing a dress and on top, a vest with a tie, still keeping it formal. Her hair had been cut too, maybe out of habit, maybe because she remembered how Eren used to tell her she looked better this way. But she was shining, she didn’t seem lost as she was staring at the camera, she knew she had her friends behind, they had been out of Paradis already, fulfilling one of their dreams.

Eren’s throat tightened, as old memories resurfaced.

“We bought the frame with Mikasa, she remembered that picture” Armin said as he didn’t bother hiding taking another cigarette.

“It’s nice…”

They sat in silence, not even sitting properly on the bench as they were perched on the backrest. But that didn’t matter. For once, Eren didn’t push him away nor refuse, though he could see the pain of what he had lost, but Armin knew it would just be a matter of time.

“She told me she’s starting to remember some things.”

“What?”

“Not all of it—just her childhood.”

“I don’t want her to remember… what I did. What she did…”

“The doctors said it’s temporary. Being back here probably triggered it.”

“Armin…”

“I know what you’re thinking. But you’ll have to face it eventually. We were looking for jobs today, and she won’t commit to anything unless you do too.”

“Shit.”

“She loves you, Eren.”

His chest tightened, his heart beating violently against his ribs. Mikasa was still clinging to him in a way he couldn’t understand. It was maddening—her stubbornness, her refusal to let go. For the longest time, he had blamed it on the Ackerman instinct, but even after talking with his half-brother, he knew it went deeper than that. Something far more human.

And he didn’t know if he could allow himself to even consider it. He couldn’t. He had sworn he wouldn’t.

“I tried to kill myself this morning,” he said suddenly, as if throwing the words out to change the subject.

“…What?”

Armin froze, disbelief tightening his features. He had hoped things were getting better, even if only by fragments. But now he realized he couldn’t leave him alone—not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe it had to be him keeping watch, not Levi. His jaw tightened, ready to scold him, to drag him back into sense—

But before he could speak, Eren’s voice cut through, low and distant, his eyes lost somewhere beyond the fortress walls.

“But I ended up talking to Falco.”

Armin blinked.

“…Please tell me you didn’t traumatize him with that.”

Eren let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh.

“He made me want to live.”

The words struck Armin like a spark in the dark. For the first time in too long, he caught a glimpse of that stubborn fire—the same one that had once carried Eren through battles he had no chance of winning, the same one that had fuelled his defiance against the titans. That desperate will to keep moving forward, no matter how battered he became. Armin could almost see him again—the Eren he knew. And for a moment, fragile but real, he allowed himself to hope.

“The kid knows what I’ve done,” Eren continued, voice rough, “but he wasn’t afraid. He’s not giving up either.”

“No one is,” Armin said quietly.

“Yet I can’t forget that I killed so many… eighty percent of the world, Armin. I shouldn’t—”

“But you’re here,” Armin interrupted sharply, refusing to let him sink back into the pit. “Alive. With us. I know what you did can’t be forgiven—not by them, not by us, not even by yourself. And I’ll carry my share of blame too, because I knew. But you have to remember… we were all victims of this. Forced into lives we never asked for.”

“It doesn’t change the fact I did the worst thing.”

“Maybe. But you got what you wanted, didn’t you? Paradis is safe. People finally understand what we were up against. They’ll leave us in peace.”

Eren’s fists tightened on his knees, knuckles white.

“For how long? Do you really think this is over? You think they won’t rebuild their armies and come back for us?”

“Eren—”

“I don’t think there’ll ever be peace.”

The weight of it hung between them. His hand trembled as he clenched it tighter, the thought sinking into him like poison—that everything he had done, every sacrifice, every life he had taken, might have been for nothing. That hatred would always come back.

“Then focus on the present,” Armin said firmly, voice steady, easing the storm before it swallowed him again. “You’ve got other problems to deal with right now.”

Eren was silent, his gaze still distant. Then, almost abruptly, he asked:

“Armin… how are things with Annie?”

The question hit Armin off guard, pulling his thoughts away, leaving him caught between relief and hesitation.

“What…?”
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Armin felt a flush rise to his face, but it wasn’t embarrassment alone. It was the unease of navigating something fragile, something new, while carrying the heaviness of everything they had survived—and everything they had done. He could feel Eren’s gaze on him, calm yet probing, as if he was searching for a reaction beyond words. This wasn’t just about teasing or awkward confessions. It was about acknowledging a connection that had quietly survived all the chaos around them.

“So… it’s official then?” Eren asked. His voice wasn’t judgmental, but it carried a strange, gentle weight, like he was trying to understand something delicate without breaking it.

Armin hesitated, glancing at him for a heartbeat, as if that could buy him time to think. After everything—the Rumbling, the lives lost, the guilt that pressed on their chests every day—they were still trying to find a semblance of normalcy. He had no words to define this, no confident step forward. They had grown closer, yes, but no one had dared cross the line beyond that one moment on the boat, where Annie had acted on instinct. Armin’s mind raced: were they meant to explore this, or just tiptoe around feelings that had no right to exist amidst all the destruction?

“I can’t believe you just… like her,” Eren said.

“What?”

“She killed Levi’s squad. Destroyed half the walls. And you just… accept that?”

Armin drew in a slow breath, the weight of history pressing down on him.

“We’ve all done things we can’t take back, Eren. And… I forgave you too, didn’t I?”

“Doesn’t make it simple,” Eren murmured, his jaw tight. “You just didn’t want me to throw myself off that boat. That’s the truth.”

Armin met his gaze.

“I’m serious,” he said.

He didn’t know if he was convincing Eren—or himself. But in that moment, he saw the evidence of survival, of perseverance, reflected in his friend’s-tired eyes. Eren had carried guilt like a weight no one could measure, yet here he was, sitting with him, allowing this fragile honesty.

Eren nodded, slow and deliberate. There was no triumph in his movement, no relief. Just acknowledgment. He knew Armin too well—when his friend’s mind was set, he would hold his ground, even in the face of chaos. And Eren—he had lived through chaos, had carried it like a second skin, and still found himself willing to confront what he had become.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and necessary. Two friends, scarred by the past, facing the aftermath together, trying to make sense of what remained—and what might still be worth holding onto.

At the end, Eren broke the silence.

“So, what do you think I should do?”

“With what?”

“You know what,” he said, his face warming despite the cold.

Armin paused, letting the weight of that question settle. Eren was asking for advice—truly asking for help. Something he had never done before. And in that simple act, Armin felt a quiet gratitude, but also a deep understanding of why Eren was struggling, why he felt so torn between what was right and what his heart wanted. Moving forward wasn’t about forgetting. It was about acceptance, and Eren was just beginning to glimpse that.

Armin offered a faint smile, thinking of Eren’s feelings toward Mikasa, long held in silence as promised. He remembered the small journey to the shop with her, the way they’d rejected everything they looked at, how out of place any gift felt after everything that had happened. But he had kept one thing—a photo, the only tangible memory he carried everywhere. Mikasa had recognized it immediately and suggested framing it. Now, it felt like a step forward, not grand, not definitive, but real: Eren opening himself again, willing, perhaps, to do something for her.

“Maybe a conversation wouldn’t hurt,” Armin said gently. “You don’t have to explain everything…just give her time. She’s willing to trust you, Eren.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. If I do something wrong—if I hurt her—”

“You won’t,” Armin interrupted firmly, his voice calm, grounding.

“This is so fucked up,” Eren muttered, looking up at the bright moon, the cold biting through his jacket.

They had been sitting outside for some time, the world quiet except for the occasional rustle of wind. His thoughts lingered on his conversation with Falco, on the feelings he had buried so deep he hadn’t dared admit them even to himself. It scared him, but he couldn’t deny it, and he couldn’t risk rushing anything—not with the threats still around, not with the Yeagerists lingering, not with so much unresolved. There were no words that could untangle it all.

“I’m not asking you to make a declaration,” Armin said softly, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, almost to break the tension. “Just talk to her. Be her friend. That’s all she wants too.”

Eren let the words sink in, the cold pressing against him, the moonlight sharp against the shadows of his own guilt. And for the first time in a long while, he felt a flicker of something else: a cautious, trembling hope.

✹

Mikasa’s dreams had changed. At first, they were empty fragments, flashes of light and shadows she could not name. But now they were becoming fuller, layered with faces and battles, echoes of titans she had once cut down without hesitation. Piece by piece, she was regaining herself—her memories, her strength, her place among the others.

Each morning, she pushed herself harder, her body responding as if muscle remembered what her mind still struggled to hold. She had started going to the gym daily, training until sweat drenched her skin, until her arms trembled but her heart steadied. It wasn’t just about regaining strength—it was about reclaiming control, bit by bit. Today, after an intense session and a shower, her damp hair clung to her back as she tied it up in a ponytail. The small act felt different—an acceptance, almost—like she was not just recovering but changing.

The corridor outside was warm for autumn, the sun burning stubbornly against the chill. She walked slowly, her body still humming with the afterglow of effort. That’s when she saw him.

Eren.

He was heading toward the main room, his posture rigid, his steps measured. When he drew near, his eyes did not meet hers, but his lips parted just enough for a word to slip out.

“Hi.”

Simple. Quiet. Almost fragile.

It was the first time he had willingly spoken to her since their return to Paradis. The word hit her like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through her chest. For a heartbeat she wondered if she had imagined it—if it was another dream lingering after waking. But no… she could smell him faintly as he passed, that familiar trace that was unmistakably him.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t look at her. Just left the word hanging in the air as though he already regretted it. As though it wasn’t meant to exist.

Mikasa froze, her feet rooted to the wooden floorboards. Then, slowly, something unfamiliar pulled at her lips—a fleeting, cautious smile. It was fragile, but real. And before she could stop herself, she followed, her steps quiet, carrying her toward the room where the others waited.

Eren, meanwhile, kept his gaze forward, his chest tight with a weight he couldn’t shake. Armin’s voice still echoed in his head—the first true conversation they’d ever had, stripped bare of pride and lies. He had admitted weakness, and Armin hadn’t let him fall. That truth lingered like an open wound.

He couldn’t run anymore. Not from Falco, who had looked him in the eye without fear. Not from Armin, who had refused to abandon him. Not from himself.

And not from her.

Mikasa.

His memories tangled—the way she had looked at him before the Rumbling, the words he had forced out to sever their bond, the cruelty he thought was necessary. Twice, he had cut her. Twice, he had tried to make her let go.

But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

And deep down, he knew why.

It wasn’t just the Ackerman bloodline. He had once told himself it was, clung to that explanation because it was easier than facing the truth. But even Zeke’s words hadn’t convinced him fully. What tied Mikasa to him went deeper than instinct, deeper than duty. It was choice—hers. No matter what he had done, she hadn’t left.

And that terrified him.

He didn’t want to be her chain. He didn’t want to play the tyrant, or the god, or the king to whom someone surrendered their heart. He had already carried too much blood, too much sin. The idea that she could still look at him and feel anything, but hatred twisted like a knife in his chest.

But this time—this third time—he couldn’t bring himself to push her away. Not again.

He clenched his jaw, his fists tight at his sides. The others were trying—Annie, Reiner, Jean, Connie. They were all dragging themselves forward, no matter the weight of their sins. Maybe he had to try too. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t something to ask for, but something to slowly earn, one step at a time.

He had no words yet, no answers, no right. But he had managed one thing today.

“Hi.”

And for Mikasa, it was enough—for now.

Inside, everyone lounged casually, cups of tea and coffee warming their hands. It was a rare sight, this quiet domesticity, and yet no one could escape the familiar sparks of interaction that threaded through the room.

Armin noticed Eren and Mikasa entering, moving cautiously around each other—never too close, never too far. It was progress, however small, and that was enough to give him hope.

“Look at these two cuties,” Pieck commented, tearing a piece of bread with an amused grin.

Jean rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk toward Eren. Maybe, just maybe, his friend was finally surfacing from his brooding and letting himself be present again.

“Finally, he got his head unplugged from his ass,” Jean muttered under his breath.

“Unplugged?” Gabi frowned, confused and mildly offended by the expression.

“Don’t listen to this jerk,” Reiner said.

“Hello, everyone!”

Iris called, bursting into the room with her usual energy. To her surprise, the group responded warmly. Even Eren’s presence didn’t dampen the atmosphere entirely—there was life again in the room.

“You two,” Iris said, turning toward the kids, “while the big ones were looking for work, Levi and I found you a school. You can continue your education until graduation.”

“What? But I don’t wanna go to school,” Gabi complained, pouting.

“It’ll do us good, Gabi,” Falco said, trying to sound encouraging.

“School sucks,”.

“I know someone who would agree,” Jean said, glancing toward Eren.

The younger man casually sat beside Pieck and Falco, grabbing a piece of bread as if nothing had happened.

“At least I didn’t fail all my tests,” Eren said quietly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Hey, I was trying to be nice here!”

Iris cleared her throat, drawing the group’s attention back.

“We can’t make every decision for you,” she said gently, “but since these two will be going to school, we also need two parental figures willing to take responsibility.”

A hush fell over the room. The task seemed simple enough on the surface, but for them, it carried weight. Responsibility. Growth. Uncertainty. They didn’t even know if they’d remain together forever in this fortress. Some would move on, build families of their own, find freedom. The stakes felt heavier now than they had four years ago, when Hange and Levi had carried the weight of all their lives on their shoulders.

“Oi,” Levi interjected, his voice sharp but teasing. “Don’t think we’re giving you guys a real job here. You’re too depressing and unstable to take care of yourselves.”

“Thank God,” Connie said, relieved. “I thought I was done changing diapers.”

Gabi smacked him lightly with a spoon.

“Ouch!”.

“I stopped wearing them since I was two, dumbass!”

“You still act like one!”

The argument were almost comforting in its familiarity. Their little fights had become routine, a brother-sister rhythm. Connie couldn’t truly hate her; in her stubbornness, her hunger, he saw pieces of Sasha—the same fiery determination, the same irrepressible energy.

“Hey, so you know what you wanna do?” Armin asked, nudging himself between Eren and Pieck as if he belonged right there, grounding them both.

Eren shrugged, staring at the steam rising from his cup.

“No, I don’t…”

“…Then you can come with me,” Armin continued, grinning in that way that made it sound less like a suggestion and more like a small rescue. “I’ve got this interview for my next expedition.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Something about visiting Hizuru. After that, the other continent—still untouched, waiting to be explored. It’d be perfect for us.”

Hizuru.
The name alone struck something in Eren. His chest tightened, not out of anger or fear this time, but from the tug of memory. Of all people, Mikasa hadn’t yet seen the land of her ancestors—not since the family branch that remained bound to the old king. She deserved that trip. She deserved to see what had always been hers, but never within reach.

His eyes drifted before he could stop himself. She was sitting with Reiner, listening quietly while holding her mug close, the warm glow of the fire painting her face. She looked… different. Lighter somehow. More herself than he’d seen in years. Her hair, her eyes, even the faint smile she gave at something Reiner muttered—it reminded Eren of a time before everything had burned. For a heartbeat, he let himself think she was beautiful.

“Eren.”

Armin’s voice snapped him back. He followed Eren’s gaze almost instantly and understood. Hizuru wasn’t just about maps or discoveries. It was about them. Their trio, their promise, their need to mend what had been broken.

“We can ask Mikasa to join,” Armin said gently.

“What? No, you said it was just—”

“It’s okay,” Armin cut him off with a soft but firm tone. “I want us to do it together. Like always. We’re friends.”

Eren’s jaw clenched. He wanted to protest, but the word “friends” settled into him like an anchor.

“Huh…”

“I wanna join.”

Both of them turned. Mikasa had moved closer, her steps so quiet they hadn’t noticed until her voice cut through the air. She’d been listening.

Not that she was running away or searching for escape. But the idea of tracing her roots, of crossing seas and lands with them at her side… that was different. That was something she could believe in again. Something worth chasing.

And if Eren was going, she was going too.

“Mikasa…” Eren started, his voice low, already despising the thought of letting her close again.

He knew what closeness meant—expectations, trust, warmth he wasn’t sure he deserved. But before the silence could stretch, Armin interjected, a sudden spark in his tone, cutting straight through Eren’s hesitation.

“That’d be great. Then I guess today we can do that interview I talked about.”

“Armin!” Eren snapped, startled by the bluntness, though not surprised.

Armin was always like this, pushing him toward something he didn’t want to face. But the anger didn’t last. It flickered and died almost immediately, leaving Eren hollow. Because the truth was, Armin wasn’t giving up on him. Not after everything, not even now. And that simple fact carved a strange relief into his chest, raw and fragile, but undeniable. He didn’t know how long it would last—this fragile tether, this stubborn insistence of theirs to keep him by their side. He didn’t know if he could ever repay it, or if he even deserved to. All he knew was that they hadn’t walked away. That in the ruins of the world he had broken, in the endless weight of the dead pressing down on his shoulders, his friends still looked at him as if he was worth saving.

For the first time, Eren let the thought take root: maybe not everything was lost. Maybe the shards of what they once were weren’t beyond repair. Maybe if he stayed—if he let himself try—there could still be a way to stitch back the edges of a shattered world, piece by piece. It wouldn’t erase what he had done. The blood would never wash away, and he would never escape the screams. But in that moment, sitting there with them, he realized that survival wasn’t just about breathing. It was about choosing to live alongside them, even if he carried the weight alone.

And that small, fragile choice—the decision not to walk away—was the first spark of hope he’d allowed himself in a long time.

Chapter Text

Days turned into weeks. Then weeks began to blur into a rhythm, a quiet routine that none of them had ever known before. Morning meant scattering for work—some to the nearby town, others to the fields or patrols—and evening meant gathering again, cups of tea or bitter coffee in hand, sitting in the same drafty hall as if clinging to the comfort of being together. It wasn’t peace, not truly, but it was something close enough to trick the heart into believing it.

They had all found small roles to play, scraps of normalcy to hold onto. For now, it was the best any of them could hope for. Outside, the world still churned. Yeagerist remnants lingered in Marley, clinging to his name, his face, his ideals—fighting in shadows for the cause of Eren Yeager. Eren tried not to think of it, but it gnawed at him constantly, the way rot spread unseen through wood. The truth was a plague: he had unleashed something that could never be cured, not by apologies, not by time. His name would outlive him, chained to blood and ash.

But he wasn’t alone. That was the part he still struggled to accept. Alone had been easier. Alone meant no witnesses to the ruin he had become. Yet, somehow, they were all still here.

Reiner had been the first to ask forgiveness—words broken and halting, as if dragged from a place he’d locked away. Pieck followed in her own way, subtle, almost playful, but honest. Even Gabi, wild and stubborn, had shown her sincerity with a maturity far beyond her years. They were victims, all of them. Victims of empires, of ideals, of a hatred they had inherited without ever asking for it. Connie had forgiven him too—or maybe forgiveness had never been necessary. Connie’s grief was for his friends, for Sasha, for the hundreds he could not save. But he had never let that grief curdle into blame, not fully. Jean was harder, slower to let go. But Jean tried. He worked, he argued, he lived alongside Eren in the small moments. That effort was, in itself, something close to forgiveness.

Annie said nothing. Silence was her armour. Shame, maybe. Fear, almost certainly. And if Eren still burned with anger when he thought of her betrayal, then Annie burned with something colder: the belief she had no right to even try.

That morning, Annie had chosen solitude. She sat alone on the rooftop, her figure faint against the pale sky, watching as the first snowfall began. Winter had come early, its breath sharp and heavy, settling into their bones. It was another trial, another reminder that survival had always been their way of life.

But Annie didn’t mind. She stretched out her hand, catching snowflakes against her palm, watching them melt instantly into drops of water. Cold dissolving into warmth. Opposites, fragile, fleeting. Yet they needed each other to exist. That was the cycle. That was the way of life.

For Annie, there was peace in that thought. The quiet snowfall, the stillness around her—it was familiar. Silence had been her companion for four years inside the crystal, and even now, in freedom, she found herself drawn back to it. Silence was safe. Silence didn’t judge.

“Annie.”

She didn’t jolt, didn’t stiffen — she simply turned her head. Her face was calm, distant, but her eyes softened just a little when she saw him. Armin stood there in his long coat, breath misting in the frozen air, two mugs in his gloved hands. He crossed the rooftop to her, careful in his steps, as though not to disturb the snow or the silence she had wrapped around herself.

Wordlessly, he held one out.

“Thanks,” she murmured, fingers brushing against the warmth. Her bare hands met his gloves, and though it lasted only a second, it spread a strange heat up her arm — one she didn’t want to admit mattered.

She took a sip. The steam veiled her face for a moment, and that made it easier to say nothing. She wanted to hold onto this small normalcy — a hot drink in the cold — but she couldn’t. Not when it was him. Not when it was Armin, the boy who still searched for words when everyone else reached for blades. The one who had always believed there was another way. A part of her hated how undeserving she felt in his presence. He didn’t deserve her silence, her sins, or her company. She had killed, deceived, shattered lives. In the end, wasn’t she no different from Eren?

“I knew I’d find you here,” Armin said, his voice carrying more warmth than the mug.

Annie blinked.

“You’ve been… watching me?”

He didn’t answer directly. Instead, his eyes drifted toward the horizon, where the snow stretched endless and white. He had been watching her — not out of suspicion, but out of… something else. He’d noticed the way she lingered near windows, how she drifted to rooftops when the air grew heavy inside. He studied her silences, the little spaces she carved for herself, as though she were learning how to breathe again.

They stood side by side. The cold gnawed at their skin, but the quiet wasn’t unwelcome. It was peaceful in a way that unnerved her. Peace always felt like something she couldn’t hold for long.

Then, he broke it.

“You haven’t talked to Eren.”

There was no accusation in his tone, but Annie felt it press against her anyway.

“I tried to kill him once.” Her voice was low, flat, as if she were stating the weather. “So… I know what it feels like. That hatred, that weight. I understand where he is, what he’s drowning in. But that’s exactly why I think… it isn’t worth trying. Not from me.”

She took another sip. The rim of the mug hid her face, but Armin’s gaze lingered, heavy.

It reminded him of the first time she had kissed him — an impulsive act, born out of exhaustion, grief, the chaos of survival. They had never had space for tenderness. Their whole lives had been consumed by orders, causes, wars, people bigger than them deciding who lived and who died. Everything they’d ever done — all the blood on their hands — had been justified as necessary.

And now, when the world was quiet, all they could feel was the price of it. The weight of choices they had never truly made.

Armin’s jaw tightened. For a brief, burning second, anger surged in him — not at Annie, not at himself, but at the world, at the cruel absurdity that children like them had been moulded into killers by causes they never chose. Rage at the fact that Annie could look at herself, at him, and see only blame, when the truth was they had been used, pawns sacrificed on boards they never asked to play.

He exhaled sharply, trying to let it go before it consumed him. The snow muffled everything, even the sound of his breath.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly, his voice rough with the restraint he fought to hold. “It is worth it. You’re worth it. Talking to him, being here, trying… all of it matters.”

He turned then, finally meeting her eyes, his own glinting with something fragile, something dangerously close to hope:

“If you give up on yourself, then everything we survived for… what was it for?”

“You make it sound easy.”

Armin shook his head.

“No. It’s impossible. That’s why we have to try.”

“It’s not like we’re going to stick together forever.”

The words cut through him. No hesitation, no hesitation in her tone — as if Annie had meant to strike him where it hurt most. A defence mechanism, a test. And it worked. Armin felt his chest tighten, breath caught in his lungs. He knew the truth of it — nothing was eternal. One day, the bonds they had fought for, bled for, would scatter with the wind. People left, people died. But he had never allowed himself to imagine it with her.

Not Annie.

Because in these fleeting weeks of quiet, he had found something in her silence — in her glances, in the small cracks she allowed him to glimpse. Something that made him believe maybe, after everything, he could still choose life.

“Are you really going back?” he asked, voice low, uneven. His hands clenched inside his gloves, the only betrayal of what was rising in him. “After all this is done?”

Her gaze shifted to the snow, where flakes drifted soundlessly into the fog. When she spoke, it was steady, with no emotion.

“There’s nothing here for me, Armin. Why would I stay?”

The knife twisted deeper. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve expected it — Annie had always belonged elsewhere, to another life, another person. To her father. She had never belonged here, in this half-shattered home they were trying to rebuild.

But his heart didn’t care for reason. He believed she was wrong.

“You have me.”

The words burst out of him before he could stop them, and immediately the weight of them crashed over him. His pulse hammered in his ears, panic climbing his throat. He wasn’t supposed to say it — not like this, not when her silence could crush him. It was selfish. Too selfish. But it was also the truth: out of all the lives he had promised himself to protect — Eren, Mikasa, what remained of their fractured world — she was the one he wanted to protect.

And that terrified him.

Annie’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable. For a moment, he thought she might soften, that something in her would break. Instead, her words were sharper than the cold wind:

“I would have believed you… if you weren’t living with Eren and Mikasa.”

Armin blinked, stunned.

“What?”

“I heard you. The other day. You’re leaving, aren’t you? To explore. To chase after whatever’s left of this world with them.”

Her tone didn’t waver, though he swore he heard something underneath it — something almost like hurt. She took a calm sip of her coffee.

“I don’t mind it. I expected as much. But don’t try to manipulate me, Armin. I’ve had enough of that in my life.”

Her words hit harder than a titan’s fist. The air around him thickened, and for a moment, the world seemed to stall. He parted his lips, dragged in a sharp breath that burned his lungs, exhaled smoke into the frozen air.

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t explain. Because how could he? How could he tell her that yes, he’d promised himself to Eren and Mikasa, but still — somehow — she was the one he couldn’t let go of? How could he make her believe that his words weren’t another chain, another attempt to bind her? He wanted her to join him to wherever they would go, do things with her like a normal person, for once.

He stood there, heart thrashing against his ribs, staring at Annie. At her face half-lit by the faint light passing through the clouds, steam curling from her mug, her expression cool as if she hadn’t just shattered him with a sentence. She looked untouchable, unshaken, as though the world kept moving while his had stopped.

And yet, in Annie’s mind, the world kept fighting, stumbling into new emotions she couldn’t grasp. Fear of being reused, hurt. She had spent years telling herself she wasn’t worth saving. That she was only a soldier, a weapon, a monster. But with Armin—this boy who had once spoken to a crystal as if his words alone could reach her— and had yet again, proved her wrong amidst the coldest of the rooftop, she had begun to believe there might be another way to live in the end of the day. That maybe she could be more than what the world had made her.

The rooftop door creaked open. One of Iris’s squad members stepped inside, hesitating as his eyes fell on them. It felt like he had walked in on something private, someplace he wasn’t meant to be. His words stumbled out, awkward and rushed.

“S-sorry… everyone’s requested downstairs. Th-the queen—she’s here.”

“The queen?” Annie’s voice was low, edged with suspicion.

“Historia,” Armin answered, a frown tightening his features.

That shouldn’t have been possible. Historia was meant to stay hidden on her farm, surrounded by guards. If anyone learned she had left, it would put her—and all of them—at risk.

The soldier gave a clumsy bow before retreating, clearly wishing he hadn’t opened the door at all. Annie moved to follow, but as she passed Armin, something firm and warm closed around her wrist.

She tensed immediately, instinct bracing her to defend herself.

“Don’t think I’m using you,” Armin said. His voice was different—steady, resolute, stripped of hesitation. The softness that usually defined him seemed to fall away. “I meant everything I’ve said from the beginning. I’d never hurt you. You should have known by now.”

Annie avoided his eyes, though the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her. It was rare, seeing Armin like this. Since coming out of the crystal, she had glimpsed the man he had become—no longer just the boy who relied on words, but someone who could act when there was no other choice. And in this moment, she saw a darker edge to him: a strength that refused to bend, the same resolve that had kept him from abandoning his friends. The same resolve he now refused to turn away from her.

Armin released her, maybe expecting her to turn, to speak.

But she didn’t. Annie walked on, heart pounding traitorously, each step heavier than the last. Together, they descended the stairs. The rooftop, the cold, and the falling snow slipped behind them. But neither could escape the storm within themselves.

“Your baby is so cute!”

Pieck’s voice was warm, almost wistful, as she leaned closer to Historia’s child. There was something strange in the way her chest tightened. She had spent years surrounded by blood, war, and strategy, never daring to imagine another life for herself. And yet, staring at that small, sleeping face, she felt a tug—something maternal, something terrifying. A reminder of what might have been, had the world not devoured them all too early.

The storm outside howled, rattling the tall windows of the saloon. Snow and fog wrapped around the building, enclosing them in a fragile cocoon. For once, the air carried no sharpness, no suspicion—just a fragile, almost impossible warmth. Perhaps it was the baby’s presence, its innocence drawing them into a brief illusion of peace.

Historia had made a deliberate, reckless choice to be here. Levi would not forgive it easily, but she couldn’t remain shut away on her farm any longer. She had missed them—all of them. To see their faces, to know they were still alive, breathing, here. It was worth the risk.

Jean and Connie were already falling back into old rhythms, teasing each other, trying to rebuild fragments of the banter that once filled their barracks. Falco and Gabi sat quietly behind Reiner, who stood a little apart, as if anchored by something heavier. His eyes were fixed on Historia.

That look had never really left him, not since they’d fought side by side. He had once begged for forgiveness, trembling under the weight of his own sins—the betrayal of Paradis, the horror of handing Ymir over, the blood of children on his conscience. He had expected death, judgment. Instead, Historia had given him mercy. She had accepted his apology with the dignity of a queen, and more than that—she had protected him, offering him a place within her land. Reiner knew there was nothing more between them than this fragile bond, but to him, it was enough. Gratitude itself was a kind of salvation.

“Historia.”

Mikasa’s voice broke through, low and steady, as she stepped into the room.

She wasn’t alone. Eren walked beside her.

For a moment, Historia’s smile faltered. Questions pressed at her—what had become of him? Was he whole? Was he still the broken figure she had once threatened, cornered, when his power terrified even her? And beneath those thoughts, the quiet, suffocating truth: she had been complicit too. She had played her part in the Rumbling, whether by choice or chains. They had all carried that sin together.

But Mikasa’s answering smile disarmed her. It wasn’t lost or hollow. It was simple, steady. And Historia saw at once how much stronger she looked now—how her long hair framed her face with sharpness, how her eyes seemed clearer. Beautiful, in a way born of survival.

Eren, though, was harder to face. His clothes were plain, his frame stronger than before, his eyes bright even in the dim light. But when they met hers, the air between them cracked—reminders, defiance, suspicion. They both knew the weight of what had passed.

Before it could fester, Historia’s voice cut through, light and deliberate.

“Hey, do you want to hold my baby?” she asked, smiling at Mikasa.

“Me?” Mikasa blinked, startled.

Historia only nodded, gently placing the small bundle in her arms.

Mikasa froze. Her fingers trembled as they adjusted, too afraid of her own hands. These hands had drawn blades, had slaughtered soldiers, had pulled down lives without hesitation. Could such hands ever cradle something pure?

But as the warmth of the child settled against her, something inside her loosened. For a moment, everything else—the wars, the graves, the regrets—slipped away. The baby’s breathing, soft and steady, filled the silence. The weight in her arms wasn’t burden but comfort, something she hadn’t known she needed.

Slowly, Mikasa looked down. Blue eyes blinked up at her, piercing and innocent. The world seemed to fall away. Something stirred in her memory, something buried so deep she had long forgotten it: a moment in childhood when she imagined holding a younger sibling, the tender dream of family before her parents were stolen. The sensation was so strong it almost hurt.

“Hi, you little guy,” she whispered, voice breaking into gentleness she hadn’t known she still possessed.

Eren’s body went rigid.

He had been watching the whole time, uneasy from the moment Historia entered with her child. He had expected her to be locked in walls of security, not this reckless exposure. They were safer here than anywhere else, but safety had always been an illusion. Someone would come for him again, sooner or later, like the Yeagerist.

But none of that troubled him as much as the sight before him now—Mikasa, cradling Historia’s child.

The image tore something open inside him. It was too close, too cruel. Because among the countless thoughts he had buried, among the fleeting wishes he had strangled in himself, there had been one selfish dream: Mikasa, with a child in her arms. His child.

It was foolish. Impossible. Dangerous even to imagine. And yet here it was, played out before his eyes. His chest tightened with a nameless, terrifying ache—one he refused to give shape to.

“You want to hold him?” Historia asked lightly, noticing the way his eyes lingered.

But Eren shook his head, firm, almost violent.

No. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. His hands were too stained. To cradle new life when he had erased so many—children, unborn futures, entire nations—it was a line he could not cross. Living was already more forgiveness than he deserved. This… this was beyond him.

Seeing it was enough. Enough to know there were worlds he could never touch.

“This group has a knack for being stubborn.”

The voice cut through the warmth of the room.

All at once, heads turned—no one flinched, though shoulders tensed instinctively. Levi had entered. His eyes swept across them with the sharpness of someone who had seen too many battlefields, then settled on Historia.

Over the years, if there was one thing Levi had learned about these people, it was their inability to follow orders when it mattered most. Historia especially. He had told her to stay at her farm, under guard, away from risks. And yet here she was—child in her arms, face calm, as if she had never left. It shouldn’t have surprised him. She had once abandoned her crown to fight, and she still carried that same defiance, that strange stubbornness that refused to bow to death itself.

And now, in this world reshaped by the Rumbling, Levi couldn’t forget: Historia had played her part too. She had been the one to allow it, or at least, to allow Eren to move forward with it. In her bloodline, betrayal and violence had always run deep. In a way, it was only natural.

But Levi didn’t waste his breath on anger anymore. Not with her. Not with any of them. He had long since sworn to stop replaying the past, to stop clutching at old wounds. Survival meant enduring the future, no matter how bitter.

“Oh my god—it’s really you!”

The tension cracked as Iris darted past him, nearly tripping over herself in her excitement. She lit up at the sight of Historia, beaming with a reckless joy that reminded everyone, painfully, of someone else.

“I’m so honoured to meet you, my queen!” she gushed, clasping her hands together. “My sister talked so much about you—you’re so beautifullllll!”

Historia’s cheeks flushed. The word “queen” still unsettled her, even now. She had never been comfortable with it, never felt she deserved such a title. She had only worn it because duty demanded it—because once, long ago, her father had drowned in his own madness, and someone had to protect their people. She would carry it until the end, but it would never sit easily on her shoulders.

Looking at Iris only deepened the ache in her chest. The resemblance to Hange was impossible to ignore—the same bright eyes, the same chaotic bursts of energy. But there was something else in her too, something sharper, more ruthless when the situation demanded. That was why Historia had reached out to her, why she had called this girl here. Because Iris carried Hange’s spirit, but also her own edge. And that, Historia believed, might just be what they needed to shape a future from these ruins.

“…Call me Historia, please,” she said at last, her smile soft but unsure. “And thank you—for this. We wouldn’t be here without you.”

Iris grinned, unbothered. “Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass surviving around these guys. But give me time—I’ll get them back on their feet. Right, Levi?”

Levi rolled his eyes, the faintest twitch of a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth. He didn’t dignify her with a real answer, but he couldn’t deny the truth in her words. Things had changed since they’d settled here. Small steps. Fragile progress. Enough, maybe, to matter.

✹

They had gathered around the table like ordinary people would, like friends, like family. For once, the scene held no battle lines, no looming shadows of titans or war. Just laughter, clinking bottles, and the warmth of company. And then there was Historia, her presence transformed by the small child in her arms. It was strange how one baby could shift the entire atmosphere, how the tiny weight of a new life could make everyone’s voices softer, their smiles wider, their hearts a little lighter.

It was the baby effect.

Annie sat among them, though she still kept her distance in ways invisible to the eye. She listened, she watched, but she didn’t let herself laugh too freely. Happiness, she thought, wasn’t hers to claim so easily. Not after everything. Not after the blood she had spilled with her own hands, the lives she had taken with no hesitation. Levi’s squad, crushed without mercy. The countless innocents she trampled on her missions. And then, the crystal—her final retreat, locking herself away because she had realized she had gone too far, that perhaps there was no way back.

She remembered her father, the promises she’d made to him, the lies she told herself about survival, about duty. All of it had led her here—back among the very people she had once sworn to kill. That truth weighed on her like shackles.

Levi still didn’t forgive her, and she doubted he ever truly would. Eren avoided speaking to her at all, though she sometimes caught him watching her with an unreadable expression. Mikasa… Mikasa tolerated her, though Annie knew she hadn’t forgotten—she never would—who had killed their comrades, who had betrayed their trust. Annie could not forget either. She wasn’t different from Eren, not really. Both of them had been merciless, both had turned their humanity into weapons and let the world burn for it.

And yet… there was Armin.

He was the one face she couldn’t turn from, no matter how much she told herself to keep her distance. He had seen her for what she was, all her ugliness, and still—still—he had reached out. On that rooftop, when she had been ready to throw her life away, he had refused to let her. He had reminded her, stubbornly, quietly, that she deserved another chance. That everyone here did. That their survival meant they had a responsibility: to live, to carry the weight of those who didn’t make it.

Love.
She hated the word, hated what it stirred in her chest. But it was the truth. His love for his friends, for this fragile world, for her—it was what kept him moving forward. And no matter how hard she tried to deny it, Annie could feel something answering inside her.

Her gaze drifted back to Historia, and to the child in her arms. A baby, so impossibly small, his blue eyes wide with curiosity. He didn’t cry, didn’t fuss—he only watched them, as if determined to take in everything, to belong here as much as the rest of them. Annie felt something ache in her chest. How could anyone raise a child in this broken world? And yet Historia did. She believed in something Annie had almost forgotten existed: hope. To put them all together, to build something out of ruins, to prove that not everything was lost. That was what Historia had chosen to fight for.

For the first time in a long time, Annie felt something stir that wasn’t guilt, or bitterness, or resignation. It was gratitude. A fragile, trembling gratitude she hadn’t allowed herself since the first time she took a life. She looked around the table again, at the way Eren sat quietly, almost at peace for once, simply allowing himself to breathe. At the way Reiner’s booming laugh echoed through the room. At Jean and Connie’s off-key singing. At Mikasa leaning back in her chair, her face soft, no blade in her hands. At Armin, always Armin, talking to Eren with a half-smile, light catching in his eyes.

It was fleeting. Just a glimpse, like a fragment of a dream. But it was real. It was what life could be.

And in that fragile, imperfect moment, Annie made her choice. She wanted to live. To fight for that future. To believe, even if it hurt, even if it was terrifying, that she could still belong.

She needed to speak to Armin.

And she waited, letting the others sink deeper into their drunken haze, most of them slouched across the table. Historia had gone with Levi and Iris, leaving the rest behind. Annie didn’t want to disturb the rare peace of this night, yet she longed for a private moment with Armin—to thank him for believing in her.

When the chance finally came, Armin rose from his seat, slightly lightheaded from all the wine and beer, and headed toward his room. Mikasa had already slipped away earlier, and Eren, who had drunk less than anyone else, left soon after. The kids had gone to bed long before, with school awaiting them in the morning.

Annie was the only one still “awake” at the table. Slowly, she left the room and stepped into the quiet corridor, her footsteps carrying her toward Armin’s door.

When she stopped in front of it, she hesitated just once, questioning what in the hell she was doing here. Talking to him alone wasn’t unusual—it had happened before. Yet her heartbeat betrayed her, fast and restless, while her face grew warm despite her cold, steady gaze. Tonight felt different. It wasn’t just about wanting to survive anymore.

“Annie?”

Armin stood in the doorway, already in his pajamas, ready to sleep. Annie noticed, as she always did, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscle beneath the thin fabric, his damp hair from the shower. He looked at her, confused, wondering what was wrong. All night he had tried to avoid meeting her eyes, weighed down by a sense of disappointment—disappointment in himself, in them.

Was it right to leave now, when everyone else was trying so hard to piece together something that resembled a family? Annie still wanted to see her father. She hadn’t had the chance before leaving Fort Salta, when they finally ended the Rumbling. That promise to him had been her only goal, the thing that had kept her alive.

But Armin… he didn’t want her to leave. His selfishness, his heart, refused to accept the truth.

He was completely lost in his feelings.

“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice careful, almost neutral.

Armin stepped aside without a word, holding the door open as she slipped inside. He closed it softly behind her, and for a moment, the sound of the latch clicking felt louder than it should have.

Annie drifted through the room, her gaze catching on the thin wash of moonlight spilling through the open window. The winter air slipped in with it—cold, sharp, yet not nearly enough to cool the warmth burning beneath her skin. A war was unfolding inside her, each step weighed down by that old, familiar chill running along her spine. She was alone with him now, behind closed walls, closer than she allowed herself to be comfortable with. And still, she didn’t pull away. She had wanted this—wanted to be near him ever since those quiet, faltering confessions they had shared.

The room was modest, but undeniably his. A narrow bed pushed against the wall, blanket neatly folded, untouched by anyone but him. A drawer in the corner held a stack of books and a half-filled glass of water. His desk bore scattered notes, edges worn from constant turning, an old oil lamp casting a soft amber glow across the space. Practical, stripped of excess, yet not empty—it carried Armin’s presence in every detail. Organized, disciplined, deliberate. Annie realized with a faint flicker of amusement that he was almost obsessive, a maniac for order.

“I wanted to apologize… for what I said before,” she said at last, her voice breaking the silence. She turned slowly toward him.

Armin was walking closer, his figure cut in half by shadow, the lamplight outlining only his silhouette at first, before bringing his features into view. The sight struck her harder than she expected. She steadied her breath, clinging to her reason, but the edges blurred—the reason she had come here threatened to dissolve beneath the weight of something more dangerous. It felt, absurdly, like a predator cornering its prey, except the eyes that fixed on her carried not malice but concern… and something else she wasn’t ready to name.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Armin said after a long pause. His voice was quiet, steady, almost too gentle. “I know what you’re going through. We’re all just… trying to make sense of it. In our own way.”

Something shifted in the air then—an invisible thread pulled taut between them, woven with unspoken truths, with past sins and the fragile hope of something after. Annie’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to be paralyzed by the weight of her history anymore. She wanted to move, to live, to step forward like he did.

Was it easier to bury it all, like Levi seemed to? Or better to wear it raw, unflinching, like Eren? Armin was neither. He carried it differently—he bore his sins, but he lived with them. Reiner had done the same, reshaping himself from warrior into hero, Pieck had walked that path too. And Annie… she had been no different, a soldier who had followed orders, convinced herself of necessity, only to drown in the weight of the aftermath.

They had all borrowed their sins. And yet, none of them had surrendered.

“I mean it,” Annie said at last. “I’m going back to see my father.”

For a moment, Armin’s eyes betrayed him—sadness, perhaps even a flicker of something darker, something close to resentment, before he buried it under the calm mask he’d grown used to wearing. He told himself this was what she had always wanted, that her words were not rejection but inevitability, that maybe letting her go was the only way forward.

“But…”

The word slipped out before she could stop it, fragile and breaking. His thoughts were restless, circling. Annie’s gaze was fixed on him, steady, unreadable, her voice a weapon of restraint. And yet, he had studied her long enough to know better. He had been watching her for years—quietly, always—and through the stillness of her silence he had learned to catch the smallest shifts, to see what others would never notice. Sometimes, without a word, he could almost hear her thoughts.

But not now. Now, what he saw wasn’t the distance she wanted to maintain, nor the indifference she tried to project. Beneath it all was something else, something unspoken—an ember of hope neither of them dared to name, a weight pressing against both their chests, dangerous in its silence.

“I also want to stay…with you…”

For two seconds, his entire world threatened to collapse. The words carried too much, too fast, unravelling tangled thoughts and fragile hopes he had carefully avoided entertaining, all to protect himself — from pain, from disappointment, from the risk of being wounded both physically and emotionally. Armin had always been tactical; strategy was his anchor, his way of navigating the chaos. A clear mind, always searching for a solution, even if it meant reasoning with the enemy. That was who he was — how he worked. Annie had seen it herself, seen the way he could be calculating, even merciless, when necessary. A soldier, through and through.

And yet, after everything — after all they had endured, after every word exchanged between them — this moment felt different. It wasn’t a matter of strategy or survival anymore. Her words were like a fragile thread of possibility, an opening toward something neither of them had truly believed they deserved: a second chance, a glimpse of the ordinary life others took for granted.

Her eyes told him what words couldn’t. The way she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit meant to contain the storm inside, her face touched with the faintest pink that mirrored his own. And suddenly, Armin — the one who could always find a path, who always thought ten steps ahead — was left lost, unsure, utterly clueless.

For once, maybe it wasn’t about strategy. Maybe it wasn’t about choosing the right move. Maybe it was simply about baring the truth they had both carried for so long. He would remember these moments — the shy, clumsy attempts to close the distance between them, the fragile gestures of connection that had survived against all odds. They had held on to scraps of hope when everything else was falling apart. And now, standing before each other, maybe this was what they had been fighting for all along.

“Annie…”

Armin’s voice was barely above a whisper as he carefully reached for her hand. His touch was tentative, like he was afraid she might slip away the moment he closed the distance. She didn’t pull back, though her fingers twitched in his, still fidgeting with the hem of her shirt as if trying to hold onto composure.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them knew what to do.

Armin remembered the rooftop, the words he had thrown at her, desperate for her not to give up on herself. He remembered the first time his lips had touched hers, clumsy and unplanned, yet it had branded itself into his thoughts ever since. They weren’t people used to this — to wanting, to holding on. Caring for someone this deeply wasn’t a luxury they’d been allowed. They had all killed, all lost, all carried guilt so heavy that love felt almost… undeserved.

But maybe that was why this mattered.

Annie’s stare didn’t waver. It wasn’t soft, not in the way Armin often imagined when he let his mind wander, but it was real — stripped of masks, stripped of walls. She was letting him see her, in all her blunt honesty, as she always did. And Armin, who lived his life strategizing, predicting, weighing every possibility, found himself without a single clear plan. His chest was tight, his heart hammering like he was back on the battlefield, except this was different.

He whispered her name again, and Annie felt her breath catch. It was ridiculous how much power his voice carried when it was directed at her — not as a soldier, not as an enemy, but simply as Annie. With him, she could almost believe she was allowed to feel something other than regret. With him, she could almost believe she wasn’t beyond saving.

Her face warmed despite her neutral expression, and when Armin leaned closer, he hesitated — as if waiting for her to retreat, to remind him this was foolish, dangerous, impossible. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward just slightly, a silent permission he hadn’t expected but desperately needed.

And so, carefully, almost fearfully, he closed the gap.

Their lips met — fragile, hesitant, yet undeniably real. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t practiced. They both faltered, awkward in their inexperience, but neither pulled away. Annie had thought once or twice about what this would be like — glimpses from half-remembered films, distant fragments of a girl’s curiosity from long before she became a soldier. The reality was so much different, so much more than she had let herself imagine.

For Armin, it felt like a possibility he’d never let himself hope for. Raw, unplanned, overwhelming — and yet, something worth risking his steady, strategic self for.

They stood frozen, lips pressed together but unmoving, caught between fear and desire. Neither knew whether they should part their mouths, deepen the kiss, or simply stay where they were. It was clumsy, hollow almost, as if something essential was missing.

Then, a soft sound escaped Annie’s throat — barely a moan, but enough to make Armin’s heart lurch violently in his chest. He pulled back, startled, eyes wide as they locked on hers. Annie was staring at him in the same stunned way, cheeks flushed, as if she too couldn’t quite believe what they’d just done.

“This… couldn’t be…”

Armin muttered, his voice trembling. Then, more quietly:

“I’m sorry. Was it bad?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, a raw confession of his own inexperience, of the fear that he might have ruined something fragile.

Annie blinked, her stoic mask cracking as she fumbled for words:
“N-no… it’s just—maybe if we…” Her voice trailed, clumsy and uncertain.

She wasn’t any more practiced than he was, though she wanted to believe she had some faint idea of how it was supposed to feel. But standing here, with him, even that faint idea dissolved into nerves and heat and a kind of terrifying honesty she wasn’t used to showing.

Their faces burned. This wasn’t like their first kiss — stolen, abrupt, fleeting. This one carried weight, expectation, a choice they had made together. And it had left them both embarrassed, hearts racing, realizing just how vulnerable they had become in front of each other.

Armin clenched his jaw, silently cursing himself. He had never felt weaker, more exposed. Yet… he wanted it. He wanted her. Wanted to stay close, to hold her, to learn how to live in this unfamiliar tenderness. With Annie, weakness wasn’t something to be exploited — it was something shared. And that was why, even in this most awkward of moments, he could trust her with it.

“Let’s… do it again,” Armin said at last, his tone steadier than before, determination shining beneath the blush on his face.

Annie hesitated, then gave a single small nod, her heartbeat pounding so loudly she thought it might drown everything else out.

They didn’t know what they were doing. They didn’t know if it would get easier, or harder, or if it would all collapse under the weight of their pasts. But what they knew was this: tonight, behind these walls, they had crossed a line neither of them ever thought possible.

And somewhere in the quiet, beyond guilt and war and everything that had chained them down, something fragile had begun to bloom. A small, stubborn thing, like a flower rising after the storm — fragile, but alive.

What that meant, and where it would take them, neither could say. But they had taken the first step.

And it was only the beginning.

Long ass note:

Well, you probably guessed it from the chapter title. I wanted Annie to have her own fight. I know a lot of you don’t really like her, especially since she helped what was left of Levi’s squad stop the Rumbling and fought alongside Paradis, something she was raised to hate. But honestly, I think all of them went through things that led them here. It wasn’t really their fault. And I thought having Armin by her side, just like when he stayed close to her while she was trapped in the crystal, really shows his support and his quiet determination to fight for what matters to him.

So yes, this story also leans into Armin/Annie, and I’ll be focusing on them for now before circling back to Eren.

Another point I want to bring up is the pacing. I realize my story is taking a long time to progress (so much for trying to be perfect). This won’t be a “normal” chapter, it might end up being longer, kind of like a manga. But don’t worry, I’ll separate it into parts, almost like volumes, so you’ll know when one chapter is complete. For example, I might dedicate a whole part to Eren, Armin, and Mikasa going on a trip together, focusing only on them, and then later return to the rest of the cast.

What I want most is to show progress: that everyone eventually finds happiness and forgiveness after everything they’ve done. Of course, it’s still a journey, with challenges along the way, like the Yeagerists, which I already have some ideas about, especially once the trio sets out on their trip and probably, Mikasa regaining her full memories then.

Anyway, enough rambling. Let me know how the story feels so far to you, should I just stick to this one and keep Eren, Armin, and Mikasa’s story inside it, or make it a separate one? Or maybe I should shorten it altogether and make a series?

Hopefully the next part will be just as good, because honestly, I’m terrible at writing this kind of thing lol.

Chapter Text

He wondered, almost fearfully, if this was a dream. He had pinched himself once already, the old habit he carried whenever something felt too extraordinary to be real. But no—this wasn’t one of his daydreams, nor a fragment of some imagined future. It was happening.

Annie was sitting there, on his bed, her bare skin illuminated faintly by the cold moonlight pouring through the open window. The night was winter-sharp, but neither of them felt it. Stripped of everything—their uniforms, their masks, their walls—they faced each other like this, vulnerable, as if no one else in the world existed.

It had happened quickly, too quickly for Armin to process, like their kiss before it. But neither of them pulled back, neither regretted it. Instead, they simply looked. Breath against breath, two people who had spent their lives fighting, killing, surviving—and now, here they were, trembling for something so human, so ordinary, that it felt almost foreign.

Armin’s eyes moved despite himself—her face, her mouth, the curve of her shoulders where strands of blonde hair brushed against pale skin. His chest tightened. He tried to think clearly, as he always did, to form a strategy for this moment, but there was nothing to analyse. Books, diagrams, theory—none of it prepared him for this. He could only feel his pulse pounding, the warmth crawling across his face, and the sharp awareness that this was Annie—Annie—before him.

He wanted to look away, ashamed of the way his body betrayed him, ashamed of how much he wanted to reach out. But she didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes were locked on his, steady, and for the first time he realized she was nervous too. Annie Leonhart, who had once stood untouchable against all of them, who had killed without hesitation, was staring at him with the same fragile uncertainty.

She felt his gaze like a weight on her skin, prickling everywhere it lingered. And though she tried to keep her composure, her pulse quickened. He was red-faced, trembling, his usual calm unravelling in silence, and somehow that sight—awkward, human, earnest—made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t know how to name. She thought of the girl she had been, locked in her father’s expectations, and the soldier she had become, hardened and distant. Yet here, in this small room, with him—she was neither.

It was too much. Too much for two people who had barely survived the end of the world. Too much for soldiers who had only ever learned to fight, never to live. And yet, neither of them pulled away.

“Y-you’re beautiful,” Armin stammered, turning his gaze away.
It didn’t sound natural at first, but Annie still smiled, because it was the truth—the purest moment between them, stripped of judgment, conflict, or ideals no one could ever impose.

This time, she closed the gap. Her hand brushed against his face, and he jolted slightly. Annie immediately thought she had hurt him and almost pulled away, but his eyes told her otherwise. His left hand reached for hers.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, his voice low and unusually deep.

Her chest tightened, her heart stumbled, and something dangerously close to desire stirred low in her belly.

“Warm me,” she whispered.

Armin didn’t think. He pulled her into him, finally feeling the weight of her body against his, and kissed her gently. It wasn’t clumsy or uncertain like their first—it was sure, deliberate. Their lips met, their breath mingled, their tongues moved together in a slow-burning rhythm that felt like love itself.

Annie melted into his arms, feeling the silent strength in him—how powerful he really was, yet always choosing tenderness above all else. Their hearts thundered against one another, and the heat radiating from him filled the room. For a fleeting second she wondered if it was still the Colossal Titan’s heat, but she couldn’t dwell on it, not when he was already pressing her down beneath him.

They only parted to breathe, eyes locking, and this time there was no shyness, no hesitation. Armin’s gaze burned with desire, with hunger, stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Annie…” he whispered, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting hers again.
“Do you…”

“Yes.”

No more words were needed. They didn’t have to explain—they both knew what they were about to do. It was something unfamiliar, something fragile that almost felt forbidden, yet in this moment they looked desperate, consumed by love and desire. Nothing could reach them here, nothing could destroy them, as if they existed in a world of their own.

Slowly, Armin supported himself on one arm, steadying his breath as he leaned closer. His entire body burned—caught between fear, longing, and disbelief. It felt impossible that this moment was real, but Annie’s face, flushed deeper than he had ever seen, erased every doubt. She was here, with him. And that truth tore away every coherent thought, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his chest.

Annie’s eyes stayed locked on his, wide and unblinking, as if to look anywhere else would break the fragile spell between them. She wasn’t sure what came next—only that she couldn’t turn back. She had chosen this, chosen him, and though fear lingered, she wouldn’t take it away.

Then she felt him. A sharp intake of breath escaped her as instinct made her body tense, fighting against something so new, so foreign it almost felt like an enemy’s strike. Her hand flew to his shoulder, clutching it tightly.

“You’re okay?” Armin whispered, brushing her cheek with trembling fingers.

“Yes… just slowly… please.”

The words nearly broke her. Annie Leonhart never begged, never asked. But here, with him, she could. She wasn’t the soldier or the weapon she had been raised to be. She was simply a girl, giving herself to someone she once swore to hate—someone who had changed everything.

Her breath caught as he pressed closer, his weight settling gently over her, his warmth filling every space around her. Pain prickled first, sharp enough to make her body want to recoil, old reflexes screaming at her to push him away. But before she could, Armin kissed her—soft, steady, whispering words that wrapped around her like a shield. The tears came unbidden, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Armin felt them instantly. His chest seized, and he pulled back just enough to see her face, his voice cracking.
“A-Annie—you’re hurting? I-I’m so sorry, we can stop, please—”

Panic consumed him. He couldn’t hurt her. Not her. He had sworn never to let her suffer again, not like everything else he had failed to protect.

But before he could retreat further, Annie’s legs wrapped firmly around his hips, holding him in place. Her gaze locked onto his, darkened not with pain, but with something deeper—something raw.

“I’m okay,” she breathed, steady now. “This… feels good.”

Armin gasped, the words grounding him. Carefully, he lowered himself again, her warmth pulling him in, surrounding him until he thought he might shatter apart. He tangled his fingers with hers, holding on tightly—a vow unspoken, but stronger than any words.

Their lips met once more, slow and tender, as they moved together in uncertain rhythm. The room filled with the sound of quiet breaths, soft gasps, and the faintest moans, fragile yet achingly alive.

For two people who had spent their lives surviving, killing, and enduring endless loss, this was something neither had ever imagined. And yet, here they were—choosing one another, daring to live, even for a single night.

That night would not belong to war, or to grief, or to the ghosts of the past. It would belong to them.

✹

Armin still thought he might be dreaming, but once he woke and felt the warmth of a body pressed close to his own, bare and real against him, he finally believed it had truly happened. Memories of the night before rushed back with a sharp, almost overwhelming clarity: their desperate kiss, the heat of their hands burning across skin, his mouth tracing her as she whispered his name, the sound of her quiet moans mixing with his own, and finally that moment when they clung to one another, breathless, as if confessing more than words ever could. It had all happened so fast—much to Armin’s dismay. He had wanted to endure it, to take his time and savour every second, to make it last for her, for them. But Annie’s warmth had undone him, broken through his restraint until he found himself trembling against her lips, moving with her in a rhythm that carried them both past their limits.

It had been so achingly good, a kind of goodness that felt almost unreal, and he swore he would never let himself forget it. Turning now, his gaze settled on the quiet shape of her back, the sheet drawn only halfway across her body, leaving her bare in the soft morning light. The window had stayed shut through the night, holding in the heat of their closeness as they gave in to each other again, the second time even more consuming than the first.

Armin couldn’t stop the faint smile that crept across his lips. He felt foolish, almost childlike, yet at the same time as though he had crossed into something fragile and extraordinary—something that was his to cherish, and to protect.

“Annie.”

Armin’s voice was soft, almost reverent, as though afraid a careless word might shatter something fragile. He waited for her to turn, watching the fatigue still etched into her face—a trace of the night they hadn’t been granted the luxury of rest. He wouldn’t have complained anyway.

When she finally moved, her expression shifted, blooming with quiet awareness as sunlight spilled through the window and caught the depth of her blue eyes. She stretched as if shaking off years spent encased in crystal, arms lifting above her head. A long yawn pulled at her until her jaw ached, and in that simple gesture, memory returned.

The night before. The hesitation and the urgency. Between shyness and longing, they had crossed a boundary neither had truly expected to. For a fleeting moment, guilt clawed at her—was this selfishness again? Another act that proved she cared only for herself, a reminder of the monster she feared she still was.

But then she remembered his words. The way Armin had touched her, the tenderness threaded into every movement, the unwavering truth in his voice when he told her he had never seen her as such.

It had been raw, unbidden, fragile. Something she had never thought herself capable of. And Annie knew, with a rare certainty, that she never wanted to let that memory slip away. This—whatever it was—had to be her second chance.

“Time to wake up,” he said softly, his voice gentle in the quiet. “How are you feeling?”

Annie felt warmth rising again, though the intimacy of the moment was still strange, almost disorienting. She wasn’t sure how to process what had happened, and yet, Armin’s expression mirrored her own unease—both of them caught in the same hesitation, neither ready to bring it into words. It was too fresh, too raw, leaving them to retreat back into their usual quiet, almost shy demeanours.

“Maybe I should head out first, if we don’t want attention,” Annie said calmly. Her voice was steady, but her cheeks betrayed her, still tinged pink.

“Good idea.”

The last thing he wanted was to draw attention, especially now. Trouble had a way of finding them, and this—whatever it was between them—was far too fragile to survive unnecessary scrutiny. Many still hadn’t forgiven, and what tolerance existed was thin, stretched to its limit. Pretences could only hold so long. Armin knew, too, that Eren would never accept it, not truly, even if he hadn’t voiced his disapproval yet. That silence felt heavy. For now, secrecy was their only refuge, a way to keep this fragile bond safe. Perhaps, if they were being honest with themselves, they wanted it that way. They weren’t ready to share it with the world just yet. Some things were better lived quietly, modestly, until they learned how to hold them without breaking.

As Armin sank into thought, Annie leaned closer, placing a hesitant kiss on his lips. His face was troubled, lost in strategy as always, and something about it struck her—too endearing to ignore. She was too shy to put it into words, so she simply acted. She had wanted to feel him again.

Armin startled, but only for a moment, then responded with quiet certainty, pressing back as if afraid to lose the moment. Their lips parted just enough for him to taste her again. For a fleeting instant, the world felt suspended—untouchable. He liked it. Annie never imagined she could give in to something so warm, but now, she wondered if she could live with that.

The kiss deepened, slow at first, then more insistent as Armin leaned her gently back. That was when Annie’s thoughts returned to reality.
“The others will notice we’re gone, Armin.”

His body stiffened, guilt flickering through him.

“Sorry.”

It hit him all at once—he was pushing too far, too quickly. Reckless, like a boy stumbling through first feelings. And maybe he was. Maybe he was learning—late, but still learning—what it meant to love, to care, to accept.

A cold shower might help.

Eren’s hand hovered between a croissant and a plate of scrambled eggs with a strip of bacon. It was absurdly mundane—yet strange. On the island, breakfast had always been simple, rationed, predictable. Now, with the ports open and merchants trading freely, food from beyond the sea slipped onto their tables, ordinary luxuries that once belonged only to distant stories.

“Hey… do you think these come from France?”

His voice was casual, but Mikasa blinked slowly, caught off guard. She was standing beside him, head slightly lowered, the faint shadows under her eyes betraying the lack of sleep—and the alcohol from last night still lingering in her system. For her, even a few drinks were too much.

“Huh?” she murmured, as if pulling herself back into the present.

“These. Croissants.” Eren gestured with one hand, then picked it up as though testing its weight. “They’re better with coffee… or tea. You never tried it before?”

Mikasa’s eyes drifted to the tray of delicate pastries, their folded shapes unlike anything they’d grown up with. Supplies like these arrived on special days, when Iris’s squad smuggled goods from across the sea. For now, things were calm, safe even—but safety was a word Eren had long stopped trusting. Somewhere out there, someone would always be angry enough, desperate enough, mad enough to start another war.

Armin told him to focus on the present, to breathe in what they had right now. But even here, chewing on a piece of foreign bread, Eren couldn’t shake the unease that clawed at his chest. Was this fragile peace just temporary? Was he still the man fate had built him to be, or had he already become something else entirely?

They carried their plates to a table. Mikasa carefully folded her scarf and set it aside, smoothing it as though it were a ritual. The scarf—the same one she clung to, year after year. Eren still didn’t understand, probably never would.

“It’s just a scarf,” he had muttered once, weeks ago, when they’d shared a table with Armin and Annie.

“You don’t understand,” Mikasa had replied simply.

And she had been right.

Now, seated across from her, Eren ate in silence, but his thoughts spiralled. He didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. He didn’t know how to be around his friends—friends who had once stood against him, who had every reason to still resent him. He didn’t know what to do with Mikasa, either. Being near her was unbearable and yet, when she wasn’t looking, he found himself staring, listening for her voice when she spoke with others, staying close under the excuse of busyness.

He hated it. All of it.

“Armin.”

Eren’s eyes caught him.

Odd. Armin was rarely the last one to arrive for breakfast—let alone arriving with someone else. Annie walked in beside him, though both of them kept their distance as if they hadn’t spoken a word on the way. They separated quickly, Annie settling at a table with Reiner and the kids—something that had never happened before—while Armin came to sit near Eren and Mikasa.

Eren tilted his head.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” Armin’s voice was sharper than usual, his body language tense, defensive.

“Armin.”

This time it was Mikasa. She hadn’t raised her voice, but the weight in her tone was heavier than Eren’s question. Her dark eyes pinned him, steady, unblinking—watching every twitch, every falter in his expression. Armin tried to mask it, to act casual, but Mikasa was too precise, too observant. Pretending only made it worse.

He could feel sweat in his palms. If only the ground would swallow him whole.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “Really.”

Eren smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Sure. You look better already.”

“You too, man.” Armin tried to deflect, voice cracking just slightly.

“If you say so…” Eren murmured, unconvinced.

And then, Mikasa. Calm, deliberate, almost cruel in her bluntness:

“Did you have sex?”

Armin choked on nothing, his breath catching like he’d swallowed air wrong.

“M-Mikasa!?” His voice jumped, higher than he wanted. His mind blanked. Of all the things she could’ve said… that.

She didn’t flinch. Sitting with her cup of tea, she spoke as though it were a weather report. Her gaze flicked once to Annie’s table—Reiner and Pieck on either side of her—and then returned to Armin.

“You’re always together,” she said evenly. “And the way you’re acting now only confirms it. Otherwise… Annie wouldn’t be sitting there.”

Eren blinked, his brow furrowing.

“What?”

His tone wasn’t mocking, more baffled than anything.

“Eren.” Mikasa’s gaze slid to him. “Are you really that clueless?”

Eren’s confusion lingered as he glanced between the two of them—Armin’s flushed face, Annie deliberately avoiding eye contact across the room. For the first time, he wondered if it could be true.

And the thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Because if Armin and Annie—two people scarred, guilty, enemies once—could find something together, then maybe… even monsters could be forgiven.

And if they could… what did that mean for him?

“Eren… that’s not what you think, r-really!”

Armin’s voice caught some attention. Connie and Jean, having just finished their breakfast, stepped closer, curious, ready to see what was happening before starting their day.

“What’s going on here?” Connie asked, tearing into a piece of bread.

“Armin had sex,” Mikasa replied, passive as always, her tone flat and matter-of-fact.

“Mikasa!”

“Owww!”

“My bro just got laid,” Connie added, grinning wide.

“Shut up!” Armin hissed, his face burning.

They were being too loud. Far too loud. Loud enough that Annie could probably hear every word. He hated it—hated Mikasa for being so blunt, as if secrets meant nothing to her. Hated that she could drop words like that without flinching, without care. And Eren… Eren was still silent, still processing, as if clinging to the hope that maybe it wasn’t true.

“So, how was it?” Jean asked, smirking. “I always figured my first time would be with some beautiful woman with big tits.”

“That’s so embarrassing…” Armin muttered under his breath, wishing he could sink into the floor.

“What are you guys talking about that’s so interesting?”

Pieck had just entered, Reiner following close behind.

Armin felt panic rising as more people joined the mess hall. He couldn’t believe Mikasa had said it so plainly. He’d thought he could pretend, keep his composure, but it had been useless from the start. Now, everyone would know—Levi’s squad, even him. His chest tightened at the thought, the weight of consequences pressing down on him. Pride, modesty—gone in an instant. Annie had slipped away before it all unravelled, leaving him to face the stares and whispers alone. Maybe she had already guessed this would happen.

Irritation burned through him. Not once, not once had he been allowed something private. Not when they were always fighting, always watching.

He stood abruptly, his plate untouched, and left. Anger simmered under his skin—not just at Mikasa, but at all of them, prying into every choice, every corner of his life. He caught the hush that followed, the murmurs behind him, but he didn’t turn back. He only knew he had to get away—find Annie, find some way forward. Or maybe… just admit it out loud: they were together.

But what did that even mean?
A couple.
The word felt foreign in his mind. Strange. Almost frightening.

He walked until the hallways quieted around him. Outside, the snow had finally stopped. For once, the sun broke through, pale light spilling against stone. The air carried a faint warmth, as if even the sky was tired of mourning.

He lit a cigarette, the flame shaking just slightly in the breeze. Smoke curled from his lips, bitter and grounding. He tried not to picture what Mikasa might be telling the others, what conclusions they’d all draw. It was too late to turn back. No more hiding. But wasn’t this what he wanted? For them to see Annie differently? To understand she wasn’t just the girl who chose the comfort of the Walls before everything collapsed? She wasn’t a monster. She had a heart—fragile, but honest. He wanted them to see that. To see the side of her no one else ever bothered to.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Armin flinched. He hadn’t heard Eren approach. His friend leaned casually against the wall, hands shoved in his pockets like always. Armin’s mind raced. Now that Eren knew, what came next? Would he forgive him—for falling for someone who had once been their enemy? Or would he see it as betrayal, another fracture between them?

It wasn’t like there had ever been a rule against love, but once they joined the military, they had all stopped looking. Survival left no room for it. And then there was Eren’s bond with Mikasa—complicated, unspoken. But constant.

Eren’s eyes lingered on him before dropping to the cigarette.
“Can I have one?”

“You… want a cigarette?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even like them.”

“You didn’t either. Now you’re out here smoking. Maybe I’ll like it.”

Armin gave a small shrug. He couldn’t tell if Eren was serious. His mind flickered back to his first try, how Reiner had laughed while he nearly choked to death. Smoke like fire, tearing down his throat.

Eren pulled one free, and Armin lit it for him. He barely got a breath in before convulsing into coughs. His eyes watered, his throat closed up as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of ash and sand.

“How the hell do you like this?!” he rasped between coughs.

Armin only smiled faintly, quiet amusement slipping through.
“I thought the same. But… you get used to it.”

“Yeah, well I need water.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Armin asked suddenly, his tone sharper than intended.

Eren raised a brow.

“For what?”

“You know what!”

Armin could feel the heat crawling up his face. All the images from last night clawed their way back into his mind—Annie’s touch, her lips, the quiet surrender. It was too much.

“About… that,” Eren suggested, hesitant, because even now, he still hadn’t pieced it together.

Armin blinked.

“I thought you’d hate me for doing it.”

“Doing what?”

Armin nearly dropped his cigarette. Was he serious? Was Eren actually this clueless?

“You’re not serious!” he blurted.

Eren just stared at him with that same blank curiosity he’d had since they were kids, like he was waiting for Armin to explain some book he’d never read. And the worst part? He wasn’t teasing. He genuinely didn’t know.

Armin exhaled a long, frustrated breath of smoke. The universe had to be laughing at him.
“Mikasa guessed it already. I… slept with Annie.”

“Why are you getting so red?”

“Argh! You can’t be this stupid!”

“Come again?”

“I had sex, Eren! There—you happy now?!”

Their voices lifted, echoing faintly against the stone walls. It felt absurd, humiliating, saying something so intimate out loud like it was nothing. Armin pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting every second of it. But at least now, finally, his friend would understand why he was acting so strangely.

Eren just shrugged.

“I can’t be mad at that.”

Armin froze.

“...What?”

Eren’s gaze drifted past him to a bird perched on a bare branch, its wings twitching in the cold. He tried the cigarette again—still awkward, still clumsy—but this time he managed not to cough.

“You’re an adult, Armin. You can do whatever you want. Besides… I kind of knew this would happen. When all this was over, we weren’t going to stay kids forever. We’d live, make choices, go our own ways.”

Armin swallowed, stunned at the casual acceptance.

“But you’re not mad that it’s Annie?”

Eren finally looked at him. His expression softened, in that rare way it sometimes did when the walls dropped.

“No. Because I saw it already. When I touched Historia’s hand—I saw… a lot of things. Your feelings for her. Maybe some of it came from Bertholdt, but now? It’s yours. And Annie…” he hesitated. “She’s always liked you.”

Relief flooded Armin in a rush he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t realized how much it mattered, how much weight Eren’s approval carried after everything. His friend’s acceptance was like a balm on the ache he hadn’t admitted was there.

And yet, under that relief, something else stirred. A faint guilt. A betrayal almost. Because he had something Eren didn’t. Love. A chance. He and Eren had always been side by side—children racing to that tree, boys shouldering the same burden of survival. But now they were men, with separate paths, separate desires. Their bond was still strong, but it was changing. Inevitably.

Armin dropped his gaze to the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

“I guess it was always meant to be, huh?” Armin said softly.

Eren didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Both of them knew the truth already. They had been pieces on the same board, threads in the same woven path, an orchestra neither of them could silence. Armin felt it deep down, the echo of the paths still lingering in his mind. And Eren… Eren had always known.

Was this Eren, the one standing next to him now, truly the same boy he’d grown up with in Shiganshina? Armin didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to risk shattering this fragile moment, not after clawing his way back to something resembling peace.

And Eren, despite everything, was trying too. Trying to stay present. Trying to live. Like all of them.

Because they had never given up.

“So,” Eren finally said, tone neutral, almost clinical. “How was it?”

Armin blinked.

“You… really want to know?”

“Well, duh.” Eren shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world:

“You’re the first one of us to actually… do it. Feels weird. After all we’ve been through, you’d think death was the only thing waiting for us. Then suddenly, you’re out here living. It’s like you don’t even care about the dead.”

Armin’s chest tightened.

“O-of course I care! This has nothing to do with ignoring them. We… we’re allowed to live, Eren.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Armin’s voice sharpened before he could stop it.

“I killed, too. In your name, Eren. As far as I can remember, I wanted freedom as badly as you did. Revenge, survival, whatever it took. I’m not innocent either.”

Eren didn’t argue. He only gave a small nod, as though acknowledging a truth he already carried. The two of them leaned back against the wall, their shoulders nearly touching, watching sunlight stretch across the little garden outside.

For a moment, it felt like Shiganshina again. The lazy afternoons, the endless arguments, the shared dream of the ocean. A flicker of familiarity in a world that had become unrecognizable.

Armin exhaled, letting the quiet sink in. He decided, for once, not to hide anything from his best friend.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever experienced,” he admitted, cheeks flushing despite himself. “It almost felt like… touching heaven.”

Eren’s lips twitched, not into a smile, but something unreadable. “Lucky you.”

Armin turned, searching his face. But Eren wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was distant, heavy with something unspoken.

And then Armin understood.

Eren wasn’t envious of Annie. He wasn’t even envious of Armin. He was thinking of what he could never have. Not after everything. Not after the blood on his hands, not after eighty percent of the world lay buried beneath his shadow.

Love was beyond him now.

And yet… in his silence, in the faint tension at the corner of his mouth, Armin recognized it. The longing. The ache of knowing Mikasa’s love was still there, and yet out of reach, because the only gift Eren could give her was distance.

If he respected her—if he wanted her to live freely, then he had to stay away. Forever.

Armin’s chest tightened as he looked at his friend—this friend who had closed the door on any chance of happiness for himself, when nothing was truly lost yet. But for Eren, it was never simple. Even when he tried to be present, Armin knew that darkness trailed him, always waiting, ready to drag him under and strip him of everything.

Armin wouldn’t let that happen. Not for selfishness, not for the fleeting comfort of hope that had never been meant for Eren. If this was their second chance, then he had sworn he wouldn’t waste it. He would live it fully—with his friends. That was all he had left and throwing it away would betray everyone who had given their lives for humanity.

“Annie’s going back to her father,” Armin said, gently, trying to restore that fragile peace between them. “She’s like you—she thinks she doesn’t deserve it. But I think we all do. We didn’t come this far for nothing. What we need now is time…and acceptance, for each other and for ourselves.”

Eren’s gaze lingered on the garden.

“I’m not mad at her, you know… it’s just… we never really had anything to say to each other.”

“She wants forgiveness, Eren. For everything she did.”

“I already forgave Reiner,” Eren replied simply. “She came from the same place. She didn’t know any better. After what I did in Liberio, it’d be hypocritical of me to hold her to it.”

“Then you need to talk to her,” Armin urged.

Eren frowned.

“Maybe she should make the first move.”

“Eren…” Armin exhaled, almost smiling.

“She started it.”

“You’re not seriously gonna nag me about this, are you?”

He was ready to argue but then stopped. He remembered the promise he’d made—to change. To try. The truth was it wasn’t just stubbornness. He didn’t want to speak first because of the memories: half their squad gone, Levi’s team wiped out, all because of Annie’s betrayal. But deep down, he knew he wasn’t any better. Maybe Annie’s silence had nothing to do with guilt or shame. Maybe it was fear—fear of him. Everyone feared him, even now. Even when he did nothing. And it always hurt.

“I think,” Armin said softly, “if you’re the one to do it, it’ll mean something. It’ll be proof that you’re not the monster people still think you are.”

Eren scoffed, though there wasn’t much bite in it.

“I killed half the world, Armin.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Armin answered dryly. “I get nightmares about it every night.”

He shook his head, trying to chase off the heaviness.

Eren almost rolled his eyes. The timing was terrible, but somehow, he had been waiting for this— his strange way of forcing air back into suffocating moments. It was familiar. It was them. A brief pause between grief and survival, between the wreckage of their past and the faint hope of something ahead.

And Eren understood, finally, what Armin meant. Why he tried so hard to hold on. Why he still believed.

Somehow, someday, they would move forward. Together or apart, it didn’t matter. Time and acceptance—that was the only way left to live, the only key to healing what remained of themselves.

I find it kind of funny, Eren’s innocence over simple things, he had been used to killing and hating but despite that, he still kept that untouched side of him and, Mikasa’s bluntness will always be funny as well.

Also, I want to make something clear regarding the chapter length and the way I post. English is not my native language. Everything I write here is directly translated from French, where I’m much more comfortable and experienced with writing. I used to write on Wattpad or for school homework, and even in my free time, simply because I love writing. So maybe, it might feel a little different from what is used to reading online, but I never liked rushing things, even when a chapter is short. And yes, I use the internet to help me with translation and correction, but it’s the same story I originally write in French. I just make sure it’s readable in English. For me, using tools for grammar or formulation isn’t a bad thing, it’s simply making sure the story is clear. If you use the internet the right way, it’s not cheating, it’s just improving.

I also have a lot of time right now since I’m on vacation, and I like to plan ahead. That’s why I can post chapters often: I have both the time and the motivation. If you don’t like this method—whether it’s the pace, the translation, or the fact that I use the internet and tools—then it’s okay, but please don’t leave negative comments. Just don’t read the story anymore.

 I’m doing this first and foremost for myself, because I wanted to write this story after finishing the AOT movie.

Chapter Text

Eren never imagined that a town could breathe with this much life. For years, the world in his mind had been nothing but dust and silence, the echo of screams fading into the void he himself had created. And yet, as he walked through the streets tonight, he was surrounded by a sight that felt almost unreal: laughter, music, the faint smell of roasted food carried through the cold air, and the glow of lights strung across buildings that had once been nothing but rubble. It was unsettling, the contrast between what he had done and what he was seeing. The world was moving forward without him, or perhaps despite him. People were adapting, piecing back together what had been broken, as if refusing to bow forever to the cruelty of destruction. With Christmas approaching, everything seemed brighter, more hurried, almost feverish with hope. Families rushed along the decorated streets, merchants worked tirelessly, children tugged their parents toward stands filled with little handmade toys. It was a kind of magic that he had once thought belonged only in stories—something that should have been beyond their reach.

And soon after, the new year would follow, a celebration of another chance, another step forward. Levi had insisted they all come out, that for once they should allow themselves to breathe, to feel like ordinary people again, not soldiers, not survivors of endless battles. For Levi, it was about giving them a moment to remember what living was supposed to feel like, and Eren could see how the others clung to that fragile idea of normalcy. But for him, it wasn’t that simple. Every light, every burst of laughter, every smile pulled him deeper into the weight of his own sins. He couldn’t look at this world without also seeing the shadows of those who would never stand here again. The countless lives he had trampled over, the faces he had burned away without hesitation, entire families crushed beneath the feet of the monster he had willingly become. And now, here he was, standing among the very people who had survived his judgment, breathing the same air as if nothing had happened. Allowed to exist, even after staining the world in blood.

He knew he had no right. Yet here he was.

“Eren.”

Her voice cut through the noise, steady, almost too steady for a night like this. The others had already scattered away, drawn toward the food stalls, the warm drinks, or the silly games that dotted the streets. For them, it was something new, almost surreal—an evening that didn’t revolve around fear or orders, but simply being alive. It reminded Eren of Marley, the last night they had drunk with refugees, laughed even, like they belonged to something normal. That fleeting joy had been their last, before he shattered everything and walked into the abyss he had chosen.

The thought stabbed through his chest, and for a moment the world around him collapsed. His lungs forgot how to work, his vision blurred, sounds muffled into a distant hum while lights swelled painfully bright. Panic curled inside him like fire in his veins, dragging him back into the suffocating spiral of memory. He cursed himself silently, furious, because he knew this feeling, knew how easy it was to lose grip and slide back into the same mistake—that same haze that had once consumed him before everything spiraled out of control.

But then she was there.

Mikasa’s face broke through the blur, sharp, grounding. Her scarf brushed against her cheek as she adjusted it absentmindedly, her fingers pale from the cold. Jeans, a simple jacket, nothing extravagant, and yet she was radiant in a way that hurt to look at. Her hair had grown back out, framing her face in a softness he hadn’t seen in years, like a quiet reminder that she too had survived all of it. Her cheeks were pink from the winter air, but to him it felt more like the warmth of something long buried, something he had refused to let himself touch.

The weight in his chest loosened, his breathing steadied. His lips parted without thought, and smoke spilled out into the night as if exhaling all that remained of his panic. For once, his mind was stripped of the endless replay of what he had done—no massacre, no blood, no promises of destruction. Just her, standing there, silent, steady, the only constant he had left.

“You should stay close,” Mikasa said at last, her tone even, face unreadable, but he caught the smallest flicker in her eyes—something protective, familiar.

It irritated him, enough to bite down on his tongue before the words slipped, but he still muttered, low and sharp:

“You’re not my mom.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“We can’t leave you alone, Eren. That’s Levi’s order.”

He clicked his tongue, annoyed, but his gaze wandered past her shoulders, searching. If Armin had been here, it would have been easier. With Armin, there was always an anchor, someone who understood the shadows he carried and still pushed him to move forward. With Mikasa, it was different. With her, he was terrified—terrified that staying too close would fan the flames he’d spent years trying to bury. He knew she would never let go of him, no matter what he had done, no matter how many walls he built between them. And if he let himself slip, if he even admitted the truth of what he felt, then it would be over. He would lose what little distance he had left, what little control he still clung to.

Her face stayed in his mind even when he looked away—the scar, the wound, the fragile heartbeat he had almost silenced once. That image was carved into him, deeper than anything else, a reminder of who he had become and the weight he would always carry.

Mikasa had long since accepted this version of Eren—different, distant, not the boy she once knew. She had pieced together what no one would explain to her. The first truth she realized was that Eren was always trying to slip away. Not from her, but from everyone. Because deep down, he never thought he deserved to stay.

Her own scars reminded her of this distance, stitched into their shared history. The one across her face went back to Trost, when Eren had revealed his titan form for the first time. She remembered thinking, for a brief moment, that she was about to die. But she couldn’t dwell on that—too many titans were breaking through, and she had to fight.

Still, she knew one thing about him with certainty: Eren could be mercilessly protective of the things that mattered most. The first time she saw a titan crushing another underfoot—it was him. She could still feel the ground tremble, hear his scream as he ground the titan’s skull into dust. The second time had been when she and Armin were nearly cornered, just after they discovered a shifter inside the walls. Eren wasn’t their enemy—never would be. Anything that threatened the people he cared about, he would destroy without hesitation.

But now… now he only shut himself off, building walls higher than any they had ever fought to tear down. He drowned in a guilt she couldn’t even begin to measure, closing himself to everyone—including her.

And Mikasa didn’t know what else to do. Every effort she made slipped through her hands, hopeless. Yet she couldn’t give up. Something—maybe the voice of that woman from her dreams—told her to keep fighting, to hold on to what had been buried between memory and friendship.

She clung to that.

Around them, the world carried on—shouts, laughter, the noise of people moving forward. But between them, there was only silence. A silence Mikasa feared would stretch into distance. She knew Eren would find a way to leave again, to run from her.

Before that silence swallowed them whole, she forced the words out—her voice even, almost cold:

“Stay with me.”

Eren’s reply came sharp, bitter, cutting.
“Fine.”

It would be pointless to fight here. Eren had said he’d at least try to make an effort, for now. So he kept his distance, kept his eyes away from her, and forced his words to the bare minimum. The plan was simple: bore her. If he stayed quiet long enough, maybe she’d grow tired of him and leave for good.

The thought made his chest tighten, but he told himself it was for the best. If he wanted to make peace with this world, he couldn’t allow himself to be with her.

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing. Walking behind her, he watched her silhouette fade into the crowd. Doubt stirred in him, but Mikasa never faltered. Guided by the voices of strangers, the lights strung above, the endless rows of stalls—she seemed to know exactly where she was going. She wasn’t interested in any of it though. She just kept walking, silent, as if pretending to enjoy herself. To her, it didn’t feel like joy. Not yet.

The gap between them stung. From the outside, it looked like two strangers trailing one another through a festival. Couples, families, friends—all of them were laughing, living, clinging to hope in a way that felt almost unreal.

Mikasa finally stopped near a shooting stand, where Jean and Annie were locked in a petty fight over their scores. Annie missed half her targets, while Jean shot down every last one—including hers, sparking a small argument. Mikasa glanced around, wondering where the others had gone. Lately, Annie and Armin had been keeping their distance, trying too hard to act like there was nothing between them. Mikasa didn’t believe it for a second. Once the lights went out, she was sure they’d find each other.

“There. It’s for you.”

Jean’s voice pulled her back. He walked over, placing a small plush cow carefully into her arms. For a moment, she blinked, unsure how to react. Eren, standing just behind her, saw everything. He felt the familiar sting in his chest, jealousy cutting through his restraint. Every time someone dared step closer to her, it boiled to the surface. No matter how hard he tried to bury it, deep down, he wanted Mikasa to still think only of him. Selfish. Hypocritical. But it was the truth.

And Jean knew. He met Eren’s stare with a look that was part challenge, part knowing smirk. If anyone could push Eren past his walls, it was her—and Jean was more than willing to test it.

“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could hang out a bit,” Jean said lightly.

For a split second, Eren’s mind burned red. But he clenched his jaw, holding it in. He had no right. He didn’t deserve to step in. It had to be a joke. Another one of Jean’s ways to get under his skin.

“You’re with Annie,” Mikasa said calmly.

“I’m done. This game’s stupid,” Annie muttered, turning away. She shot them one last glance before disappearing into the crowd.

Eren caught that look, and it cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He’d have to face her one day, face everything they’d done before this peace, but not now. Not yet.

“Well, now I’m alone,” Jean continued, his smirk widening. “How about we go grab a drink, then watch the fireworks together?”

“She’s with me.”

The words came out of Eren’s mouth before he could stop them. He stepped forward, placing himself squarely between Jean and Mikasa.

Jean scoffed. “Oh, so now you care? Thought you were done with her.”

“Don’t try me.”

Jean leaned in, voice dripping with mockery. “What are you gonna do, fight me? Look around, Eren. This time, you can’t just throw punches and hope no one notices.”

Eren’s fists tightened, knuckles pale. He hated him. Always had. And he’d never let Jean—of all people—be anywhere near Mikasa. Jean wasn’t good for her. No one was.

Before the tension could snap, Mikasa cut in, her voice flat but decisive:

“I’m not feeling well. I’m going back to Iris.”

“What?” Eren reacted instantly, panic slipping through. “Is your head spinning? Heartburn? Cramps?”

His desperation was plain, spilling over before he could stop it. He couldn’t help himself. And Jean, rolling his eyes, bit back the urge to laugh. Watching Eren flounder like that almost made him want to shove him forward, force him to finally face what he was running from.

“I’m fine. I’m heading back. You two can hang out Jean won’t be alone, and he can keep an eye on you.”

Mikasa brushed him off before he could even protest.

For Eren, it felt like a slap. A blunt rejection, sharp and burning in his chest—and for once, it wasn’t him pushing her away. She walked off, convinced it was for the best. If Eren didn’t want to spend time with her, then maybe she shouldn’t force it.

She hadn’t lied when she said she wasn’t feeling well. The press of bodies around her, the laughter, the noise—it made her chest tight, left her anxious and out of place, as if she didn’t belong in this world of light and sound. But beneath that, there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite name. A raw unease that surfaced whenever anyone turned their attention toward her. She hated it, hated how much harder it was to face when it came from Eren. Because despite everything, he still cared. She could see it in every little slip, every desperate word he tried to swallow down.

It was contradictory, the mess of her own feelings. Painful, confusing, but undeniable.

And she didn’t like the way the two of them acted whenever they were together. Jean and Eren seemed locked in a constant, pointless battle—over pride, over nothing. But whenever Jean’s eyes lingered on her, his teasing always sharpened, and it made Eren bristle every time.

Mikasa noticed. And though she kept her face calm, it made her uneasy. Because Jean was provoking something he understood—and she didn’t.

“Oh damn, someone’s mad,” Jean muttered, eyes trailing after Mikasa as she disappeared into the crowd.

Eren didn’t bother hiding his irritation.
“What’s your problem? We could’ve enjoyed this, and you had to ruin it.”

Jean smirked, unbothered.
“Oh, come on. You’re blaming me? Aren’t you a funny fella?”

“Fuck you, Jean.”

Jean’s laugh was loud, careless, and it only made Eren grind his teeth harder. But there was no point—Jean always knew how to get under his skin. He always had. From the first days of training, through the years in the Survey Corps, there wasn’t a single stretch of time where they hadn’t butted heads. Yet somehow, in this moment, it didn’t feel as bitter as before. Maybe it was because Jean hadn’t changed. Maybe it was because Eren missed this—missed the simplicity of arguing with someone who never gave up on fighting him. It was ridiculous, but it almost felt nostalgic. Almost like a piece of their old selves had survived.

Jean finally exhaled, his grin fading into something softer.
“You know what? Even if I hate your guts and wished you never came back… I’m still glad you’re here.”

Eren blinked at him, frowning.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You drunk already?”

Jean shook his head with a little shrug.
“Nah. But I do know a place that serves the best wine you’ll ever taste. You coming?”

For once, Eren didn’t feel like resisting. No anger, no weight dragging him down—just a quiet flicker of curiosity. A new year was coming, and maybe with it, a chance to change. To be something more than what he had been. Maybe this was what starting overlooked like.

He let the thought settle before answering.
“Fine.”

Jean broke into a wide grin—genuine this time, not his usual smirk—and before Eren could react, he slung an arm around his shoulders.

“Well then, let’s get drunk together!”

Eren rolled his eyes but let himself be pulled along.

✹

Eren didn’t feel the slightest trace of guilt as he downed almost an entire bottle side by side with Jean. The taste of alcohol burned less than the memories, and for once, that suited him just fine. He could almost trick himself into believing this was normal, that nothing had happened, as if the world wasn’t carrying the scars he had left behind. The truth was simpler: he didn’t hate this—he had been craving it all along. This rare ease, the sound of laughter, the warmth of voices blending together… it was a glimpse of what a second chance could look like. Or maybe he was just too drunk to tell the difference.

“Can I try?”

Gabi leaned across the table, her eyes fixed on the glass Pieck and Reiner were sharing, its liquid so dark it could hardly pass as wine.

Before Reiner could open his mouth, Levi’s voice cut in, sharp as ever:

“Oi. Remind me again why we even brought you here?”

“It’s New Year’s,” Gabi protested with a grin. “I can have a little fun too, old man.”

Levi’s brow twitched, his face unreadable. “Old man?”

“Old but short, like a kid,” Connie chimed in through a mouthful of sandwiches, crumbs falling as he grinned. He gave Gabi a wink. “Go on, I think you can drink.”

“You’ve got a death wish,” Levi deadpanned, his tone so flat it made the others snicker.

“I heard women love short kings,” Iris added thoughtfully, scratching her chin like she was genuinely considering it.

Levi narrowed his eyes. “Tch. Where did you hear that?”

“From me,” Iris replied, perfectly straight-faced.

That earned a round of exaggerated “Ooohs” around the table, the kind of noise that fed into the chaos. Pieck, already red in the face from drinking, leaned over the table with a sly smile.

“Is Miss Iris Hange trying to flirt with our most fearsome captain?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested,” Iris shot back, completely unbothered.

Jean let out a short laugh. “Well, after Armin and Annie, I guess we’ve got Iris and Levi. Who’s next?”

“Eren and Mikasa,” Falco said without hesitation, sipping his juice as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

Eren choked on his drink, coughing hard enough to make Jean slap his back with zero subtlety. He turned his head, and despite himself, his eyes flicked sideways—just long enough to catch her in the corner of his vision. Of course, he’d known everyone thought it. He just never expected anyone to actually say it out loud.

Mikasa lowered her eyes, focusing on the hand wrapped tightly around her glass of wine. She had to be cautious—her stomach still had its moments of cruel reminders, threatening to turn everything into nausea. Yet part of her wanted to let go, to enjoy herself like the others, to forget—if only for tonight.

Armin, quietly sipping his drink, stiffened when he felt the light brush of something against his thigh. A jolt of panic shot through him. Before he could even react, Annie—seated right beside him—leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Meet me outside.”

Heat rushed to his face instantly. He was sure he looked like a tomato, and his uncertainty only made it worse. But none of the others noticed; they were too busy laughing, teasing, and pairing each other off.

“I heard there’s fireworks,” Annie added.

“Fireworks?” Armin blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected something like that on Paradis.

Annie gave a small nod. The last time he had seen them, they had been both terrifying and breathtaking—the thunderous sound, the shock of impact, the sudden burst of light scattering into a thousand sparks before dissolving into the night. Beautiful, fleeting, overwhelming. The sensation reminded him of the way his chest tightened every time he kissed her.

“Guys, did you know there’ll be fireworks?” Pieck’s voice broke through, steering the group into a new subject.

“Fireworks?”

Gabi’s eyes immediately lit up as she spun toward Falco.
“Oh my god, we have to see them!”

“Sure,” Falco said quickly, though his heart was pounding faster than ever.

After all, it was New Year’s Eve.

Mikasa lifted her head, the cold night air cutting across her face, strands of hair breaking loose from the tie that held them back. Around them, the main street was alive—people gathered with cups of steaming chocolate in hand, voices hushed as if all were waiting for something greater than fireworks. Above stretched a vast, cloudless sky, stars scattered like promises waiting to be kept. There was a weight in the air, the fragile sense of a world pausing between what had been and what might still be.

Eren barely noticed any of it. The crowd, the anticipation, the hopeful murmur of new beginnings—it wasn’t what held him. His eyes were fixed on her, as though the rest of the night had been built only to frame this one sight. Mikasa stood silent beside him, her face calm, unreadable, bathed in the glow of starlight. It struck him harder than he expected, stealing his breath, reminding him that even in this moment of collective hope, there was no one else he wanted near.

For once, he wasn’t weighed down by the chains of guilt. He let them slip, just enough to feel the quiet of being here with her. Maybe it was the alcohol dulling the sharp edges of regret, maybe it was the simple fact that tomorrow would be a new year, a chance to start over, a promise he didn’t yet know how to keep. Or maybe it was nothing more than his own stubborn want—the need to finally let her see what he’d always buried.

His chest tightened as memory flickered before his eyes: the hill, the choice, the words left unsaid. That moment when everything had splintered between them. Why hadn’t she told him the truth then? Would anything have been different?

“Eren.”

Her voice pulled him back, steady and soft, grounding him even as his thoughts scattered. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t—not now. His throat burned with everything he hadn’t said, all the apologies, all the feelings he had twisted into anger and distance.

Maybe Jean was right. The bastard had thrown it at him half-joking, drunk at the table earlier, but for the first time, it had landed as something more than a taunt. Maybe moving forward meant staying by her side. Maybe it meant admitting that what tied them together wasn’t weakness, but the only strength he had left.

Eren let the thought settle, raw and unfamiliar. Jean had always known—his rivalry, his bitterness, had been laced with something truer: an understanding that Mikasa had never been his to chase. And for once, Eren almost admired him for it.

Now, standing beneath the stars, the first sparks of a new year waiting to break overhead, Eren felt something stir in him that he hadn’t in years—an unsteady, stubborn kind of hope.

“You remember, back at Marley… on that hill,” Eren began, his voice low, his fist tightening at his side.

Mikasa’s breath caught. The words struck her like a wound reopening, sharp and merciless. Her eyes widened before she could hide it. She knew instantly what he meant—knew it because it was the one moment she could never forget, no matter how much it hurt. The moment she had chosen wrong. The moment she had let fear guide her, fear of rejection, fear of hearing something harsher than this cruel world already was. She had thought her answer would protect her. Instead, it had destroyed the one thing she wanted to protect most.

Her chest tightened. Heat spread across her face as the memory surged—his question, her reply, the silence that followed. And now, as he looked at her, she felt something shift. His gaze was steady, clearer than she’d seen in years, stripped of anger and fury. His eyes reflected the stars above, green and fragile, almost like that night. For the first time in so long, it felt like she was standing before Eren—not the weight of what he became, but the boy she once knew.

Mikasa held her breath.

“When I asked you what I was to you,” he continued, voice strained, “you said I was family.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Regret burned in her chest. That single answer had marked the end of what could have been. They both knew it. That night had been their last peace, the last chance to reach for something more—and she had let it slip.

Eren’s gaze didn’t falter. His voice was quiet, but every syllable carried the heaviness of years lost.
“Why did you choose that path?”

Mikasa froze. Confusion swept over her, tangled with fear. Was this really him speaking? Or just the alcohol, lowering walls he’d kept unbroken? She didn’t know. She only knew this was dangerous—because if it was truly him, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t bear to. Forgiveness had never been a part of their story, not for him, not for her.

They stood suspended, side by side, each carrying words they had never been able to say. It felt as though one breath could shatter the silence, and everything would change.

Then, the night sky cracked. A whistle cut through the air, climbing higher, until a burst of colour exploded overhead. Fireworks bloomed, scattering into thousands of sparks, each one burning brief and bright before vanishing into the dark. The crowd roared with joy, laughter echoing down the street.

But to them, the world was distant, muffled. The cheers faded to nothing. The light above them blurred. It was just the two of them, caught in that fragile moment—her heart beating like a trapped bird, his eyes fixed on her, both teetering at the edge of something they had been denied too many times.

“I-I…”

Mikasa’s voice faltered, trembling under the weight of emotions she had buried for so long. Her lips parted, but the words refused to form, tangled in fear and longing. She couldn’t think straight—her heart pounded too fast, her chest too tight. All she could do was look at him, at the gaze that didn’t waver, steady and patient, just like that night when he had asked her what he meant to her.

But this time, something had broken. The walls she had clung to for years—fear, restraint, silence—crumbled under his eyes. He saw her, truly saw her, in a way no one else ever had. Vulnerable. Shy. Fragile. And yet, she was radiant, her emotions finally breaching the surface. He saw the tears gathering, the faint trembling of her breath. She had been forced, like him, to live with a life they had never chosen, to bear the weight of sins and regrets that weren’t entirely theirs.

And for once, Eren didn’t run.

The first tear slipped, glistening as it rolled down her cheek. An invisible pull guided him forward, and before he even realized it, he was holding her. Mikasa gasped as his arms wrapped around her, fierce and desperate, like he was terrified of losing her all over again. His head rested against hers, eyes shut tight, his breath uneven. The alcohol still lingered in him, heavy and dizzying, but it couldn’t dim the clarity of this moment. He didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to say it,” he whispered, his voice tight, trembling, as though each word carried the weight of years unshed tears. “I know…”

Mikasa’s eyes lifted toward the sky. Fireworks exploded above them, bursting into showers of red, gold, and blue, scattering across the night. The crowd cheered, voices rising with joy and laughter, but to her it was all distant. All she could feel was the strength of his embrace, the hammering of his heart against her own, and the warmth that seeped through her—painful, overwhelming, but irreplaceable.

And still, she didn’t move. Neither of them did. Together, they stayed frozen in their own fragile world, as though time had bent around them, giving them a chance to rewrite what had been lost.

A bell tolled in the distance, its deep chime carrying across the streets. Midnight. A new year. A new era. The noise of celebration swelled around them—their friends laughing and shouting, strangers clinking glasses, joy spilling freely into the cold air. Despite their scars, despite their differences, the bonds they had built remained unbroken, precious beyond measure.

And in that embrace, under the fractured light of fireworks, Eren finally let go of the weight that had chained him for so long. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe in tomorrow. He allowed himself to move forward.

Finally, Eren can move forward. But honestly, its so hard to give him this chance when you think about what he has done, I mean, justice wants him to have what he had done to the 80% population right? It was very hard for me to justify, which is the biggest challenge in this story, same goes to everyone. It had been a roller-coaster of emotion for everyone, but now that things have finally settled, between Eren and Jean little banter, Gabi finally being accepted, to finally being able to laugh with the others and for Eren to finally live with it, I felt like they have achieved something here, with the new year coming.

This also means that this sequel will be hold on pause for now, as I will be now focusing on the trio, departing for their exploration, like I had said. I don’t know if I should make a series of just break down the chapters, but I also intend to write back at the group and Historia, if she will resign her role as a queen to take care of her child and what would happen to Levi’s group, if they need to return to Marley to help rebuilt what had been destroyed.

Well, I guess we’ll see how this thing goes:)

Chapter Text

As winter finally gave way to spring, the time for change had come. Neümaria regained the spark it had lost in the cold months, life once again spilling into its streets as work on rebuilding the city continued with newfound energy. People labored side by side, determined to recover what the Rumbling had taken. Yet it wasn’t just the city that was being rebuilt—Levi’s group too had begun to hold firmly to the cause they had always fought for.

The past months had been long and exhausting, marked by scars no one could erase, but they endured. Perhaps it was a curse, perhaps a gift—they simply didn’t know how to quit. Even brushing against death hadn’t shaken their resolve; they carried their sins like a second skin, but they carried them together.

The children returned to school. Pieck reopened her antique shop, while Connie busied himself with a small but popular restaurant. Reiner spent his days hauling debris and turning ruins into foundations. Jean, unsurprisingly—though no one was shocked—found a place in politics. His task: to work on a peace treaty with the outside world. With Armin stepping back from diplomacy to pursue new expeditions, the responsibility had fallen to Jean and Levi. As for the queen, she had long since resigned, choosing after New Year’s to stay with her child, leaving her guards to ensure safety where they could.

But for how long?

A sudden blast of a horn tore through the port, rattling Mikasa’s ears until she pressed her hands to them. The ship was calling its last passengers, ready to set sail for Hizuru—the first stop of a long-awaited journey. At last, they were about to leave, to chase what they had always sworn they would, what had carried them through everything: the promise of the future. Mikasa hadn’t recovered all her memories, but for now, she was content—content to be alive, content to stand at Eren’s side.

“Armin, hurry up! We’re leaving!” Eren shouted over the crowd.

He and Mikasa were dressed in simple, warm clothes—practical for travel and for the heat that awaited them in the exotic countries ahead.

Armin, however, was still wrapped up in a kiss with Annie. He promised her it was the last, but neither of them seemed willing to let go. The truth was, beyond the surface excitement of the trip, Armin felt numb. Anxious. He knew why—and he wished he could stop Annie from walking away from him.

If she ever finds someone else…

“I love you, Armin,” Annie said softly, breaking the kiss. Her hand lingered against his cheek, gentle.

His chest tightened.

“So stop worrying about me. Go have fun with Eren and Mikasa.”

“I don’t want to go,” he murmured.

“You know you sound like a child, right?” she teased.

“Armin!”

Eren’s patience was long gone, and Mikasa could see it. The two of them had been clinging to each other for nearly twenty minutes, saying goodbye again and again.

“I swear, I’m gonna kill him,” Eren muttered.
“I’m gonna pull him off her by the ears.”

Before he could move, Mikasa marched over. Eren blinked, surprised—he hadn’t thought she’d actually do it. But she did. Without hesitation, she grabbed Armin by the ears and yanked him back, earning a pained groan.

“Aïe, Mikasa! Wait—I didn’t get to say goodbye yet!”

“You had more than enough,” she replied firmly. Then, with a small smile to Annie, she added, “Leave before he runs back.”

Annie let out the faintest laugh and waved, while behind her, the others cheered their own goodbyes.

The horn sounded again.

“Bring us pictures!”
“And souvenirs!”
“Don’t forget alcohol!”
“And women!”

Eren rolled his eyes. Of course, Jean had to shout something like that—maybe to mask the fact he was still searching for the woman of his dreams, or maybe just out of his usual dark humour.

They all waved one last time before stepping aboard, ready to set sail—to explore, to discover, and to finally live the adventures they had promised each other so long ago.

This time, they were heading into the unknown.

“ID check-in.”

The security guard at the ramp stopped them, scanning the crowd as he checked each passenger’s papers. His hand rose, halting Eren before he could step onto the ship.

Eren’s jaw tightened. The same unease always crept in whenever someone demanded his identity. Mikasa and Armin, used to this, handled theirs without trouble. They were still relying on their fake names whenever caution was needed.

Eren handed his card over. Time stretched unbearably, every second dragging as the guard studied it. His palm grew hot, sweat prickling his skin as he fought to keep his expression steady. The man’s eyes lingered, searching for something—for the lie, the truth, whatever might unravel them.

But there was nothing to find.

Still, the guard’s gaze narrowed, as if something about Eren’s face struck a chord, something half-remembered from a newspaper or a broadcast.

“Is there a problem?” Mikasa’s voice cut in sharply, pulling the tension taut between them.

The guard didn’t answer right away. At last, he handed the card back, his stare still locked on Eren. “Have a safe trip.”

Eren snatched the card from his grip and strode past without another word.

“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

No matter how well he buried himself, hid under false names and quiet months, he knew people hadn’t forgotten. Some remembered enough to look twice. Not enough to know—but enough to make him uneasy.

And that was how it had to stay.

The boat pulled away from the port, sunlight scattering across the water as their friends shrank into the distance, still waving from the deck. It was the kind of day that seemed to carry a promise—a quiet push to move forward.

Among the crowd, Armin’s gaze lingered only on Annie. Her face was composed as ever, but he caught the faint shine in her eyes. If he could, he would have leapt from the ship to stay by her side. Yet with Eren and Mikasa beside him, he was reminded of the promise he had made—to her, to them, and to himself. His dream hadn’t changed. He still wanted to see the world beyond the walls.

Beside, he could always write her letters.

Almost unconsciously, he turned toward his friends. Mikasa stood near the bow, eyes fixed ahead, already captivated by the horizon. Eren, however, was tense, his expression still shadowed by the guard’s scrutiny. For Eren, the weight of his name was always there. It was reckless to leave so soon after the Rumbling, when every nation still remembered Eren Yeager as a threat.

Armin clenched his fists at his side. He wouldn’t let anyone take that away again—the fragile progress Eren had made, the painful acceptance he had begun to embrace, the way he had slowly started opening up. With Mikasa at his side, things were better. Not whole, not healed, but better.

And for Armin, it was enough—for now. He felt again that same loop in his chest he had felt under the fireworks on New Year’s Eve: not love, but something close to it. A bond deeper than words, something unbreakable.

Mikasa drifted farther ahead, leaving the two of them alone.

“Eren,” Armin called quietly.

“Do you think this will go as well as you hope?”

 “Huh?”

“You know what I mean.”

Armin let out a small sigh.

“Nothing will happen,” he said firmly. “Hizuru hasn’t been touched. It’s the one place still untouched by war.”

Eren’s jaw tightened.

“Everyone knows who I am.”

“No,” Armin corrected him, his voice steady. “You’re Eren Kruger. Just a wanderer curious about the world.”

Eren scoffed, shaking his head.

“Why are you always so optimistic?”

“Because I refuse to live in the past,” Armin answered simply. “I try not to think too much. And as long as I’m with you, nothing bad will happen now.”

 “Yeah? Well, I almost got screwed back there with the guard.”

“Fuck him,” Armin muttered.

Eren blinked, caught off guard. His head snapped toward Armin, surprise etched across his face.

Armin shifted uncomfortably, feeling heat creep up his neck.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.

Eren smirked faintly.

“You’re spending too much time with Annie.”

Armin shot him a sidelong glance.

“Are you saying she’s vulgar?”

“…Not quite,” Eren admitted, looking away.

He didn’t know if he should have been mad at him for insulting  her, or happy that he had somehow found his smile.

So, I finally decided to continue on with the same story, breaking down chapters that will focus on one or multiple characters. Regarding the trio, I guess you will have to figure out when it’s about them, I might add a side note each time whenever I’m changing the point of view, but I realise that writing on a different part would be annoying for those who are reading this. So yeah, it will automatically go above 50 if I’m going slowly, but I prefer it that way. For now, I hope you have enjoyed this rather short chapter, as we get to see them all together one last time.

Chapter Text

Eren still couldn’t escape the nightmares. They clung to him like a plague, leeching at him, refusing to ever let go. Each time his eyes closed, he was dragged back into those moments—as if the past itself was pulling him under. The horror never left, but what haunted him most was the memory of Mikasa raising a blade against herself. Of everything he had faced, that image remained the most unbearable, a wound that never closed. He still didn’t understand why she had done it, why things hadn’t unfolded as he thought they would, why Ymir had chosen to cling to her instead. The screams came back to him then—the crushing of bodies, the endless wails for justice. They echoed in his skull, louder than any dream should be. And yet he was still here, alive, breathing, moving forward, when so many others were not.

The last months had passed strangely, as if wrapped in a haze. During the days, when his mind was occupied, he could almost forget. But when night came, when silence stretched and the pace slowed, all of it returned. The guilt, the weight, the shadows—crashing back against him like a tide.

He jolted awake again, breath shallow, his skin damp with sweat. He felt filthy, trapped in his own body, as if even the mattress was sinking under him. The gentle rocking of the ship only worsened the nausea, dragging him back to memories he wanted to bury. He hated it—the confinement, the motion, the way every corner seemed to close in around him. His chest tightened, his anxiety gnawing at him, until he could almost feel the shadows of his dream reaching out to swallow him whole.

Unable to endure it, he finally pushed himself from the bed. He pulled a shirt over his damp skin, slipped into his slippers, and left the room in search of air, of space—anything to keep the darkness at bay. The wooden floor creaked under Eren’s steps as he made his way down the narrow hallway. His chest was still tight, his breath uneven. No matter how many times he tried to shake the nightmares off, they clung to him like chains.

When he finally stepped out onto the deck, the cool night air hit him like a wave. Salt stung his nose, and the sky stretched wide and endless, filled with stars that shimmered faintly over the black water. It was almost too calm, too different from the chaos in his head. Why her? Why did Ymir choose to cling to Mikasa of all people? Why had Mikasa carried that burden, and not him? He had carried enough sins to fill a lifetime, but that moment—the sight of her ready to carve her own life away—was the one he couldn’t forgive, not even in dreams.

But before his thoughts could collapse in on themselves, a black shape at the railing caught his eye. He’d seen that silhouette a thousand times in his head; he knew the way she leaned, the way the scarf snapped in the wind. He found himself moving toward her without thinking.

Mikasa stood with her palms on the rail, the night wind stealing heat through thin pyjama fabric and the light jacket she’d shrugged on. She hadn’t noticed him at first—her gaze was fixed on the dark seam where ocean met sky. She’d woken from another dream of the woman again, one of the painful fragments she’d been chasing since the memories returned. This one had gnawed at her all evening until she could not sit still.

Only then did she become aware of the presence beside her. Her muscles tensed automatically, but the motion of her breath stilled when the familiar scent reached her—Eren’s hair brushed by the wind—and the old, complicated ache settled in her chest.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and almost casual, as if to anchor them both to the present.

Mikasa kept her hands fixed on the railing. She thought about telling him—about the dream, the fragments - the words he had once thrown at her across a table. They came back to her in pieces, jagged and incomplete, but sharp enough to hurt. She wanted to ask if they were true. Yet the words stayed trapped in her throat. Too much remained unsaid between them—the fireworks, the closeness they had clung to, and the silence afterward. None of it had ever been faced, and that silence lingered still, suspended heavy in the air between them. Eren felt the shift in her; the slight hitch in her shoulder told him everything he needed to know. Guilt—old and sharp—rose in him with the tide. For weeks, he’d let himself be carried by the small normalcies: laughter, food, company. After that night he’d thought he’d granted himself a reprieve, a brief permission to live. But standing here now, watching Mikasa stare into the dark, the truth pressed back in living felt obscene next to what he had taken. He had found fragments of life again and let himself taste them, and that made the weight worse. He knew, with a clarity that cut, that he did not deserve these moments. He knew he could not pretend forever—not if he was honest with himself about who he had been and what he had done.

The silence stretched on, heavy, neither of them daring to break it. Both looked anywhere but at each other, as if running from what they had never dared to face. Mikasa let out a sigh, soft but unmissable, and the sound rang sharply in Eren’s ears. He was suddenly too aware of her—of her presence, her emotions—though he hadn’t come here for this, hadn’t left his room just to find her waiting in the dark.

Then she spoke.
“Why did you say that?”

Eren blinked, caught off guard.
“…Huh?”

The question landed like it belonged to another world, one Mikasa had only half returned from. But he understood instantly. Of all the things he thought she might never recover, he hadn’t expected this—her memory reaching back to the words he’d hurled across that table. That moment had been their fracture, their breaking point. While Armin could be hurt with fists, Mikasa could only be cut down through her heart, and Eren had known it. Back then, after Liberio, after capturing Zeke, he had needed space to lay his plans bare, even if it meant turning cruel against the person he cared for most.

Now the weight of it came back all at once, crashing over him like a storm. Cold, dirty reminders of how selfish he’d been, how obsessed he was with freedom and vengeance. And of all the wounds he’d inflicted, Mikasa’s was the deepest. She had clawed her way back, rebuilt fragments of her trust and her identity piece by piece—and now the past was resurfacing. Eren had known this day would come, but not like this. Not so soon. Not when things between them had finally begun to feel almost steady again.

“Did you… really mean it?” Mikasa’s voice was quiet, nearly swallowed by the crash of waves and the groan of the ship.

“You remembered,” Eren said.

Not a question—just the bitter confirmation of mistakes he could never erase, mistakes that would always cling to him.

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Mikasa said, staring out at the dark water, deliberately not meeting him. “She — the one who’s always been with me in my dreams, the one who showed me the softer things — she started showing me the worst. Things I never wished to feel again.”

“She?” Eren prompted, voice rough.

Mikasa kept her eyes on the sea. “She never speaks. She just stays with me while I watch my memories. I think she’s been holding back the worst on purpose, handing me only fragments so I don’t break. Maybe she knows things I shouldn’t know yet.”

Ymir. The name hung between them, cold and inevitable. Even freed, even after everything, Ymir kept visiting Mikasa in those half-real nights. Eren listened, a slow, guilty curiosity tightening his chest — what did those visits take from her, what were they repairing or ruining?

“Mikasa…” Eren said finally, the single name cutting the quiet. His voice carried something he’d been trying not to feel — the raw fear of losing her again. He’d already lost too much; he could not afford another absence.

“What I said back then… I didn’t mean it,” he blurted. “I—”

“You didn’t mean it?” Her answer was flat, but the hurt showed in her eyes. “Is that supposed to fix it?”

“Because you wouldn’t leave me,” he said, stammering for the first time in a long while.

“Is that the reason?”

Her question was a blade. For a breath, he saw the pain in her face and hated himself: for what he’d said on that day, for how many pieces he’d broken, for never finding a way to be anything but catastrophe. Forgiveness, he knew, would never equal justice. The past stayed with him like a stain; every small happiness felt like punishment for the lives he’d taken. Often he thought death would be simpler.

He curled his hand into a fist, irritation and despair rising together. “Do you even know why I did it?” he asked, needing her to understand, or at least to hear.

Mikasa searched him for an answer she couldn’t find. Parts of her memory were still missing; she felt the gaps as a hollow. She could sense the enormity of whatever had driven him then — something that left no clear choice — but from where she stood it looked like cruelty: he’d turned her devotion into a weapon, spat on what she had given. Eren watched her hold her silence and realized, with a sharp, humiliating certainty, that she remembered none of the things beyond the Rumbling. She hadn’t seen the full shape of his plan; she didn’t know that he’d been the cause of a catastrophe that wiped out most of the world. She didn’t know that her own attempts to die — the darkness she’d flirted with — were part of the reason he’d kept living, because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her too.

That truth — that she lacked context and he carried all of it alone — settled between them like iron.

“Mikasa, I said those things so I could protect you—”

“How is that protecting me, Eren? Why are you always pushing me away? What are you so scared of?”

Her voice cracked on the last words, the sound small against the night. Under the fireworks and the crowd, something raw had opened in her; for the first time in a long while she felt like she’d found a home, someone she could trust. Now that fragile thing was being ripped again. Eren felt the same tearing inside him, but his reasons ran deeper than anger or pride. They threaded back to everything he had done, to the name that would not leave anyone’s lips without a shiver. He told himself he had to keep his distance because he did not deserve forgiveness, and because, even given a second chance, he could not risk dragging her into what he had become.

He could stand beside them as a friend. He could manage the small kindnesses, keep his hands clean of further harm. But he would not let this — whatever it might become — touch her the way it had once. He had seen her almost die for him; he could not gamble with that again. If loving him meant losing herself, then it was better for her to walk away.

“You don’t want me,” she shot back, voice ragged with disbelief, “but you told me once that you felt the same. You held me that night, Eren, like you didn’t want me to vanish. You can’t just tell me to stay away that’s bullshit.”

Her words landed like stones. The moonlight made her eyes glitter; Eren couldn’t tell if those were tears or starlight. A tendril of hair fell across her cheek; he wanted to brush it aside, to see her clearly, but he kept his hands buried in his pockets instead. The cold bit through his shirt, but it didn’t matter, everything else had dimmed to the edge of awareness. He was caught between the reflex to protect her at any cost and a selfishness he despised: wanting her close.

“Don’t keep me out of your world,” she said softer now, an ache threaded through the plea. “I hate seeing you suffer alone. I don’t know all of it yet, but please share that burden. Let me in.”

“Mikasa…”

It was a warning, half-formed. The confession would cost him everything. He had told Armin everything once; that had been easier in a way, Armin was a mind he could reason with, a shoulder that already carried some of the truth. Mikasa was different. To her he was a law he could not break, a danger she wouldn’t understand if he explained it. He had become the villain in stories and papers. He had no longer the power to make different paths, no Titan to change fate for them. His choices had closed doors.

“You should go to sleep,” he managed, a brittle attempt at control.

“You keep doing this,” she said. “You keep pushing me away.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, meaning it with everything that still pounded in his chest.

“How is this hurting me?” she asked, and for the first time neither of them had an answer that could hold.

They stared at one another, breath fogging in the cold, the space between them taut as wire. Green eyes met dark—hers steady in a way that made him ache, his raw and pleading. Nothing moved for a long, unbearable moment; the pull between them hummed like an exposed nerve. Neither could deny what lay there, but fate had a stubborn way of arranging obstacles.

But then, Mikasa took a slow step back. The motion unknotted the pressure in his lungs and left him suddenly exposed to the night air.

“If you meant what you said, Eren,” she said quietly, “you wouldn’t be here with me.” Her voice had an edge of something he could not bear. “Stop lying to yourself. Be a man for once.”

Those last words cut deeper than any blade. They sounded familiar,  like his mother’s scold once upon the time, demanding he act with the simple steadiness he’d never been taught. She walked away and Eren didn’t bother turning, the deck emptying around him until he was alone with his shadow and the cold. He stayed where he was, feeling the hollowness that came with knowing he could not leave her — and terrified, above all, of the moment when that fear turned into reality and he would have to hold her while she slipped away once again.

✹

“Hello!”

Armin and his friends stepped off the boat, their feet touching a land none of them had ever dreamed of walking before: Hizuru. The air was warmer, the light softer, and the smell of the port—spices, smoke, and the sea—hit them all at once. For years they’d been told Paradis was all that was left. Now, standing here, it felt almost unreal.

For Armin, the sight was overwhelming. The colors, the buildings, the way people moved with a rhythm unlike Marley’s military stiffness—it was everything he’d imagined the outside world could be, but still more. His mind raced, already wanting to take note of every detail.

For Mikasa, the sensation was different. Something in her chest tightened the moment she saw the sloping roofs, the banners written in curved script she couldn’t read but somehow felt she should. A strange warmth spread through her, like recognition—like she was standing closer to her mother’s memory. For the first time since they boarded the ship, she felt a spark of excitement she could not hide.

Eren, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. It didn’t matter how untouched this place looked. He knew too well—sooner or later, word would spread, and history would catch up.

“Is that her?” Armin asked quietly, spotting a woman on the docks waving so hard her arms looked ready to fall off.

Eren squinted. The woman was even jumping now, holding up a white board with scribbles on it.

“Yeah,” he muttered, jaw tightening. “That’s her.”

The three of them walked forward, drawing more stares than they were comfortable with.

“Finally! You’re here!” the woman shouted, dropping her arms with a dramatic sigh. She looked exhausted from waiting, but her smile was unshakable.

“My name’s Mina,” she said brightly. “I’ll be your guide for now. Long trip, huh? You must be starving—how about we grab some fast food first? Does Macdo sound good?”

The three of them blinked, completely lost.

Eren frowned. Even with all the knowledge he carried, that word meant nothing.

Mikasa tilted her head. “…Who is Macdo?”

Mina laughed. “Not who—what! It’s a place. The best food. You’ll see. Come on, standing here’s exhausting.”

Before Mikasa could react, Mina had already taken her luggage, motioning them to follow with boundless energy.

Eren’s frown deepened. Being welcomed with this much enthusiasm—it was unusual. Almost unsettling.

But Armin’s shoulders eased. Whatever else, this woman was already talking about the port, its history, the trade routes, its place in the world. For him, it was a relief—someone willing to explain, to share. The world was opening, and he wanted to take in every single piece of it.

“So, you’re from Paradis?”

They sat crowded around a table in this strange place called Macdonald. The room buzzed with voices and laughter, but the words meant nothing to them—like they had stepped onto another planet. Still, Armin felt a strange peace. After everything, he was finally traveling the world, his friends at his side. He couldn’t wish for more.

Eren tensed at the question, already on edge, ready to bolt if too much attention fell on them.

“Yes,” Armin answered quickly. Beside him, Eren and Mikasa kept their eyes on the food in front of them.

“I figured,” Mina said, grinning. “Your faces give it away. Though… you,” she turned her gaze toward Mikasa, “you look like you belong here.”

Mikasa froze mid-bite. Heat rushed to her cheeks as several nearby eyes shifted her way, curious. She hated it—being watched, cornered like this. She forced herself to chew quickly, swallowing hard, but it only made the moment more uncomfortable.

Before she could answer, Mina carried on.

“There’s an old story that the Asian clan inside the Walls disappeared generations ago. To think one survived… quite the surprise.”

Eren’s eyes snapped to her.

“How do you know that?” His voice was sharp, too defensive.

“Knowledge. You people are… well, you’re famous. An island shut off for a hundred years? Without any war…”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Eren,” Armin hissed under his breath, shooting him a warning glance. Eren clenched his jaw and said nothing more.

Mina didn’t seem to notice the tension. She just smiled brightly. “Anyway, I’m glad to be your guide. Think of it like… taking my kids camping for the first time.”

“What?” Armin blinked.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids. They drive me crazy, but I love them.” She leaned in conspiratorially, dropping her voice. “But here’s a tip: don’t have kids.”

Mikasa almost choked on her drink. Armin stared at her wide-eyed. Eren, though, was the one who asked what they were all thinking—blunt as ever.

“How old are you?”

Mina put a hand over her chest, feigning shock.

“That’s not very polite to ask a lady, you know.”

“Sorry,” Eren muttered, unbothered. “You just don’t look like a mother.”

Mina looked far too young to be considered a mother. But perhaps here, in this land, age wasn’t weighed the same way. She was petite, almost delicate in stature, her features marked with distinct Asian traits—sharper and more defined than Mikasa’s, which only made Eren wonder again about Mikasa’s true origins, something he had never dared to ask outright. Mina wore simple black, square-rimmed glasses that framed her lively eyes, and her outfit was oddly casual: a loose pullover, as though it were winter, paired with green cargo jeans. The combination gave her a youthful look, almost as if she could have been their peer rather than someone who claimed to have a child waiting at home.

“That’s because I take care of myself.” She smirked. “I’m thirty.”

Eren frowned.

“And you already have children?”

“What’s wrong with that? Just one, actually. A handful, but I wouldn’t mind another.”

“Why?”

“Eren,” Armin warned again, sharper this time.

Eren only shook his head. He couldn’t understand it. Why would anyone want to bring new life into this chaotic world? Even if this land hadn’t been scarred by war like theirs, he couldn’t imagine a future. Not when he was still here.

Mina watched him quietly, sensing the roughness in his tone, but to her, it was simply how people from Paradis must be. Despite that, she felt strangely optimistic, convinced that in time, they would grow closer, perhaps even friends. She loved this part of her work: meeting new people, guiding them through her home, showing them the land and its stories. Each group she had welcomed left her with memories she cherished, and she knew this one would be no different.

The meal had softened the three of them. They were more open now, careful not to share their scars or politics, but willing to talk about their daily lives, about their island as it once was. Mina listened with genuine curiosity, her questions endless. She wanted to know how their homes looked, what the people did, what ordinary life had been like behind walls the world thought were myths. To Eren, her curiosity reminded him of Falco—of the first time they had spoken after the Rumbling, when Falco’s eyes carried a fire he couldn’t put out, a hunger to live no matter what. The memory ached in him, an ache for those who were gone, for those who had fought alongside him. He hadn’t expected this journey to stir those feelings, hadn’t thought he would carry such weight for his friends. But he did. They had grown together, and despite everything, they still stood as family.

His gaze drifted without meaning to, finding Mikasa across the car. They had ridden one in Marley before, but this was different—sleeker, quieter, and yet the bumps in the road made their stomachs churn. None of them dared admit their unease, pretending to be used to it when in truth, every jolt left them light-headed. Mikasa sat with her eyes fixed to the window, her face unreadable, transfixed by what passed outside. It reminded him of that night on the boat, when she had told him what he hadn’t wanted to hear. They hadn’t spoken of it since. Armin had asked, but neither of them shared the truth. Something had shifted in Eren that night, something he still couldn’t shake.

She had been right—he was afraid. Afraid to believe in something real, afraid to let himself hope, because he knew how fragile it all was. One wrong step, and it could all disappear. His fingers twitched against his knee, his body betraying the storm he tried to hold inside. Avoiding her was easier, safer, and yet the more he pulled back, the more it hurt to see her do the same. He wanted to fix what was breaking, to close the distance, to remember the promise he once made—to be better, to try. Falco had believed in those words, and so had he. He didn’t want to let her go.

The car jolted sharply, throwing them against their seatbelts. Mina muttered under her breath, her driving reckless enough to make Armin tighten his grip on the door. He had insisted on sitting up front to see more, but the scenery rushed by too quickly for him to take in, every detail blurred. Silence fell in the car, each of them quietly praying the ride wouldn’t last much longer.

And then, slowly, the city gave way. The road smoothed, the noise faded, and the world outside began to open. Green stretched endlessly, the air clearer than anything they had breathed before. Birds swept low over fields, horses grazed lazily in open pastures, and people walked the narrow lanes, their pace unhurried, enjoying the fading light of the afternoon. To the three of them, it was like stepping into another world—not the one they had been told about, not the chaos they expected, but something quieter, alive in its own rhythm.

For the first time since they had left the boat, they allowed themselves to simply look.

And Mina, watching them from the driver’s seat, saw for the first time a flicker of wonder on their faces. They were mesmerized by her homeland—the rolling fields, the mountains on the horizon, the scent of pine drifting in through the window. It stirred something in her chest, a quiet pride that burned brighter as she witnessed recognition in their eyes, proof that her country’s beauty reached even those from another world.

She cleared her throat and explained quickly, her voice carrying the warmth of someone excited to share what she loved:

“Alright, kids, we’re stopping at a small resort for the night. Everything’s included—food, laundry, a spa… and one natural hot spring.”

Armin tilted his head. “What’s that?”

Mina blinked, then laughed softly. “You’ve never heard of a Hizuru bath?”

Eren muttered, “Sounds like a jacuzzi.”

“Almost,” Mina replied with a grin. “But without the bubbles. The water comes from the ground itself, naturally heated by shallow pockets of magma.”

“Magma?” Armin’s eyes widened. “There are volcanoes here?”

“Yep. One is still very active, not too far from this region. We keep a close watch on it, since it could bring disaster if it erupts. But thanks to it, we have countless hot springs scattered across the land.”

“Eren,” Armin said suddenly, turning to him with a boyish spark in his eyes. “We could see lava!”

“Let’s hope not,” Mina chuckled, shaking her head.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice their innocence. They might have been in their twenties, but in so many ways they were unfamiliar with things most people took for granted. Even eating at a McDonald’s had felt strange to them, as though their world ran by entirely different rules. And maybe, Mina thought, it truly did.

“Tomorrow,” she continued, “we’ll head out to one of our first destinations: an old village that once belonged to the Shogun’s clan. Hizuru has many clans, each with its own history. This one was closely tied to Paradis centuries ago. When the villagers moved on, they left behind everything—and we’ve preserved it for visitors.”

At the mention of the Shogun’s clan, Mikasa’s eyes flickered. She wondered quietly if one of those villages had ties to her mother’s past.

They soon arrived at the resort, leaving more wonders to them, as they finally set foot outside, among nature and new discoveries.

Sorry, this took a bit longer as I was figuring out some places they could visit, how it would turn out to introduce an original character (Iris wasn’t enough lol) and still a reminder that everything progresses slowly, especially between Eren and Mikasa. Also, since we don’t have a lot of information about Hizuru’s land, I had to come up with my own imagination, I though Isayama would base himself with Japan regarding the continent, so it was only normal for me to stick with it. Even so, I am going to include some more modern stuff like Macdos which they first tasted lol. But whatever this is, its fictional, a slight divergence from the canon, but it is essential for the story to move on and i make sure to keep everything else canon.

I might slow down my updates, as I would have less time now to write, but I’ll try and post it as much as I can.

P.S: Chapters containing “●” will be about the trio, while “–” will be about the other group.

Chapter Text

Eren stared at the cardboard sign in front of him. The symbols meant nothing—lines and strokes that seemed more like drawings than words. He knew it was supposed to hold meaning, but to his eyes it was just a pattern, an image that belonged to someone else’s world. He squinted, as if that might somehow make the language fall into place, but it remained stubbornly foreign.

They had arrived at the old village of Shiratszu*, tucked away between mountains and fields. Even before stepping fully into its heart, the atmosphere shifted. The air smelled of cedar and damp earth, carrying the faint echo of running water. The houses rose tall around them, larger than the ones they had seen before, each with an almost triangular silhouette. The most striking feature was the roofs—steeply pitched, layered with thick bundles of straw, so carefully bound that they looked like they had been grown rather than built. They towered overhead like folded hands in prayer, a design Mina explained was meant to withstand heavy snowfalls in winter. To the three of them, it was unlike anything they had ever known.

The village felt both alive and frozen in time. Narrow dirt paths wound between the houses, where flowers grew in small, carefully tended gardens. Wooden waterwheels creaked beside clear streams that ran directly through the village, their sound blending with the distant call of birds. A few locals moved quietly about their work, their presence calm, unhurried, as though the pace of life here had never been touched by the outside world.

To Mina, their wide-eyed awe was familiar, yet it filled her with pride all the same. She had guided many through these streets, but seeing Paradisians—people who had been cut off from everything—staring at her homeland’s preserved heritage gave her a unique sense of joy.

“What was the name of the clan who lived here?” Armin asked, jotting something quickly in his notebook.

Mina glanced around at the old wooden houses before answering.

“If I’m not mistaken, this was once the home of the Azumabito. A branch of the family left for Paradis…most of them didn’t survive. Records say they were killed, though the reasons aren’t clear.”

Mikasa froze. Meeting Kiyomi Azumabito had been shocking enough, but she had never known the family had split, with some crossing into the island.

Could her mother have been one of them?

As if sensing her thoughts, Mina turned to her.

“That’s why, when I first saw you… I wondered if a piece of that line had endured.”

“My mother died,” Mikasa said flatly, her voice dry. “I am the last.”

She hadn’t expected this reminder—to have her difference held up to the light, the thing that had marked her as prey when she was a child. Because of her face. Because she wasn’t like the others. Quietly, she tugged at her sleeve, exposing the stitched emblem her mother had left her—the faint mark of her clan’s legacy. Few had ever seen it. Only Armin, Eren, and Kiyomi.

“Incredible…” Mina whispered, almost reverent, as she reached out and gently touched Mikasa’s hand. “So, the bloodline really did survive behind the walls.”

The boys said nothing. Eren and Armin exchanged a glance but stayed silent. Mikasa’s past was something neither of them could ever fully grasp. They knew the facts—her parents, their home outside the districts—but the weight of it, the reason they had lived in hiding… only now did it begin to fit together. Eren clenched his fists. He hadn’t thought about it before, not really. Why her family had chosen the woods, away from everyone. Why she had carried that scar of difference all her life. Now he understood—and the truth cut deeper than he wanted to admit. He could see the sadness flicker in her eyes, the restraint it took for her to hold herself steady.

Mina straightened, as if remembering something.

“You know, the Azumabito who leads Hizuru—Lady Kiyomi—she would be honoured to meet you.”

Mikasa’s voice was cool, almost dismissive.

“We already met.”

“Oh?” Mina blinked, surprised.

“Enough,” Eren interrupted sharply, pushing past them. “We’re here to see the village, not dig through old ghosts.” His tone was edged with impatience, but Armin could hear what lay underneath it—a quiet urge to protect Mikasa from more pain.

Mina sighed, she would never be in any good terms with him for a while.

“Hey, you’re okay?”  Armin asked as Mina left to continue their visit.

“Yeah, she loves to look at things that isn’t her business but…”

“…Its like finding your home?”

She nodded.

“Maybe that’s where you came from”

Armin looked around once more, the village, standing in this peaceful silence, abandoned long ago. But now, he was imagining how life it had been, when this family was still here, still living in their homeland, if they didn’t join Paradis, they would still be standing today.

They had spent most of the morning wandering through the village, ducking into narrow lanes and peering at houses whose roofs looked older than time itself. By noon, Mina led them into one of the larger homes that had been turned into a teahouse. Its wooden beams were darkened with age, the tatami mats smelled faintly of grass, and low tables were set close to the floor. Mina ordered for all of them, filling the table with small plates of appetizers and steaming cups of tea.

Everything felt unfamiliar—the way they sat, the design of the room, the quiet rhythm of the people moving about. To them it was strange, but not in a way that bred judgment—only curiosity. It reminded them of their first encounter with Onyankopon, the way his very presence had shown them a world beyond their own walls. Once again, they were reminded how different people could be—how difference could inspire both understanding and hatred.

Armin was the most eager, asking about every dish, listening carefully as Mina explained each one. For him, every detail was worth writing down, worth remembering.

When his cup was nearly empty, he looked up.

“Excuse me… do you know where we can send letters around here?”

Mina blinked, then smirked.

“Letters? Who even writes letters anymore? Let me guess—it’s for your girlfriend, huh?”

Her teasing caught him off guard, and his cheeks reddened.

“I—well—”

Eren rolled his eyes, leaning back.

“Armin, you’re making us look like idiots.” His tone was low, uncomfortable, as if being behind the world’s pace was too much to bear.

“It’s not a big deal,” Mina said gently, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a slim black rectangle and set it on the table. “We use this now. A phone. Makes it easier to talk to anyone, anywhere. Lovers included.”

Mikasa leaned slightly closer, curious but silent.

Armin tilted his head, fascinated.

“And if… if someone still wanted to write a letter?”

There was a pause. His voice carried something heavier than curiosity. He hadn’t even been gone a week, yet Annie weighed on his mind constantly. He missed her—the sound of her voice, the look in her eyes. He wanted to tell her everything he’d seen, everything he was discovering. Part of him was already outlining pages in his mind, a book he might one day publish for children back home. But most of all, he wanted to ask her the questions that gnawed at him: Was she with her father? Was she doing okay ? Did she plan to return? Did she still care for him, even after everything?

Mina’s expression softened. She recognized the look in his eyes—the kind of longing that once made her heart ache too. She smiled faintly.

“I know someone who still helps people send letters. If it matters to you, we’ll find her.”

Armin’s face lit up.

“Yes, please.”

“Then that’s our next stop,” Mina decided.

Eren drained the last of his tea.

“And after that?”

“I’ll need to negotiate with the bus driver for tomorrow,” Mina said, stretching slightly. “It’s going to be a long ride. So, after we finish, I thought you could all rest a bit. Armin will have his letter. As for the rest of you…” Her eyes flicked to Eren and Mikasa.

Eren gave a short nod. Rest meant more time with Mikasa, though it wasn’t as simple as that. They hadn’t spoken properly since boarding the boat. The silence between them weighed heavier than any battlefield. He knew he had pushed her away—again—and the distance he’d created was now a wall neither of them dared to breach. If he was honest, he wanted to. He wanted to take responsibility, to face her properly. But how could someone drenched in blood reach for someone like her?

“You can always try the hot spring,” Mina suggested, breaking his train of thought. “There’s a natural one at the resort. I’ll show you once we get there.”

✹

Mikasa had never thought of herself as modest. During training, privacy was a luxury they couldn’t afford; sleeping shoulder to shoulder in cramped barracks, jolted awake in the middle of the night, forced to run for miles in nothing but sweat-soaked pajamas. She had endured worse things than exhaustion or exposure, and those years had hardened her, preparing her for situations where dignity meant nothing compared to survival.

And yet—nothing in her soldier’s discipline had prepared her for this.

The bathhouse was filled with women of all ages, moving about with an ease Mikasa couldn’t bring herself to imitate. Some stepped into the steaming pools without hesitation, others sat before mirrors brushing damp hair, their bare skin glistening under the lantern light. There was no shame in their movements, no hesitation. To them, this was natural. To Mikasa, it was foreign.

Mina’s words echoed in her mind as if mocking her unease:

“Oh, and don’t be surprised. This is how we do things—you’ll see, it’s normal to us.”

But Mikasa couldn’t feel normal here. Standing at the edge of the room, she clutched the towel tight against her chest, her scars too exposed to be tolerated, fingers stiff around the fabric as if it were a shield. Her eyes flicked from one stranger to another, heart quickening with the irrational sense that they were all watching her, when in truth, none of them seemed to notice at all. They carried on as if she didn’t exist, while she stood frozen—caught between soldier’s steel and a girl’s uncertainty.

“Do you need help?”

Mikasa flinched at the sudden voice. She turned quickly, finding herself face-to-face with another woman. She looked to be around Mikasa’s age, her hair was still damp, strands of black falling neatly to frame her face, while the rest was tied back in a loose, practical knot. She had sharp features: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that carried a depth almost unsettling for someone who looked so young. Draped lightly in a towel that barely seemed to bother her, she moved with the composed grace of someone utterly at ease with her surroundings.

“Don’t worry,” she said again, her voice low and clear, carrying a tone that balanced reassurance with confidence. “No one is watching you. They’re just living.”

Mikasa didn’t say anything, because she didn’t know how to socialise, because she was afraid to say something wrong to her.

But the young lady only smile at her, comforting as if she sensed her problem. She slowly invited her to join, Mikasa following behind, bowing her head as if she could avoid the other naked woman from her periphery. But that didn’t help, until they arrived at a pool, under a tree with white flowers, almost hiding its surroundings. Maybe the lady choose this one, who was rather secluded from the rest, here nature enveloped them into their own world. Mikasa lifted her head, taking in the beauty.

“Maybe here would be more suited for you” the young lady said.

She dropped her towel, casually walking in front of her, as she was entering the hot spring. Mikasa felt her eyes scanning, she felt out of place, but wasn’t as bad as before.

“Why don’t you come in already? You’re holding that towel like someone’s coming to get you and you’re afraid”

The lady turned to her, she wasn’t fully in the water, so her whole upper body was exposed. Mikasa stared in her eyes, her own heart beating – wanting to get out of chest. The reason wasn’t because she was naked and she would be sharing a pool with some stranger, none of this mattered. But the scars that covered her body held her back. She didn’t want her to see them, she didn’t want to answer the questions she would be asking as soon as she would show them, she didn’t want to live in pain again.

“My name is Yuki. Maybe we could be friends? I think we’re about the same age,” she said, trying to ease the tension.

“Mikasa,” she replied with a small nod.

“You’re not from here, are you? Is this your first time?”

Mikasa stiffened, on high alert. Without the boys nearby, she felt unmoored, realizing just how much she had relied on them over the past months. Yuki’s gaze lingered on her, curiosity gentle, taking in the long legs marked with tiny scars. But she sensed this wasn’t the right moment to pry—Mikasa likely just wanted to breathe, to rest.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki added softly, feeling suddenly awkward. “I must be bothering you with all my chatter when you probably just want to relax…”

“…No, you’re fine. I just…”

Mikasa exhaled, letting her towel slip from her shoulders.

Yuki’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the long, deep scar cutting across Mikasa’s abdomen. She didn’t comment, understanding that some wounds were meant to be met with respect, not words. As Mikasa shifted, more faint scars became visible—some dark, some subtle—but they didn’t diminish her presence. Her posture, her strong yet graceful lines, the elegance of her curves and the strength in her chest, all spoke of a woman shaped by struggle yet still undeniably beautiful. She shifted in the water, the heat of the spring immediately burning her skin before melting into a comforting warmth. At first, she wondered how Yuki could sit there so calmly, but soon she understood why hot springs were treasured—her body surrendered almost instinctively to the relaxation, the tension knotted in her shoulders melting away. A long sigh escaped her, carrying the weight of days spent on edge. It was as if the water had wrapped her in a protective bubble, washing away every ache, every stress, until she felt almost numb.

She almost forgot about Yuki, sitting quietly beside her.

“So… if you don’t mind me asking, you’re alone here, right?” Yuki’s voice was gentle, curious.

“I came with two friends,” Mikasa replied.

“The brunet guy with green eyes—is he with you?”

Mikasa’s head shifted slightly at the mention, just enough for Yuki to notice.

“Oops, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Yuki added quickly. “I’m just curious. I’ve never seen anyone like him, not with that eye color.”

Mikasa said nothing. Her chest tightened slightly, a tug of unease she didn’t bother hiding from herself. Every time someone expressed interest in Eren, she felt it—an instinctive prick of jealousy, a protective impulse she couldn’t dismiss. But she knew better than anyone: Eren and she weren’t anything. Nothing would ever happen between them—not after their last conversation. Still, she couldn’t shake the thought of someone else noticing him, of someone daring to care, even less if he reciprocated.

“But he seems scary,” Yuki continued, oblivious to Mikasa’s tension. “Like he doesn’t want to be here. Maybe he doesn’t like this place.”

“He’s an idiot,” Mikasa muttered before she could stop herself.

“Huh?”

Yuki’s brow furrowed, a mixture of surprise and amusement at the bluntness. But before the moment could linger, she shifted the subject.

“Are you three part of tomorrow’s trip?”

That caught Mikasa’s attention. She leaned in slightly, interest piqued.

“It’s going to be great. We’ll be walking up the mountain, looking for rare deer and studying the flora. Even though I know these places, I hope to become a teacher someday and show the kids how magnificent Hizuru really is.”

“Maybe you should try visiting other places,” Mikasa suggested cautiously.

“I want to, but most areas are closed off now, after… everything that happened. People are helpless in those zones,” Yuki explained, her tone thoughtful.

Mikasa immediately regretted speaking. She didn’t know the full story behind the closures, but she knew enough—whatever calamity had struck, it was tied to her world, her friends. Guilt crept in. Their actions, their existence, had kept entire nations restricted, confined to their continents while the world repaired itself.

Yuki’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts once more, bright and full of hope:

“But maybe, when this is over and the country opens up, I’ll travel elsewhere… and I hope you’ll be there to guide me.”

Mikasa’s chest tightened with surprise. Yuki winked, casual and teasing, as if the closeness between them was already established. It was unusual, interacting with someone outside her small circle, yet Mikasa didn’t recoil. Instead, she felt a rare sense of ease, a thread of connection.

Softly, she smiled, letting herself finally relax:

“You can count on me.”

✹

Eren stepped out into the corridor, the light cotton of the yukata clinging loosely to his frame. He had never been one for comforts like this—baths, spas, leisure—but he couldn’t deny that the hot spring had worked its way under his skin, loosening the knots in his shoulders even if his mind refused to follow. His head still felt heavy, his thoughts circling back again and again to Mikasa. He wondered if she had managed on her own among the women. The idea that she might have been uncomfortable, or worse, unsafe, had kept him on edge even while he tried to relax.

The men’s side of the spring hadn’t unsettled him; he had long been used to bathing alongside other soldiers during training, where modesty was stripped away the same as everything else. Scars, bruises, exhaustion—that had been the norm. His own body bore the proof of it still: pale marks crossing his arms, old burns along his ribs, wounds that had healed into a patchwork. Some of the men here had looked at him, whispers in their eyes about war or hardship, but Eren hadn’t cared. He wasn’t here to explain himself.

Now, drying hair clung in damp strands around his face, beads of water still sliding down his neck. He pulled at the edge of the robe, restless, scanning the room as he stepped toward the reception. He half expected Mikasa to already be gone, retreating back to her room in silence. But instead, he found her standing near the lobby, speaking to someone. A young woman, about her age, dark hair tied up, her expression bright and open. The sight froze him for a second—not the girl, but Mikasa. The soft curve of her legs beneath the yukata’s hem caught in the corner of his vision, pale skin stark against the dim light. He hated himself for even noticing, for letting such a thought slip in when there were things so much heavier between them.

He clenched his jaw, reminded of how long it had been since he and Mikasa had actually spoken, really spoken, without anger or silence in between. He had wanted to fix that. He wanted to stop running. This second chance—they had all been given one—meant nothing if he didn’t try.

With that in mind, he forced himself forward.

“Mikasa,” he called softly, before his eyes flicked to the stranger. “Hello… do I know you?”

The girl startled slightly at the sound of his voice, then her gaze lifted. Yuki’s breath caught. It was him—the same boy she had glimpsed earlier, sitting at the tea house with his friends. But up close he was something else entirely. Those eyes—green, sharp, weighted—drew her in. Damp hair framed his face, water still running down from his temple until it disappeared at the hollow of his collarbone. He was tall, broader than the men she was used to seeing, carrying an air that was both menacing and magnetic.

“Eren, this is Yuki,” Mikasa introduced, her voice softer than usual, tinged with something he couldn’t quite name. “She’ll be with us tomorrow.”

Yuki’s lips curved into a smile, her words spilling fast, bright.

“It’s you! I actually saw you before—you were having tea with your friend, right? I’m so glad we get to meet properly. I’m Mikasa’s friend, so I guess we could be friends too?”

Eren’s brow twitched. Friend? Mikasa had made a friend here? So quickly? The thought unsettled him in a way he couldn’t put into words.

“Huh. Sure,” he said at last, his tone clipped, almost reluctant.

“That’s great! Oh, how about we eat together tonight? I can take you to a place that’s fun, or somewhere with good food”

His instinct was to shut it down immediately. He didn’t want fun. He didn’t want strangers. But then his gaze slid to Mikasa again, and he paused. If this was something that made her lighter, if this friend could ease that silence between them even a little, who was he to ruin it? He looked at her, searching her expression, quietly asking if she wanted this. He still needed to check with Armin—he wasn’t about to leave him alone—but the decision wasn’t just his.

“That sounds great,” Mikasa answered before he could. Her voice carried a cheerfulness he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Perfect! Then, do you have a number I can call you on?” Yuki asked.

“I… don’t have a phone.”

“Oh? Well, there’s one in your room, right? How about we meet back here at seven? We’ll have to come back early anyway.”

Both nodded, and Yuki’s face lit with joy. She waved at them both, bouncing back toward the elevator before disappearing inside.

For a long moment, the silence stretched, leaving only the quiet hum of the inn around them. Eren exhaled through his nose, his eyes flicking once more to Mikasa before he finally spoke.

“Did you enjoy it?”
“What?”
“The bath.”
“You mean the hot spring.”
“Was it okay? Do you feel better?”

“Stop worrying about me if you won’t let me worry about you.”

Eren bit back his words. Not the direction he wanted, but this time he didn’t retreat.

“Mikasa… I wanted to apologize. I’ve been meaning to. I know I’m an idiot, and everything I do turns into a mess, but… I don’t want us to keep fighting.”

“We’re not fighting.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?”

The words stumbled out of them, clumsy and impatient. Eren never had a talent for saying what he felt, and Mikasa wasn’t much better. The simplest things between them always turned impossible, like children trying to grasp something that should have been easy.

He let out a frustrated sigh, forcing himself to step out of his own pride, out of the safe silence he usually hid behind.

“I’m sorry I hurt you, Mikasa.”

The heat rushed up his neck, worse than the steam from the hot spring. For a moment, he wished he had just avoided her again.

But Mikasa looked at him—really looked. For the first time since the boat, she saw the Eren she used to know. The one who wasn’t all walls and distance. The one who could still admit defeat in his own way. Her lips curved in the smallest smile, soft and genuine. It warmed something in her chest she thought she’d lost.

Eren caught her smile, and the weight in his chest eased. A strange calm settled over him. Terrifying, in its own way, how easily she could ground him. She was the only one who could.

His relief broke when his eyes caught the loose fold of her yukata, slipping from her shoulder. Her skin, pale and smooth in the low light, stole his breath. He hated himself for staring, but he couldn’t look away. Mikasa had always been strength to him—but she was a woman too and pretending not to notice that was something he couldn’t manage anymore.

“See you then,” Mikasa said softly, turning toward her room, her heartbeat quickening.

Eren didn’t bother hiding the way his gaze lingered. Something twisted inside her stomach—half fear, half craving—as if an intimacy had sparked between them without either of them naming it. His eyes, heavy on her, told her everything she had tried so hard to ignore.

*Took the inspiration from the old village Shirakawa, since I had visited Japan not so long ago, it feels pretty useful here.

Chapter Text

“No way! You literally fought a titan?”

They had ended up in a small town outside the resort. Eren hadn’t wanted to be around too many people—his skin still itched at the thought of crowds, of eyes on him—so Armin and Mikasa worked around it, coming up with an excuse for Yuki and steering them toward somewhere quieter.

Yuki, of course, had a different idea of quiet.

When she scaled the fence into an empty children’s park, waving them to follow, the three exchanged looks. It felt wrong, like breaking that fragile promise they’d made to themselves to be better this time. Still, they followed, shoulders tense, eyes darting around as if someone would shout them down for trespassing. Being outsiders made the weight of risk even heavier.

Now they sat at a battered picnic table—Eren and Armin perched on top of it, while Mikasa and Yuki sprawled more casually, half-mounted, not sitting “properly” at all. Plastic bags of snacks sat between them, bought right before the shops had closed. And then there was the bottle. Yuki had insisted they try the local alcohol, swearing she’d take full responsibility if anyone came sniffing around.

The stuff was called the Sake, it was strong, bitter and sharp. Yuki was already on her fifth cup, cheeks flushed, words tumbling out faster than usual. Mikasa wasn’t far behind, uncharacteristically loose, laughing softly at things she normally would have let pass. Armin was sipping cautiously, while Eren barely touched his drink, choosing silence over sharing. He sat back, listening, as if his past were something best locked tight inside.

“So who was the strongest?” Yuki asked, propping her chin in her hand with an impish grin.

“Me. Naturally.” Mikasa’s reply came flat, matter-of-fact, without hesitation.

“Oh really?”

“There was another girl who fought with us,” Mikasa added. “We once tried to fight each other, just to see who was stronger… but we got caught before it went anywhere.”

Eren remembered it vividly. Annie pinning him and Reiner like it was nothing, the way her and Mikasa’s fight had ended before it really began. Even now, he still wondered who would’ve won. Both had carried a strength that put them at the very top. He knew where he stood in that balance—he couldn’t beat Mikasa, no matter how much it burned him. That frustration had never left.

“It might sound wrong,” Yuki said at last, swirling the last of her drink, “but I wish I could’ve seen one. Just once in my life.”

“You’re crazy,” Eren muttered, eyes narrowing, his voice low. He didn’t mean to snap, but it slipped out. He hated the way some people romanticized what they’d bled through.

But Yuki only laughed, unfazed. “Come on—think about it. A giant moving, fighting… it’s an incredible species, if you ask me.”

“You sound like Hange,” Armin said, soft but with a note of fondness.

“Who’s Hange?” Yuki tilted her head, intrigued.

“She was our commander,” Armin explained, his tone warming as he remembered. He lifted his cup, sipping slowly before continuing. “Obsessed with Titans. Always chasing them, always putting herself in danger… but she was also like a parent to us. Always looking out for everyone.”

Yuki’s grin softened into something more thoughtful.

“That’s nice.”

Mikasa’s hand lingered on her drink, eyes lowering for a moment. Eren stayed quiet, but the shadow that flickered over his expression said enough. For a brief beat, the air around the table shifted—less light, more memory.

Then Yuki refilled her cup and leaned in again, eager to tug them back into the present.

“So tell me,” Yuki leaned forward, her eyes mischievous. “Are the boys over there… charming?”

“Huh?”

Mikasa’s face heated instantly.

“Well, I never left my country,” Yuki explained with a laugh. “I don’t see many strangers around. You guys are my first, in a way.”

She had only just started working after graduating, coming from a small town far from the capital. New faces were rare there, and meeting them felt like stepping into another world.

“We should head back,” Eren cut in, his tone firm.

It was late, and he was already itching to be alone. But more than that—he didn’t want to sit here and listen to Mikasa comment on other men being “charming.” The thought alone was enough to grate on him.

“Oh, shoot!” Yuki checked her phone, her eyes widening. “It’s past nine already. And tomorrow we’ve got to leave super early.”

“Let’s go.”

Armin pushed himself up first, the world tilting faintly from the drink, though he still felt lighter than he had in ages. Yuki quickly gathered the bags, stuffing away wrappers since there wasn’t a bin nearby.

Eren started to rise when Mikasa’s low voice reached him.

“Your hair.”

“What?” He turned, frowning.

“It’s growing.”

He touched it, realizing she was right. It was longer now, untamed. He usually kept it trimmed for the sake of blending in—cut short back in Përas, when he first started working with the group. Too recognisable otherwise.

“I’ll cut it soon. Don’t worry.” He brushed it off, his voice flat.

“No,” Mikasa said softly. “I like it like this.”

His heart stuttered so hard it nearly threw him off balance. He tightened his grip on the table, steadying himself—just in time to feel her fingers slip into his hair.

The gesture was small, but it shook him. Her touch lingered, combing through strands, clumsy but gentle. His pulse thudded in his ears. His mind screamed at him to stop her, to push away, to remember why he kept his distance. But it felt… good. Too good. Forbidden, yet grounding.

His eyes slipped shut for a moment. He let himself breathe into it.

When her fingers brushed along his temple, grazing his skin, a shiver jolted through him. His eyes snapped open.

“Mikasa…”

“We should go.” Her voice was calm, but she pulled her hand away.

Eren only nodded, throat dry.

He couldn’t believe it. He never thought she’d cross a line like that, not her. Was it the alcohol loosening her restraint, peeling back that shell she always kept? Or was it something else—the same pull he felt, the one he fought against like it was poison?

“Oi! You guys comin’?” Armin’s voice carried over, breaking the moment.

They fell into step side by side. Neither spoke, but the air between them hummed with unspoken things.

Yuki trailed behind, smiling to herself. She didn’t need words. She could feel it—something between them had just shifted, clear as day.

✹

The next morning wasn’t difficult for Eren, Armin, and Mikasa. They were all used to rising early, their bodies long conditioned to discipline and routine. Mina met them shortly after, cheerful despite the hour, while Yuki stumbled in much later, pale and sluggish, dragging herself forward like a corpse.

She knew she shouldn’t have drunk so much the night before—her body wasn’t used to it—but being with them made her feel as though she could. So she pushed through, joining the trio as other passengers gathered for the journey.

Their route carried them northward, the ride long but quiet. Yuki didn’t mind; she dozed easily. The others, however, remained awake, their silence filled with watchfulness. Through the windows, the landscape shifted. Fields gave way to tangled brush, houses thinning until the forest itself seemed to reclaim the land.

After several hours, the carriage stopped at the base of a jagged mountain. This was where their hike would begin. Mina explained that their destination was the territory of a rare species of deer—one said to roam only this region. But there was more: the mountain was also home to a legendary white tree, said to gleam like snow even in summer.

The climb started steady, but it didn’t take long before Yuki lagged behind. Less than an hour in, her steps faltered against the abrupt incline. For Eren, Armin, and Mikasa, the climb seemed effortless; they advanced as though mountain paths were no different than city streets. Yuki, on the other hand, gasped for air until she finally stopped, pressing her hand against a tree to steady herself.

“Yuki, are you alright?”

Mikasa had noticed and circled back, her expression calm but attentive. The others continued ahead, unaware that the two had paused.

“Yeah… I just…” Yuki bent forward, trying to catch her breath. “I’m not very athletic. But I want to do this. I need to prove to myself that I can.”

Mikasa studied her quietly.
“You shouldn’t push yourself too far. You’ll pass out.”

“But I can’t slow everyone down—they’re already ahead.”

“It’s fine. I’ll stay with you.”

Yuki blinked at her, flustered. “Sorry… I’m just not as strong as you.”

“Don’t apologize. We’re friends, aren’t we? I won’t leave you behind.”

Without hesitation, Mikasa slipped her arm under Yuki’s, steadying her as they resumed the climb. Her touch was firm, grounding, and Yuki felt heat rush through her body at the closeness.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” Yuki murmured.

“We’ll go at your pace,”

“…Thank you, Mikasa.”

The boys were far ahead of the others now, climbing without pause, their breaths steady, their steps relentless. The rest of the group trailed behind, the distance stretching until the sound of voices faded into the hush of the mountain. When Armin finally turned back, he realized how far they’d come. The slope behind them was swallowed by trees, the ground soft and damp underfoot, moss clinging like a carpet. For a moment, it felt unreal—walking freely on a mountain, no walls, no Titans, no war pressing against their backs. Almost like a dream.

“Eren,” he called.

Eren jerked his head up. He’d been lost in thought, so much so he hadn’t noticed how far they’d left the others behind. He slowed, stopping where he stood.

“You okay?” Armin asked, brow raised.

He remembered last night—how late the two of them had stayed up in their room, half-drunk on sake, smoke curling in the air. But even beyond the tiredness, Armin could see it: that weight pressing down on Eren, not the old distance exactly, but something gnawing at him all the same.

“I’m fine,” Eren muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“You sure?”

“I keep thinking this was a bad idea.”

“Then just take it slow.”

“Mikasa, she…”

He cut himself short, jaw tightening. He wasn’t about to say it. The memory of yesterday burned too close—her hand in his hair, her voice, the way it undid him. He’d been avoiding her since, afraid to even look at her without that image crashing back—the same image that haunted him from a few month ago, holding her broken and unconscious in his arms.

“Eren,” Armin said softly.

“Forget it,” he snapped. “It’s nothing.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? I mean… I told you when I had my first time—”

“…We didn’t—What?” Eren’s voice cracked, his eyes darting away.

Armin laughed under his breath.

“Why are you so embarrassed with this?” he teased.

“Shut up. That’s not funny.”

“Well, maybe a little. Didn’t know you were this slow.”

“My fault for having the whole world against us for four years,” Eren shot back, his tone cutting, cold.

The joke fell flat, leaving a silence between them. Armin felt the shift, the rawness beneath Eren’s words.

“Did you two… talk since?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah. And I don’t fucking know what’s happening to us.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Armin…” His voice carried a warning, sharp and tired.

“Alright, alright,” Armin raised his hands in surrender, his tone gentler now. “Just… don’t overthink it. Try to let yourself breathe. Enjoy this trip, even a little.”

Eren almost laughed—another one of Armin’s bad jokes. But before he could reply, the rest of the group caught up. No Mikasa among them. A sudden tension gripped his chest, cold and sharp. What was taking her so long? Worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind: a wild animal, a fall down the slope, her lying somewhere alone. The thought squeezed at him until it was hard to breathe. He was ready to turn back, to go after her.

“She’s with Yuki,” Armin said casually, as if he’d read his thoughts. He kept walking, unconcerned. “She’s fine, Eren. Come on.”

Eren exhaled, slow and heavy. Relief hit him, but it didn’t settle the storm inside. He was grateful Armin was there—always steady, always grounding—but the memory of yesterday kept pushing through, seared bright into his mind. The moment with Mikasa. The way it made his skin prickle and shiver just thinking about it. He didn’t know what was happening to him, or why now, of all times. Maybe it was because they were away from Levi’s squad, away from Paradis, cut off from everything they’d ever known, standing in a world that hadn’t been scarred yet.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to find the answer. If he did, he felt like he’d lose his mind.

With a shake of his head, Eren pushed forward, quickening his pace, as if he could outwalk the feeling clawing at him.

They spent nearly the entire morning climbing, only reaching the summit around midday. Yuki felt as if her whole body were being dragged down by gravity itself—each step like breathing underwater, her legs aching with every move. And yet, despite the strain, she couldn’t hide her smile when they finally made it to the top. Mikasa was right beside her the whole way, showing no exhaustion beyond the sheen of sweat clinging to her clothes and the steady rhythm of her breath.

At last, they all gathered under the shade of a tree, grateful for the reprieve as the summer heat pressed down, the earth dry beneath them. Mina explained that they would still have to walk a bit further before reaching the deer’s territory. It was the season when mothers gave birth to their fawns, and with luck, they might see one.

“Why are they so rare?” Eren asked as they started moving again.

“Hunters,” Mina replied. “They used to be killed for their hides. You’ll see why. But now that this area is protected, their numbers have begun to recover.”

Eren gave a faint nod. The thought lingered. If animals could flourish when given the chance, maybe humanity could too—if only people cared for one another. But he didn’t believe it. Not yet. Deep down, he was still haunted by the conviction that everything he’d done had been meaningless, that one day the world would rise again against Paradis and against all Eldians. His jaw tightened. Anger threatened to rise, that familiar heat in his chest.

But then the path opened, and the sight before him drove every thought away. His breath caught. Words slipped from him, useless, as he stared out over the precipice to the stretch of another mountain beyond. It silenced him in a way nothing else had. For a moment, he felt unbearably small—dwarfed by the sheer immensity of the world.

Around him, gasps and exclamations filled the air—Yuki’s awed laugh, Mina’s excitement, Mikasa’s quiet intake of breath. Even Armin, standing beside him, looked overcome, his wide eyes reflecting the fulfilment of a dream he had carried since childhood. Eren said nothing. He just stood there, gaze fixed, as if he were seeing the world for the very first time.

“So this is what freedom tastes like…” he finally murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

They found a spot to rest and eat, while the two rangers who had accompanied them went ahead to scout for signs of the white deer the locals spoke of. Blankets were spread out, and as soon as Yuki sat down, her legs gave in.

“I can’t wait to take a shower,” she groaned, exhaling loudly as cramps ran through her calves.

“You’re that lazy?” Eren muttered, lowering himself beside her.

“Hey, I don’t climb mountains every day, you know!”

“Still, you were out of breath the moment we started walking.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Mikasa cut in quietly.

They ate slowly, lulled by the warmth of summer and the soft chorus of birds. For a fleeting moment, it felt less like survival and more like a vacation. When the food was finished, Armin lay back on the grass, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the sky above.

“If this doesn’t feel nostalgic…” he said, voice tinged with a distant fondness. He was remembering—like they all were—the days under their old tree in Shiganshina.

Eren followed his gaze upward. The branches overhead swayed gently in the wind, letting light filter through in shifting patterns. For an instant, it felt like being pulled back—back into the past, back into a time before everything burned. But the weight of everything he had done—the Rumbling, the millions of voices silenced—seized his chest with panic. He turned his head sharply, as if to anchor himself to something real.

That was when he saw her.

Mikasa had closed her eyes, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted toward sleep. The sight struck him harder than it should have. In profile, her features softened—the faint line of her lashes against her cheeks, the fall of her hair brushing over her shoulder. His gaze caught on the scar, thin and pale, etched into her skin. A reminder. His reminder. The memory of losing control, of nearly crushing her beneath the weight of his own rage, pierced through him with unbearable clarity.

Stop thinking.

He forced his focus elsewhere—on his own breath, unconsciously syncing it to hers. Her face was peaceful in a way he had almost forgotten was possible. No dirt, no blood, no weight of battle carved into her expression. Just Mikasa, untouched by war, sitting in the sunlight as if the world had never broken her.

For him, it was almost more frightening than anything.

“Eren.”

The name pulled him back. He jerked his head up, the aftertaste of panic still warm behind his ribs. For a second he hated how easily he could be unmoored — one minute lost in memory, the next dragged back by the present. He shoved the thought away and tried to steady himself.

“Let me cut your hair,” Mikasa said, voice small, as if she were offering something ordinary. Her eyes were closed; she sounded almost casual.

“Huh?”

She opened her eyes then, slow and deliberate. Up close, there was nothing theatrical in her motion — only the steady, unshowy competence that always made him trust her in the middle of chaos. “You need to cut them, right? Let me do it.”

Eren looked at her hands. Hands that had gripped blades and fallen trees with equal quietness. Hands he’d watched pull him back from worse impulses than he could name. The idea of trusting them with something as simple and intimate as his hair felt absurd and terrifying in the same breath.

“I don’t know if I —”

“You don’t trust me?” she asked, a line of amusement at the edge of her tone.

He bristled.

“I’ve never seen you cut hair.”

“I did mine when you asked me to.” She gave him a small, teasing look. “You were jealous, remember?”

His chest did something he didn’t want it to do. Memory flashed — the clumsy, tender moment, the way she’d let him touch a sheared strand and frown like it mattered more than it should. He cursed Jean silently for his careless words, for anything that’d made this feel fraught.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, and closed her eyes again as if that alone should settle him.

Eren forced a breath out, exhaling the rest of his hesitation. The sun warmed the grass, the air smelled of pine and dust, and for once the world felt small enough to hold a simple choice.

“Let’s do it back at the resort,” he said finally, the words coming out steadier than he felt.

Mikasa hummed agreement. A small smile brushed her face — nothing showy, just that quiet thing that made his heart tilt and his defences loosen, even if only a fraction. He watched her for a moment longer, the absurd calm of it making him both grateful and unbearably aware of how delicate everything still was.

A couple of hours later, they were walking again, following the rangers’ lead until they found a good spot. From there, silence settled over the group as they watched a doe and her newborn foal in the clearing. The rangers had been right — the little one was barely able to stand, its movements fragile and unsteady, as if the earth itself was still too new beneath its hooves.

For a moment, no one breathed too loudly. The sight carried its own weight, a fragile kind of awe that pressed down on the memory of blood and battles, softening it. The season of foals felt like a promise — of rebirth, of second chances, no matter how rare.

Mikasa found herself still, the scene stirring something in her chest. She remembered her father’s hand pointing once toward a deer in the distance, his quiet voice telling her to look closely, to notice how alive the world could be. That moment had slipped deep into her memory, and now, standing here, it returned with a pang of warmth and ache all at once.

The foal stumbled, nearly falling, then straightened again on its trembling legs. Something in its clumsy defiance felt calming, almost reassuring.

Armin, crouched beside them, scribbled everything into his notebook, trying to trap the fleeting moment in words before it disappeared

Eren, watching, felt something heavy twist inside him. The mother and her foal were too exposed, too vulnerable, and yet they kept standing. He thought about all the lives he had taken, all the children who would never see their mothers again. The contrast pressed hard on his chest, a weight he couldn’t shake. Part of him wanted to believe in this small miracle, to let it mean something — rebirth, second chances. But another part whispered that no matter what he did, the world would never forgive him.

✹

To be honest, it might have been the first time Eren truly panicked at the thought of being alone with Mikasa since the fireworks. He had buried that night, or at least tried to, but it clawed back at him every time their eyes met, every time silence stretched between them. He never brought it up, never had the courage. But now, here she was again, and his chest felt like it was caving in.

The paranoia gnawed at him. He couldn’t tell if it was real or just his mind — the sense that something of the titan still lingered in him. A remnant. A curse. What if it broke out again? What if he hurt her? There was no one here to stop him this time, no squad, no chain of command. Just Mikasa. Just him.

They had returned to the resort hours ago. Armin had gone off to send yet another letter to Annie and Levi’s group in Pëtras. That left him here — in his room, facing the small garden outside. The kind of garden that looked more like art than earth, one they weren’t even allowed to step on. Perfect. Pristine. Untouched. Like something he didn’t belong in.

The sliding door opened, and Eren felt his pulse skip. Mikasa stepped out with a small kit in her hands. A comb, scissors, folded towels. But Eren’s eyes caught elsewhere, against his will — her legs, bare under the hem of the light, almost traditional dress she had bought here. Simple, but it made his throat tighten. His gaze traveled higher, catching the quiet outline of her shape beneath the fabric before he jerked his head away, heat rising behind his ears.

“Could you put on more clothes?” His voice cracked into something that came out sharper, almost annoyed.

Mikasa barely glanced at him as she closed the door with her foot. “It’s hot, Eren. Just relax.”

She moved behind him with the quiet purpose of someone who had already decided the outcome. Eren sat lower, knees drawn up slightly, so she could reach his hair. He hated how his body reacted — every muscle taut, breath uneven. The warmth radiating from her felt suffocating, and the walls seemed to close in. He didn’t want this closeness. He wanted it too much. Both truths pulled him apart.

“You’re ready?” she asked calmly, settling the kit beside her. “You washed your hair like I asked you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Before he could brace himself, her fingers slipped into his hair. Eren froze. His breath hitched as the tips of her fingers grazed his scalp, slow, careful. She wasn’t rushing. She let her hand move as though she had all the time in the world. It felt… soft. Too soft. He tried to ignore it, to block it out, but the sensation carved its way through every wall he built.

Mikasa noticed the texture immediately — smooth, loose strands that slid between her fingers with ease. Not like her own hair anymore, heavy and tangled, needing patience and force to manage. She brushed through his hair once more, almost unconsciously, before reaching for the comb and scissors.

Eren’s jaw clenched. His fists curled against his knees. He hated how vulnerable it felt, sitting here, letting her do this.

“Breathe, Eren,” she said quietly, as if she could read his mind. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The words cut deeper than she probably meant. He shut his eyes tight, as if that would help, but the sound of the scissors was merciless — the sharp, clean snip against his ear. It wasn’t just hair being cut. It was control. It was closeness. And it terrified him.

Mikasa tried her best. It wasn’t easy to do this on someone else, especially when her hands had never been trained for gentleness. They were hands meant to wield blades, to kill without hesitation. Holding something so fragile felt unnatural, almost dangerous. Yet she steadied the scissors, her movements sharp and clean, and every cut sent a pang through Eren’s chest — as though each lock of hair sheared away carried a piece of him.

But that was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it?
He shuddered at the thought. Would he accept dying by Mikasa’s hand, if it came to that? The answer pressed down on him before he could fight it back. Yes. He would. Maybe that was the only way any of this could end. And yet here he was, behaving, living quietly as if the blood on his hands could be washed away with routine. No one had stopped them. No one had dragged him back to where he belonged. For the first time in years, it felt like he was living the life he was never supposed to have.

The scissors clicked softly through the silence, broken only by the calls of birds outside. Slowly, something in him eased. His body loosened, leaning ever so slightly toward her. He fixed his eyes on the stone figure standing at the edge of the garden, grounding himself in that steady shape, in the rhythm of her hands and the clean snip of the blades. Her fingers brushed against his hair with a precision that unsettled him — long, deft, as if this had always been second nature.

“It must be strange coming here,” he muttered at last, his own voice startling him. “Knowing it was your home.”

The silence had been turning unbearable, his own thoughts threatening to claw their way back in. Mikasa’s hands slowed, her breath faintly shifting above him. For a moment, she considered. This was her mother’s homeland, a place tied to her blood. And yet it didn’t feel like home at all. It felt distant. Foreign. She had been raised in walls, not under these skies. She carried the symbol, but none of its meaning.

“I guess it does,” she finally said, combing through his hair again.

“I kind of miss when you had it long.”

“What?”

“Your hair. It made you… less young.”

“You’re saying I’m a baby?”

“Yes.”

Eren glanced up at her from the corner of his eye, trying to catch if she was serious or just teasing him.

“Well…” Mikasa’s voice softened. “Also, because I think it suited you more.”

And there it was — faint colour rising on her cheeks, her eyes flicking away as if embarrassed by her own honesty. His heart lurched, unsteady, panic crashing in before he could stop it. He didn’t know what to do with that, didn’t know how to answer. He had cut his hair short to bury the past, to separate himself from the person he had been. But if she said she liked it, did that make him wrong? Did that make all of him wrong? The contradiction left him dizzy, sick.

“Your hair is done,” Mikasa said quickly, as if to cover her slip.

Eren reached up, running his fingers through the trimmed ends. Subtle, but different. The kind of difference you could only feel when you carried it yourself. He rose without a word, stepping into the bathroom to face the mirror. He turned his head side to side, studying the reflection — the front, the profile, the back. For a moment he didn’t recognize himself.

“So?”

He turned. Mikasa was leaning against the doorframe, her eyes on him, quiet, expectant. Almost nervous.

“It’s good,” he admitted. “Good thing you didn’t kill me.”

“Idiot,” she muttered, relief softening her tone.

“Thank you.”

Their eyes met through the glass. Both smiled faintly, almost uncertainly. A fragile moment — nothing grand, nothing spoken outright. But for Eren, it was terrifying enough. Because beneath the smile, beneath the reflection staring back at him, he felt it all over again: the promises he had broken, the guilt that never left, and the unbearable truth that Mikasa could still make him feel alive.

And that was the one thing he didn’t know how to forgive himself for.

Chapter Text

Levi sat where he always did — outside, in the little strip of garden that passed for peace. The coffee in his hand was bitter, as always, no sugar. A habit he hadn’t broken in decades. In front of him lay the latest stack of papers he subscribed to: dry, printed updates that passed for news now. He read them in silence, pausing only to answer the occasional call from the others. Back in Pëtras, the formal work had slowed. The Yeagerists had vanished into their own corners of the world, leaving behind nothing but the wreckage of the Rumbling to clear.

Every now and then, a letter from Armin arrived — filled with notes on faraway lands, details about Hizuru, names of rivers and towns that sounded like they belonged in stories. Levi passed them on, letting the others devour them eagerly. He himself read them in silence, less eager, more cautious.

Home.
The word slipped into his head, unwelcome. He had never considered himself the type to belong to a place. He’d always been moving, fighting, scraping together survival in whichever gutter the world had left him. But things had changed. He had led them, raised them almost — though he’d never call it that. He hadn’t been a parent, only someone who filled the empty space when no one else could. And yet… the kids were still here. They hadn’t left him, no matter how many times he had told them to. No matter how many times he’d insisted they should.

Tonight, Levi was digging through old bundles of letters when a knock tapped against his door.

“Come in,” he said, voice flat, already sounding irritated.

He wasn’t surprised when Iris stepped through. Hange’s sister had a knack for showing up at inconvenient times. She wore a dress — too formal for this place — and Levi’s brow ticked upward for half a second before his gaze dropped back to the letters.

“Are you free?” she asked.

“Remove your shoes.”

“…What?”

“Shoes. Off. I don’t want dirt on the floor. Or I’ll make you scrub it yourself.”

“Yikes. You’re not funny, you know that?”

“Wasn’t trying. If you’ve got nothing useful, leave.”

Iris folded her arms, unbothered. “I think it’d be good for you to go out once in a while. Being holed up here all the time isn’t healthy.”

“I’m fine the way I am.”

Her look sharpened, almost accusatory. She knew, like the rest of them, that Levi had borne more than anyone. But unlike the others, she didn’t soften around him. She saw the scars beneath the silence, the way he buried himself deeper into routine, into coffee and paperwork, while the others tried to laugh, to live.

“You don’t have to keep acting like this,” she said quietly. “Not with me.”

Levi’s eyes flicked to her, then back down to the page. “What would it take to make you leave?”

“Go on a date with me.”

His gaze finally lifted, flat and unblinking. “…What’s the other option?”

“You go out with Mrs. Emra instead.”

A humourless huff escaped him. That old woman? He’d rather face another Titan.

“I’d rather die.”

“Then it’s settled. Meet me at nine.”

“I’ll make sure to forget.”

Iris laughed, the kind of laugh that cut sharp edges like Hange’s once did. Levi’s eyes tracked her almost despite himself as she turned — the sway of her steps, the echo of someone he’d lost pressing into someone who was still here.

At the door, she glanced back. “Try to match my outfit,” she teased, tone layered with something more than a joke.

The door shut, and Levi let out the breath he’d been holding.

He set the letters aside. For a moment, the quiet pressed down heavier than usual. Maybe a night out wouldn’t kill him.

He met her a couple of hours later, dressed simply in black jeans and a long-sleeved turtleneck with a scarf. Even in summer, he never allowed himself to wear less. To him, short sleeves felt like being exposed—like walking naked through the streets. He hated the thought of it.

And yet here he was, dragged by Iris into a restaurant that looked more suited for couples than comrades.

“I’ll take the cordon bleu with salad… and maybe fries. Oh—and that steak with the white cream sauce. Don’t forget the wine either.”

Levi arched a brow. For someone with such a lean build, she ordered like she was feeding a squad.

“And for you, sir?” the waitress asked.

“Lasagna,” Levi said flatly.

The waitress noted it down and left them in the low hum of the place. The restaurant was larger than he expected, full of laughter and clinking glasses. Pëtras had survived the Rumbling, and people here clung to life with desperate passion. The theme was clear enough: everything washed in shades of red, decorations subtle but suggestive, like the room itself wanted to pull you in.

Levi already wanted to leave.

“I’m surprised you actually agreed,” Iris said, leaning forward across the table.

His eyes flicked to the line of her collarbone, then back to her face. She was definitely up to something.

“You wanted me to say no?” His voice carried the faintest hint of amusement.

“No. I’m just glad you’re breathing air outside that room for once.”

He answered with a quiet “hm.”

She tilted her head, lips quirking. “So… anything you want to do after this?”

Levi didn’t respond immediately. He considered her question, and the silence between them grew heavier. They both knew what she was hinting at. But every time he looked at her, he couldn’t stop seeing the ghost of her sister.

It should have been Hange sitting there.

He had grown attached, even when it infuriated him. She’d thrown herself into her ideals, chosen her own end. He’d called her stupid for it, and maybe she was. But then again, so was he.

His eyes settled on Iris again. She’d dressed in intent—makeup just enough to notice, clothes that were chosen, not casual. She wasn’t Hange. And yet, sitting across from her, Levi felt the lines blur in a way that unsettled him more than the wine list ever could.

“We could walk,” Levi said at last, deliberately skirting the real question.

“Wise answer,” Iris mused. “What do you want to talk about then?”

“Nothing. Talking is boring.”

“You can at least make a tiny effort.”

“Tell me about yourself,” he snapped, as much to shut the conversation as to hand it back to her.

Iris brightened. Anything that wasn’t him speaking felt easier—Levi was a wall you had to chip at. She began, then, as she always did, to unspool: childhood memories, the small roads that led her into this work, the odd detours that made her who she was. Levi listened with that half-detached attention he gave everything—enough to follow, not enough to be softened by it. It suited him tonight. He’d said he didn’t want to talk, and hearing another voice fill the silence was its own kind of relief.

She described her tinkering with tools and ideas, how she approached titans with a blend of curiosity and caution. Unlike Hange—whose reckless hunger for knowledge had become legend—Iris sounded methodical, measured. She spoke of loss too, of parents gone when the walls fell and the century of isolation ended in flames. Her tone never grew melodramatic; it stayed practical, like someone cataloguing damage on a ledger. Levi found that he respected it. He found, too, that he did not mind listening.

When dessert arrived—two plates piled absurdly high—he watched her attack it with an appetite that contradicted her trim frame. He would have told her to shut up in other circumstances. Tonight he let it pass, the small indulgence of letting someone else do the speaking.

After they paid, the night had deepened into the kind of hour when the city felt like a different country: lights low, laughter moving in smaller groups. They walked toward the port where the air smelled of tide and salt and the world seemed to breathe easier. Couples strolled; a cluster of friends traded bottles under a lamppost. Levi kept both hands deep in his pockets. Iris clutched her bag and let the breeze lift a strand of hair from her face. For the first time in a while, he noticed he didn’t carry the city on his shoulders—at least not in that moment. It was a small, dangerous relief.

“Do you know if Annie’s with her father?” he asked, stopping by a low pond to look at the moon glancing over the water.

“She sent a letter this morning. Armin’s been asking about her,” Iris said. Her voice had that teasing edge when she liked to rile him.

“He’ll—” Levi started. “That kid will die if I don’t give him an answer.”

“He’s hopelessly in love,” Iris said, amused.

“What a brat,” Levi muttered.

“And you,” she said, softer, suddenly. “You’ve been in love too, haven’t you?”

“It’s none of your business,” he answered, and the words were sharper than he’d meant.

She stopped and turned to him, and the amusement dropped from her features. For a breath she was serious—and she didn’t look like Zoe Hange.

“Then why do you keep comparing me to my sister?” she asked. “You act like that’s the only measure. Don’t you see I’ve been here? You’re an open book, Levi. I can read you.”

“It’s hard not to,” he said, because the truth was simpler than confession. He had learned to live with ghosts, and Hange’s was the loudest.

“I know you loved her,” Iris said. The accusation was gentle, but it landed.

Levi said nothing. Silence suited him; it held his answer in shape without forcing it into words.

“Tell me,” she said finally, gathering herself in that razor-sharp way she had when she meant business. “If she were standing here—if Hange came back—would you still pick me, or would you go back to her?”

The question hung between them. Levi looked at her, at the way the streetlight caught the plane of her cheek, at the stubborn set of her mouth. A part of him wanted to answer with the blunt cruelty he’d used on the battlefield.

“What’s this about?” he asked instead:

“You’re jealous?”

“More like you don’t know what you want,” Iris said. “And I’m getting pissed that you’re using me to fill the void.”

She was dangerous in that moment, not because she threatened him, but because she had seen through the armour. Levi felt exposed in a way he hadn’t in years, like an old wound reopened to air. He hated feeling caught. He hated that she could pin him down with a look.

“Let’s go back to the hotel. I’m starting to freeze my ass here,” Levi said flatly, not even glancing at her. A beat later he added, “And if we can have sex—which is what you wanted, right, then we can get this over with faster.”

Iris blinked, caught off guard. Her lips parted as if she wanted to retort, but nothing came out immediately. He had that way of dropping words like a blade, sharp and without hesitation, and walking away as if it was nothing. She could never quite tell if he was serious or just cutting corners through a moment he didn’t want to face.

“Oi. You comin’?” Levi called back over his shoulder, already heading for the street, his hands still jammed into his pockets like he had all the time in the world.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, irritating her more than anything. She hated that he could make her stumble like this—make her lose rhythm without even trying. She set her jaw, quickened her pace, and caught up.

“I’m the one leading tonight,” she said firmly, her voice carrying a finality that wasn’t up for negotiation.

Levi smirked faintly, just enough for her to notice when she fell into step beside him.

“Fine by me,” he said. “As long as you don’t put any dirt.”

“You freak,” she muttered under her breath.

He sighed. Not out of annoyance, but out of relief. He’d dodged one of those memories creeping up on him—the kind that clung to the edges of quiet nights, waiting to drag him back to faces he couldn’t save. Blunt words, deflections, even crude honesty… it was how he kept the ghosts at bay.

✹

They hadn’t even closed the door before their mouths met, urgency swallowing hesitation. Levi was smaller, but strength had never been something he lacked. He lifted her with ease, carrying her into the bedroom. Iris tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he let her drag it over his head before setting her down. The kiss never broke.

Her dress was a nuisance. Levi pushed it aside, fingers tracing along the fabric until it gave way. She moaned into him, pulling lightly at his hair, leaning down to bridge the gap his height left. In a world where men dictated the rules, she had no fear of taking what she wanted. Levi’s lips trailed down her neck, then her collarbone, deliberate in their silence. Talking had never fixed anything. Presents, apologies—he had no patience for those games. He knew only how to endure, how to fight. But with Iris, there was no fight to win, no orders to give. She wasn’t her sister, wasn’t his squad, wasn’t another soldier he had to bury in memory. She was someone who lived with the same shadows but smiled anyway. That, more than anything, drew him to her.

Before he realized it, he was on the bed, Iris straddling him, kissing deeper with each breath. His hands instinctively found her hips, grounding himself, until a sharp burn flared across his abdomen where old scars still lingered. He stifled it with a breath, eyes locked on her.

“Hands on the bed,” she hissed, firm.

For a moment, he considered resisting. But he let his hands fall back, palms sinking into the mattress like a quiet surrender. She moved against him, hesitant at first, then with growing rhythm under the weight of his steady gaze. He said nothing—he never needed to. Expressionless, eyes sharp, he let her see only what he allowed, but inside, something twisted.

She didn’t take off everything. The bra stayed. A barrier. A punishment. Or maybe just a line neither of them wanted to cross tonight. He didn’t ask. Levi wasn’t the type to demand explanations when the silence already spoke louder than words. Each time she came down, a moan slipping past her lips, he responded with a measured thrust, not losing himself, silent as a statue, but letting the pleasure break through the edges of his discipline. Neither of them said it aloud: that this was cruel, necessary, fleeting. That it was the closest either of them had come to forgetting, even for a moment.

For Levi, it wasn’t about love, not yet. It was about survival—two people carrying the same unbearable weight, finding a way to breathe for just one night.

Iris let herself sink into the sensation, her heartbeat drumming against her ribs, her breath sharp and uneven. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. Levi, by contrast, was silent—bearing every ounce of pain alone as he always had. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes had darkened, and the way his hips pressed back, the twitch of his fingers when he restrained himself, betrayed him. He wanted control. He always wanted control. He’d spent his entire life knowing no one would ever look after him, not even family.

She arched her back, adjusting until the angle pulled a sharper cry from her own throat. Levi clenched his jaw, his lips parting slightly as he drew in slow, steady breaths, holding onto the act of indifference. The room was filled with skin meeting skin, with breaths and gasps neither of them tried to stifle. No one questioned if this was right. They didn’t have to.

Levi’s body burned with pain he refused to acknowledge. His wounds hadn’t healed, but it didn’t matter. Her pain was heavier than his, and he would shoulder it if it meant she could keep moving. Iris shut her eyes, shame flickering across her face, yet she kept riding him, chasing the point where her body coiled too tightly to ignore.

“Shit,” Levi muttered, his hand finding her thigh before she swatted it away.
“Don’t touch me.”

He groaned, the sound low, frustration coiled tight in his chest. She knew him too well—his habits, his preferences, the things he hid. It felt invasive, like being stripped bare without permission, like having someone crawl inside his walls and never leave.

Still, he braced himself, the pressure building, every pulse threatening to undo him. She clenched around him, pulling him deeper, closer. He could almost drown in it. It was dangerous, intoxicating—something that felt like both relief and betrayal.

In the dim light spilling through the glass door, her body blurred into another shape, another face he could never forget. He wondered why the world worked this way. Why everything he cared for twisted into something cruel. Was it his bloodline? His curse? The strong always won, the weak always lost. That was the only truth he had ever known.

He swallowed it down like everything else. The guilt. The sins. The faces he carried. But it was harder now, when every thrust reminded him of the one woman he had loved, and the fact that it was her sister breaking him apart.

They reached their release together, though neither wished for it to have happened. Her moan was swallowed as Levi sat up and pressed his mouth to hers. He didn’t need to hear her voice; he could already feel the tears streaking down her face. Iris still moved against him, grinding through the remnants of pleasure, and though sharp pain flared in his body, Levi ignored it as he always did.

Without thinking, he pulled her against him, her warmth pressed tight against his own as though it could keep the cold from seeping in. It was the aftermath—the stillness after the storm—and neither dared to shatter it with words. Levi pressed his lips to her shoulder, then her neck, burying himself in her scent, in the fragile weight of her presence, as if pretending it was nothing more than a fever dream. When had it been, the last time he had let someone close like this? He couldn’t remember.

Eventually, Iris closed her eyes, slipping into the bed beside him. She still wore her bra and, somehow, in the blur of exhaustion, managed to pull on her underwear, while Levi remained bare. Some lines were not meant to be crossed—not yet. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t even close. Yet what they had done had torn down some small wall between them, exposing pieces of who they truly were.

She turned onto her side, Levi lying opposite, the silence between them heavy. Neither spoke, and it was better that way.

Was it worth it? Would it change anything? Likely not. But they refused to linger on the thought.

For once, when sleep came, it came without nightmares.

This scene was particularly tricky to write. People don’t react to pain or trauma in the same way, and they certainly don’t cope in the same way either. I wanted to give Levi and Iris something that felt more adult—something that isn’t easy or romanticized, but heavy with the weight of what they carry. It’s not supposed to feel fun, but rather a raw exploration of how two people, both broken in their own way, might try to cope when words fail them. They share a bond that feels natural, almost ordinary. But beneath that, both of them carry scars they can’t show, memories they’ve been forced to bury just to keep going and to avoid letting others down. In a sense, their closeness comes not from what they say, but from what they don’t—their silence is as telling as their actions.

So, it’s not about romance (not yet) or comfort, but about two people momentarily lowering their walls, showing their damage, and sharing their burden in the only way they know how.

Chapter Text

“I’m back.”

Annie shut the door behind her. The so-called “hotel” felt more like a cramped safehouse than anything else—small, practical, and tucked away. That was Levi’s doing. He always made sure they stayed somewhere quiet, isolated, where the only people around were staff he trusted.

It had been three weeks since she’d left Paradis. Three weeks since she’d finally seen her father again. Meeting him had been more than she ever dared hope for—like a burden she’d carried her whole life had suddenly been lifted. He had asked her forgiveness, voice trembling, for all the years he hadn’t been there. She had given it. They had moved forward.

Telling him about Armin had been harder. For some reason, the thought of fathers disliking whoever their daughters chose never left her. But her father had only smiled, asking if Armin was a good man. That was all he cared about: that she was happy.

A burst of laughter snapped Annie from her thoughts. It came from the kitchen. She frowned, surprised. It was still early—were the others even back?

“Welcome back, Ms. Hartman.”

One of the staff appeared, moving to take her bag. Annie thanked her quietly, then followed the sound of voices.

In the kitchen, she froze. Reiner, Jean, and Connie were sitting around, drinks half-finished, talking and laughing like they’d been friends their whole lives. The sight still felt strange to her. After everything, after the years of betrayal and blood, how were they able to sit here like this? The weight of guilt pressed against her ribs. But she had made it this far. She couldn’t keep looking backward—not if she wanted to protect Armin’s faith in her.

“Annie!”

Reiner noticed her first, waving her over with a wide grin. Jean and Connie turned, both greeting her in their own way. Warmth spread in her chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Somehow, despite everything, this felt like home.

“I thought you guys were supposed to be helping out today,” she said, reaching for a glass of water.

“Nah, today’s a break day,” Connie said, leaning back with his arms crossed.

“Yeah, after the night they had, it’s no wonder,” Reiner muttered.

“They?”.

“Iris and Levi,” Jean said flatly. “Didn’t think they’d hook up, but… turns out we were wrong. We heard them all night. Couldn’t even sleep.” He grimaced. “It was torture.”

Annie raised her brows, more startled than she wanted to show. Still… if it was true, then maybe Levi was finally stepping out of that endless shadow of grief. Maybe, one day, he could make peace with the world again. She hoped he would.

“Alright, enough sitting around,” Connie said suddenly, jumping to his feet. “Let’s go out. Do something normal for once. I’m going crazy staying cooped up here.”

Reiner shrugged.

“Fine by me.”

Jean looked at Annie.

“What about you?”

“I’m tired,” she admitted. Then she paused, a small smile flickering at the edge of her lips. “But it won’t hurt to join you.”

Jean smirked. “As long as you don’t betr—”

The crack of Reiner’s palm against the back of his head cut him off.

“The hell, Reiner?!” Jean barked, rubbing the spot.

“Cut it out,” Reiner snapped. “This isn’t the time.”

Annie lowered her gaze, willing the guilt down before it swallowed her. She knew Jean hadn’t meant it kindly, and she knew Reiner was trying to protect her from it. But some things couldn’t be erased. No matter how much they laughed together now, the past lingered—always just beneath the surface.

Jean and Connie eventually drifted out, muttering about changing clothes and finding something to do later. Their laughter faded down the hall, leaving Annie and Reiner alone in the kitchen.

Silence settled between them. Annie turned to the sink, rinsing the glasses one by one. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—not at first—but it pressed heavier with each drop of water.

“You okay?” Reiner’s voice broke it, quiet, almost cautious.

“I saw my father,” Annie said simply. “Told him about Armin. So yeah… I’m fine.”

Reiner leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. That old nervous tic of his.

“Annie, I… I’ve been meaning to say something.”

She paused, drying her hands before turning to him.

“Huh?”

“I still want to apologize. For back then. When Marcel died, and we could’ve gone home. I forced us forward instead. Forced us to breach the walls. If I hadn’t—”

“Reiner.” Her voice cut through, steady but not harsh. “How long are you going to keep apologizing? We both did terrible things. That’s enough.”

His jaw tightened, but he pressed on, words spilling anyway.

“Still… if it weren’t for my damn pride, my stupid goals—none of this would’ve happened. You could’ve gone back to your father. Lived your life. I stole that from you, and I’m… I’m sorry.”

Annie’s lips twitched, almost a smile. It surprised her, the warmth in her chest at hearing him say it. Truth was, she’d buried that anger a long time ago. Maybe she’d let it go back on the battlefield, when they fought side by side against the Yeagerists, against the Rumbling. Reiner hadn’t just carried his guilt—he’d repaid it a hundred times over.

She saw the cracks in him still. How he couldn’t stop punishing himself for a father who never cared to claim him. But even if he couldn’t see it, Reiner had become what he once pretended to be: someone others could lean on. A hero, in his own way.

“Hey,” Annie said, shifting the subject, “did Armin send any letters while I was gone?”

“Yeah. Levi’s been keeping them.”

“Think it’s a good time to ask? I want to send one back. Tell him I’m here.”

“He’s in his room. Iris is out with paperwork. Should be fine.”

“Thanks.”

She made to leave, but his voice caught her. “Hey, Annie?”

She glanced back. “What?”

Reiner hesitated, then shook his head with a small smile. “Nothing. We’ll wait for you.”

She gave him a nod and left the kitchen.

Reiner stayed behind, arms braced against the counter. For the first time in a long while, a small piece of him felt lighter. He knew forgiveness didn’t change the past, didn’t undo what they’d done. But maybe, slowly, it could let him live with it. Maybe this second chance wasn’t wasted after all.

✹

Annie’s hand hovered at his door, frozen. This would be the first time she spoke to him. Until now, she had only seen him from a distance—at ceremonies, on expeditions—never face-to-face. She had reasons to fear him. She had betrayed them. She had slaughtered his squad without hesitation, and his wrath was something whispered about even in silence. But that was the past, wasn’t it? She had been trying—perhaps foolishly—to make amends, hoping the world might someday forgive her.

She drew in a breath, steadying her heartbeat, and knocked twice.

“Come in.”

His voice was flat, unreadable.

Her courage faltered the moment she stepped inside. The room was plain, nearly impersonal, yet Levi’s presence filled it. The sliding door was open. He sat outside with his cup of tea, turning at the sound of her steps. His eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. He said nothing. Annie felt as though she had walked into the predator’s den. One wrong move and she’d be devoured.

She stood rooted, head lowered, words sticking to her throat.
“I… I came for—”

“It’s on the desk.”

Annie’s breath caught. Of course he knew. Of course he’d guessed she was here for the reports. That simple reply made it worse. Who was being more selfish? Him, for dismissing her, or her, for barging in? Their pride left no room for compromise.

She nodded silently and crossed to his office. Everything was neatly ordered, almost suffocatingly so. A pile of letters caught her eye. Armin’s handwriting. The familiar scrawl softened her face, and she reached for them, as if Armin’s words could steady her trembling.

Footsteps behind her. She stiffened. Before she could turn, he was there—arms crossed, shadow cutting across the desk. Her fingers clenched around the letters, crumpling the paper slightly. Would he lash out? Demand repayment? He radiated menace, even wounded as he was, a man who never let his enemies walk free.

“How was your trip with your father?”

The question struck her like a blow. Of all things, he asked that? His voice was detached, too calm, as if her past sins were erased. But that was impossible.

“…It was okay,” she answered carefully.

“You didn’t want to stay?”

The silence stretched. Was he asking her to leave? Did he want her gone, back to her father’s side, away from their ranks? If so, it wasn’t justice—it was exile. Others had done worse and been allowed to stay. And yet, maybe this was the punishment he thought fitting.

But Annie had sworn she would not run again. Armin’s words had bound her here, given her something like courage. For the first time, she raised her chin, her gaze locking with his.
“This is where I belong,” she said, her voice wavering only at the edges. Then softer, almost breaking, “I don’t like the way we’re so distant. I know it’s because of me. I did things that can’t be forgiven. But I’m trying, Levi. I’m really trying to make it right.”

Levi held her eyes without flinching. It reminded him of all the times his squad had come to him—seeking advice, seeking comfort. They had looked at him like children to a father, carrying their burdens, while he drowned in his own. He was no better than Annie, not really.

He thought of Iris. Of that night he’d given in, trying to forget Zoe Hange and everything he had lost, his past sins, trying to silence the grief by holding someone else. He’d told Iris afterward that he’d started to like her—and the truth had broken her. She had cried, cursed him, accused him of using her to dull the pain. She wasn’t wrong. She had been the steady pillar among them, mothering in her own eccentric way, and he had cracked her foundation. That wound still bled, hidden beneath the discipline he wore like armour.

Levi forced the memory down, but it never truly vanished. Forgetting was easier than facing it. Still, some nights reminded him that nothing was ever buried for good.

Now, standing across from Annie—the girl who had destroyed his squad, who now dared to speak of belonging—he felt the weight of it again. Something had shifted in him. Maybe it wasn’t hatred anymore. Maybe nothing was truly over.

For a long while, silence held the room. Neither of them truly knew what the other was thinking. Annie gripped the letters as though they were her anchor, while Levi watched her without expression, weighing her words, her presence, her persistence. She had crossed a line by coming here, but she hadn’t run. That counted for something.

Finally, Levi’s lips twitched. It was faint, barely there, but unmistakable—a smile. The first she had seen from him since she’d returned. It startled her more than all his coldness ever had.

“Are you okay?” she asked, brow arched, as if the sight disturbed her more than his usual scowl.

“I can’t smile?” he countered flatly.

“You’re weird,” she muttered.

“Says who.”

Before she could react, his hand shot out and ruffled her hair with surprising roughness. Annie froze, blinking up at him, completely thrown off. Of all the things she’d expected—rage, a cutting remark, maybe even dismissal—this wasn’t it. Yet, in a strange way, it was reassuring. A wordless sign that Levi, in his own difficult manner, had accepted her presence. Perhaps even her place here. The weight that had been pressing on her chest since she entered lifted, just a fraction.

“Now that you’ve got your letter,” he said, already turning toward the desk, “I can use it again.”

“Really? That stopped you from using it?”

“Yep.”

Annie shook her head with disbelief, but she held the letters close to her chest, unwilling to let go of the warmth they carried. Levi sat down, finally relieved to see Armin’s words in her hands where they belonged. He’d hated keeping them, hated the thought of being responsible for something so personal—but he hadn’t trusted anyone else. Too much could go wrong. At least with him, they’d been safe. And though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he was glad she had them now. Maybe that was his way of reaching across the distance, of showing there was still a bridge, however fragile.

Annie stopped at the door. She lingered, then turned back. “Levi.”

He looked up, waiting.

“Thank you. For the letters. And… I’m glad I had this conversation with you.”

He scoffed, brushing her words aside with a faint sound. Sentiment was never his thing. If he had the power, he would erase every ounce of hatred he carried, every scar, every memory that burned. But that wasn’t the world they lived in.

She closed the door behind her, leaving him alone once again.

Silence filled the room, but it wasn’t the same silence that had haunted him these past months. Something had shifted. Levi leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth once more. Against all odds, he felt a strange sense of peace—not forgiveness, not yet, but the faintest possibility of moving forward.

For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel impossible.

Chapter Text

Mikasa let out a quiet sigh, tugging slightly at the edge of her sleeve. The yukata felt strange against her skin, soft but confining, like a costume she hadn’t earned the right to wear. It was a dark blue patterned with gold-threaded flowers, symbols she didn’t understand, stitched with meanings that belonged to someone else’s heritage. Her hair had been tied up neatly, her lips painted with a hint of colour. It was the first time she had been dressed this way since leaving Paradis—no, maybe the first time in her entire life.

Yuki, walking beside her in a white yukata of similar design, seemed perfectly at ease. She carried herself with the ease of someone who’d grown up around these customs, someone who knew how the fabric should fall, how the sandals should sound on the stone streets. Mikasa felt clumsy by comparison, shifting uncomfortably from one wooden geta to the other. The shoes pinched her toes and made her gait awkward. It was so different from the boots she was used to, from the weight of blades she once carried.

“I don’t feel good,” she muttered under her breath, her palms already slick with sweat.

“Relax,” Yuki said brightly, her eyes sparkling. “Besides, the boys are wearing the same thing. Don’t you want to see how ridiculous they’ll look?”

Mikasa pressed her lips together but didn’t answer. She didn’t want to admit the truth—that she was dreading seeing Eren’s reaction more than anything. They’d faced titans together, walked through blood and fire, survived betrayals and wars. And yet, the thought of him looking at her now, like this—made up, dressed like someone she wasn’t—set her nerves on edge. Their relationship was fragile, a delicate balance of unspoken words and glances that lingered too long. Something still held him back, a shadow from the past, and Mikasa could feel it pressing between them.

“Oh, there they are! Come on, Mikasa!” Yuki tugged at her sleeve, pulling her forward.

“What—wait—” Mikasa stumbled, nearly tripping over the geta as Yuki hurried her through the crowd. Faces blurred around her, strangers in patterned yukata, lantern light reflecting in their eyes. It felt like every gaze lingered too long on her, seeing through her mask, weighing what was false and what was true. But it wasn’t the crowd that tied her stomach into knots. It was him.

Armin spotted them first, a warm smile spreading across his face. He nudged Eren at his side. His head turned, and for a moment his usual guarded expression faltered. His eyes widened slightly, then darted away too quickly, as if pretending he hadn’t looked at all. But Armin caught it. He always caught it. He’d seen Eren face down giants without flinching, but this—seeing Mikasa like this—left him unsteady.

Mikasa’s heart lurched at his reaction. She wanted to laugh at herself—why did it matter? He’d seen her bloodied and broken, standing at death’s door more times than she could count. And yet, here she was, wishing he’d just say something. Wishing he’d let her know what he was thinking, instead of hiding behind silence.

The four of them merged into the flow of the festival crowd. Paper lanterns swayed above the streets, their light blending with the neon glow of the city. The air smelled of grilled fish, sweet rice cakes, and smoke from sparklers children waved in the air. Music from taiko drums echoed through the night, steady and powerful, blending with the chatter of thousands of voices. Rows of food stalls, their colours loud and inviting, vendors calling out to strangers as though they were old friends. The crowd didn’t shy from Eren, didn’t whisper or recoil. They didn’t see the boy who once held the power of the Founding Titan, the one whose name the world still spoke with awe and fear. Here, he was just another figure among the throngs, wrapped in traditional clothes like everyone else.

“You guys look so nice in your yukata!” Yuki clasped her hands together, beaming. “Right, Mikasa?”

“Huh?” Mikasa blinked, her cheeks warming instantly. There was no way Yuki was being serious. Compliments weren’t her thing—and right now, she couldn’t even lift her gaze. Because across from her, Eren still hadn’t spoken. He kept stealing glances only to look away just as quickly, as if caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. It felt ridiculous, like they’d stumbled into the middle of some awkward romantic drama. Every step together carried that tension, as though both were walking the edge of something fragile neither dared to name.

Armin chuckled, breaking the silence. “Let’s go see the fireworks,” he suggested cheerfully.

“First, let’s drink,” Yuki corrected with a playful grin.

“If you pass out, we’re leaving you,” Eren muttered, his voice flat.

“Rude!” Yuki gasped, pretending to be offended. She grabbed Mikasa’s hand and tugged her forward, pouting as she stormed off with exaggerated dramatics.

Eren sighed, shaking his head. Yuki could be childish sometimes, but… he didn’t really mind. If anything, he was relieved. It meant Mikasa wasn’t stuck carrying the weight of everything alone. Watching the two of them together—even in these silly moments—was strangely reassuring.

His eyes flicked back toward Mikasa, almost on instinct. Her hair was tied neatly into a bun, strands framing her face just enough for the lanterns to catch in the dark. The curve of her neck was highlighted by the glow above, and the way the yukata wrapped around her made his chest tighten with something he couldn’t place. For a moment, he forgot the noise of the festival, forgot the people bustling around them.

“Eren.”

He startled at Armin’s voice. His friend stood a few steps back on the side street, watching him carefully. Eren rubbed at the back of his neck, heat prickling there as if he’d been caught red-handed.

Armin fell into step beside him once the girls were further ahead. “If it’s too much for you, we can always go back,” he offered gently.

“I’m fine,” Eren muttered.

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It’s just… surprising, seeing her dressed that way.”

Armin’s lips curved into a small smile.

“Yeah, it is unusual. But she looks cute, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah…” The word slipped out before he could stop it.

They both stopped walking. Eren frowned, realizing what he’d just admitted aloud.

“What now?” he asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

“You just said Mikasa is cute,” Armin pointed out, eyes narrowing in a teasing way.

Eren looked away, jaw tight, neck burning. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all.” Armin shook his head lightly, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “I’m just glad you’re finally coming to your senses.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Sorry.” The apology was half-hearted at best, because Armin couldn’t stop the quiet laugh bubbling up at his friend’s expense.

The night went on with the typical alcohol of the region. Yuki  was already euphoric and, Mikasa wanted to try everything the stand shop had to offer, which was even more surprising. She was more open than before, smiling as if she had found her place, even if she didn’t recollect every memories. Armin challenged Eren at a gun stand. Both of them had crushed every can and won the very big prices. After that, they visited around, only stopping for a little activity after Yuki had forced them to try.

“Its like a keychain, suppose to bring piece and love” she said.

Mina had joined them, just before the firework were announced.

Eren had let loose a breath of relief after drinking too much — the warm, numbing kind that followed too many sips — and was about to rejoin the others when a cold rod of dread slid down his spine. It was a feeling he hadn’t worn in a long time, not since Mikasa had bled in his arms; this chill had the shape of a threat aimed straight at him. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, a hangover trick, but the past had a way of turning up its voice when he’d least want it to.

He moved without thinking, slipping sideways into the press of the crowd. His body acted faster than his thoughts; his eyes scanned and locked on dirt-streaked jackets bearing a familiar, hateful insignia. New recruits — Yeagerists. They weren’t the old faces he’d known, but the symbol was the same: a perverse echo of the Survey Corps, stamped now with guns and promises of revenge. The world had widened; so had the reach of those who still wanted what Eren had once promised them.

His head spun. How had they found their way here? Were they watching him? Spying wasn’t that far-fetched; his face — his name — still carried a weight few could forget. The fear that someone might point him out, that the casual laughter would stop and all eyes would turn, tightened his chest. He needed distance, needed Armin.

Nearby, a woman, young as he was, licked an ice cream cone with an air of contempt for the crowd around her. Snatches of conversation drifted to him, ordinary in tone but poisonous in content.

“If only Eren Yeager had actually finished the job, we’d have been the strongest empire on earth,” someone said, voice heavy with accusation and nostalgia.

“Has anyone heard from Floch?” another asked.

Eren’s vision narrowed. Floch. The name was a flare of alarm. If he lived, it meant the old network hadn’t died with the Rumbling; the embers were still warm.

“Nah — some woman in the Survey Corps took him down,” came a scoffing reply. “Still, we have a new king to sway — the queen’s left, after all.”

The words knifed into Eren. He had imagined this would stop; he had believed the devastation would be a line drawn once and for all. Instead, the conversation confirmed a bitter truth: hatred did not die because one man chose to burn the world. It mutated, it reorganized, it birthed new zealots who wore his name like a banner. All his reasoning, all his sacrifice — did any of it mean anything if the same fanatical hunger could be reborn in other hands?

The Yeagerists moved on, laughing, their voices swallowed by the festival noise. Eren stayed where he was, clenched fingers digging into his palms until his nails hurt. The relief he’d felt moments before collapsed into a heavy, sour resignation. He could not pretend the past was only a shadow anymore; it sat beside him, loud and accusing.

Was it hypocritical to want a gentler world when his own choices had hollowed it out? He had tried to force an end to conflict by becoming the storm. Now the storm’s wake only fed new storms. The thought tempted him with a familiar, dangerous fix: destroy the hatred at its root, make silence the only future. He pushed the impulse away—not because the idea was wrong, but because he was learning, painfully and slowly, that there were other costs he hadn’t counted on.

“Eren?”

Armin saw him approach, head lowered, steps heavy as though each one carried more than he could bear. There was something different about him—something Armin had seen before, a shadow that never let go. A darkness trailing close, waiting for the right moment to consume him again.

And then it spoke through him.

“We’re not safe here.”
His tone was calm, too calm, but Armin caught the fire beneath it. Rage smouldering, unspent.

He understood why. Even here—of all places, untouched by war, seemingly distant from ruin—war would always follow.

Mina, listening quietly, couldn’t grasp their words but felt the unease. A faint instinct pressed at her, urging her to shield them, to recover the brief joy that once touched their faces.
“The fireworks will be starting soon,” she murmured, almost gently. “I know somewhere we can sit. Away from the crowd.”

“Sure, lead the way,” Yuki answered brightly, unaware of the tension weaving through the air.

Mikasa stayed silent. She glanced at Eren, searching, but was met only with that familiar wall—disappointment, distance, the weight of everything they had survived yet could never shake off. The past clung to them like chains. No matter how far they tried to walk, it followed. Still, she refused to let him sink further, not after he had crawled out of so much. Even if she didn’t understand all his reasons, she understood him. And that was enough.

They moved together, weaving through festival stalls, the faint smell of smoke and food lingering as they neared the hill where the fireworks would begin. Mina promised the place would be empty, dark and forgotten. It suited Eren. Better that no one could see him here—better that no one saw how restless he had become. His eyes scanned the crowd every few seconds, sharp, wary, as though danger lurked behind every laugh and every lantern.

“Eren.”

The sound of her voice made him tense. He turned sharply, shoulders tight, defensive. He hated the way his body betrayed him—always on guard, never at peace. He hated that even here, in this quiet, he couldn’t stop wishing for the impossible: to walk freely, to return home, to feel safe again.

Mikasa was just behind him as they climbed the slope. The sight triggered something in him—an echo of that night, another hill, another choice that had rested in her hands. What fate she would grant him.

He didn’t notice until warmth spread through his fingers. He looked down. Their hands, tangled together, clumsy, unintentional… and yet deliberate.

His mind emptied. The noise, the weight, the dread—it all dissolved for a heartbeat as he stared at their joined hands. Around them, the others kept walking, unaware. It was as though the world had narrowed, leaving only the two of them suspended in its center.

Mikasa felt her chest tighten, every nerve alive with his nearness. His hand, rough and trembling, his fingers curling against hers in a way so fragile it nearly broke her. The warmth of his touch set her dizzy, her pulse hammering in her ears.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, her cheeks heating. “Just… stay with me.”

Eren couldn’t reply. He studied their hands as though weighing them, dissecting the meaning, the risks. The Yeagerists. The shadows that would always chase him. He imagined chains closing in—capture, pursuit, bloodshed. To hope like this, to let himself cling to her, was reckless. Dangerous. And yet it was the one thing that still felt real.

He tried to pull away. Better to break it now, better not to risk them, better to walk alone as he always should. But her grip only tightened, firm, unyielding.

Eren’s breath caught. The strength in her hand was the same as before, the strength that had carried them through every storm.

“I’m not letting go this time,” Mikasa said, her voice low but steady. “We’ll face it together. Stop deciding for us, Eren. Stop carrying it alone. We’re here—friends…Isn’t that what they’re for?”

Friends.

The word pierced him. He gave a faint smile, reluctant, fragile, as some of the tension in his chest eased. Still, fear lingered. He couldn’t bear to lose her. Not her.

Mikasa turned toward him, the moonlight reflecting in her eyes, catching starlight as though the sky itself had been captured within them. Eren stared, unguarded, unable to look away. He had never allowed himself this—never allowed himself to linger on her face, to drink in the sight of her without shame. Tonight, for some reason, he couldn’t stop.

Her heart thundered, too loud, too desperate. She feared he could hear it, that he would recoil from it. And yet, trapped in his gaze, she couldn’t move. His eyes, green tinged with shadow, seemed almost blue in the dark. Every line of his face carved itself deeper into her memory, each one cherished, each one feared.

They stood close—too close. An invisible thread tugged at them, pulling tighter, dragging them across a line neither dared cross yet both had always hovered near. Eren didn’t know if he wanted it—if he could allow himself to trust, to lean, to share his burden with her.

And still, their faces drew nearer. Eyes locked, breath uneven, the fragile silence between them stretched thin, ready to break.

Until—

“Hey! What’re you two doing back here?!”

The moment shattered. Eren flinched, stepping back as though burned. Mikasa turned away quickly, her fingers slipping from his, her cheeks hot with shame. Their hearts pounded, their thoughts scattered, and both tried to hide what could no longer be hidden.

Eren rubbed at his neck, awkward and restless. Mikasa’s hands fidgeted at the hem of her yukata, her silence heavy. Yuki reappeared, puzzled but certain of what she’d seen. Even if they pretended, even if they kept running from it, the truth between them was plain.

And she couldn’t help but wonder—how much longer could they keep denying it?

The three of them rejoined the others, pretending nothing had happened. Yet distance lingered—silent, heavy—as if the space between them still echoed with what almost was.

Then the fireworks began. Bursts of colour tore through the night sky, cracking open the silence with sound and light. The crowd gasped in awe, Armin included, but for Eren the explosions felt like something breaking inside his chest—his heart splitting into fragments that refused to fall. He had lived so long staring at the path carved ahead of him, following a fate he believed in, convinced there was no room for hesitation. But now… that future terrified him. For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure what was right, what was wrong. He only knew that forward was the only direction he had ever allowed himself. Forward, even if it meant walking blind. Forward, even if it meant regretting.

But tonight, he understood what scared him most. It wasn’t the future. It was the possibility of throwing this away—the chance in front of him. The wall he had built, stone by stone, to keep her safe, to keep himself from breaking, was crumbling. He couldn’t hide behind it anymore.

His eyes turned.

Mikasa’s face was lit by the fireworks—flashes of red, gold, and blue painting her in shifting light. She didn’t look like the girl who had once hidden behind strength, too shy to say what weighed on her heart. No—there was determination in her now, forged by her own battles, her own losses. She was someone who had carried her silence, but also someone who had chosen to keep walking.

Eren felt the word return to him, the word she had given him earlier.

Friends.

He knew she had meant more than that, even if she hadn’t spoken it. Somehow, it felt like both of them had already confessed—without words, without clarity—under these stars and this burning sky.

The night was dark, the only light above. He leaned closer, not with resolve carved by fate, but with a fragile, trembling will to remain here, now. For once, he wanted to choose something for himself—not tomorrow, not the distant horizon, but this moment.

Mikasa lifted her eyes to the sky, lost in the bloom of light, until warmth brushed her hand. She didn’t need to look to know—it was him. Eren. The darkness sheltered them. No one else noticed, no one else mattered. They stayed that way, side by side, hand in hand, the fireworks painting shadows across their faces.

In that touch, Mikasa felt strength. As if he was saying without words: I’m gonna try.

And for Eren, holding her hand was enough. Enough to let the walls fall, enough to silence the ghosts that always dragged him backward. For the first time, he wasn’t running from the weight of the past, or from the burden of the future. He was standing in the present—choosing it, choosing her.

The fireworks flared, and he tightened his grip.

✹

“Armin, how do you get a girl to like you?”

Eren’s voice was blunt, stupidly direct in the pale half-light of the balcony. He looked ridiculous asking it — and that made him more vulnerable than he liked. Armin watched him over the rim of his coffee, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Dawn had hardly come; the city below still breathed in sleep. It was quiet in a way that made everything feel important, as if the world was holding its breath to listen.

“You want my advice on that?” Armin asked, arching one eyebrow.

Eren’s face heated. He hated being on the spot; he hated that a question like this unseated him.

“I—” He swallowed.

“I don’t have any advice, actually.”

Eren blinked.

“You’re not serious right now. This isn’t helping me.”

Armin laughed, not unkindly.

“I went with the flow,” he said. “Which is not terribly instructive as a method.” He folded his hands around the cup to warm them. “If we’re being honest — and you know I’m awkward about honesty — the simple version is this: tell her what you feel.”

Eren barked a short, embarrassed sound.

“Forget it.”

Armin’s face shifted, the teasing dropping away. He could make jokes like anyone else, but he had learned the hard usefulness of steady words. The things he said mattered — they had to; people sometimes built their lives around them.

“Eren. That’s your problem.” He said it plainly. “Every time something looks difficult, you retreat and convince yourself you don’t deserve it. You use the past like armour, but it’s rusted.”

Eren’s hands tightened. The old defence showed on him like a scar — the reflex to make himself small to keep everyone else safe.

“After what I did,” he began, voice low and raw, “I can’t—”

Armin cut him off with a look that contained both pity and exasperation.

“Shut up with this. You use that as an excuse because you’re scared. Scared you’ll break it, scared you’ll break her.”

Eren’s jaw worked. He wanted to protest, to catalogue every reason why he should vanish, why he wasn’t allowed to be ordinary, to be loved. But Armin’s eyes were steady. They had been through too much for either of them to pretend the world was simple; Armin had never sugar-coated anything that mattered.

“Besides,” Armin added, a quick smile flickering on again, “I think what you’re feeling is mutual.” The words landed like a soft shove. Eren’s face betrayed him — surprised, hopeful, then furious at himself for letting hope in.

“Argh, you’re still not helping me, just forget really!” Eren snapped, but there was no real heat in it. Armin had the effect of grounding him; even Eren knew that.

“Eren.”

The name was quiet, but it pulled Eren back. “She’s waiting for you, you know that, right? You both went through a lot, and you both know the risk”

Eren met his eyes, raw and uncertain. Armin let him be that for a moment. When he spoke again there was nothing performative about it; it was the clear, careful sort of counsel Armin had always been capable of. “Say it simply. Say what you mean. If she’s the person you think she is, she’ll meet you halfway.”

Eren stayed silent for a long beat, listening to the city wake. The words lodged themselves where arguments and plans used to live, softer but heavier. Armin smiled, slow and relieved.

“Good. Now, practise being less dramatic about it. Also, coffee?”

“This is stressful.”

“Well,” Armin gave a small smile, “I never thought I’d see you worked up over something like this. But… it makes me happy, Eren. It means you’re trying to live.”

Eren didn’t answer. The words sat heavy in his chest. He felt a strange calm, but anxiety trailed right behind it. What was he supposed to do now? And—how the hell had Armin managed it with Annie, of all people? The girl who shut everyone out, who never let anyone get close. He still wondered if it was even right to think about this kind of thing, not after everything. Not after tearing families apart, ripping love away from others…

He shook his head. He had bigger problems.

The Yeagerists.
Their plans to spread onto untouched lands, to drag Eldia’s empire out of its grave. It twisted in his gut. He knew he couldn’t let them. He knew he was the only one who could stop it. But to reveal himself? To step back into the open? That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could take. And yet, doing nothing—standing by while war sparked again—was worse.

There was no glimpse of a future to guide him this time. No path, no plan, no guess. Just a choice that would come at a cost.

But more than anything, he wanted to protect his friends.

“Armin,” Eren muttered, voice low but steady, “if the Yeagerists come to finish what I started… I don’t think I can stay silent forever.”

“I know.” Armin’s voice was quiet, but resolute. “And if it comes to that… I’ll be there. We’ll stop it. Together.”

Eren blinked at him, almost startled. After everything—the Rumbling, the distance, the broken trust—they were still here, rebuilding from nothing. He hadn’t expected those words but hearing them, he understood. Armin had almost lost him once. Neither of them wanted to repeat that.

“Say…” Armin hesitated, shoulders tensing. “If Mikasa ever hears about this—”

“She won’t!” Eren cut him off sharply.

“You know you can’t stop her, right?”

Eren’s hand curled into a fist. He hated it, but Armin was right. He couldn’t keep her out forever.

And that was what terrified him most.
Because if she stood with him again—if she faced this madness at his side—he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her too.

The mention of Yeagerist and all the problems that comes to it…I have been meaning to bring it and I though it could be yet another challenge for the trio as they try to enjoy the trip. Now, the most important thing would be to see if Eren will be willing to bring his friends to something he had done, or will he trust them enough to help…

I don’t think I will be planning for a fight scene or any sort, as in the post-rumbling, everyone are really helping each other and the yeagerist have been staying silent for at least a hundred years before another war could start, but they would be a scene where they would have to confront the reality.

Chapter Text

At first, Mikasa didn’t know where she was. There was no ground beneath her feet—only air, blades, and screams tearing through the sky. She felt herself flying, but it wasn’t freedom. It was weightless terror.
And then the memories came. One after another, like a flood she’d been holding back without knowing. The last tremor. The last piece of the puzzle.
The Rumbling.

Her head split with pain. She dropped to her knees, palms pressing to her skull, the weight too heavy to bear. This wasn’t a battlefield. This was a nightmare. A place without the silent lady, without peace—only grief. Somewhere, far away, she felt another memory slip through quiet, gentle, a scene untouched by blood.

“When I’m gone, I want you to throw that scarf away.”

Eren’s voice cut through her like glass. It had sounded cruel at the time, but she could hear it now for what it was—a plea, a clumsy act of love. He couldn’t bear to see her tied to him in grief. Those four years they’d stolen together from his cursed life… had they been hers too?

Then the present surged back. The sky. The wings. Falco’s titan—the first to ever fly. Hange’s dream. Her comrades gone, or turned to monsters, their bodies swallowed by the power they’d fought against. Only she remained, the Ackerman, cursed to remember, cursed to resist.

She knew what to do. Her body moved on instinct, old reflexes twitching like a ghost. She knew where Eren was. She knew what he’d done. The Founding Titan, the path he had chosen. But did she really know his heart? Her head swam with conflicting memories—his last words, his distant eyes, the boy she had sworn to protect. She had failed him. She had failed herself.

She couldn’t kill him.

“An Ackerman, hound to its host—that’s what you are, Mikasa.”

No. She loved him. She loved him with everything she was. She could die here for him and still it would not be enough.

Then it happened. The silent lady appeared before her, faceless and still. Mikasa’s scream didn’t even reach her own ears. And out of the corner of her vision, she saw Eren tearing free from his Titan form, a figure breaking away from a nightmare. He caught her as her legs gave out. Pain ripped through her abdomen, high and sharp.

Why?
Why couldn’t she do it? Why couldn’t she be the one to stop him?

“Mikasa—no!”

His voice. His tears. For a heartbeat, he was beautiful again—the boy she had watched grow, the boy who had wrapped a scarf around her neck. She wanted to reach him, to touch him, to say everything she had never said. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break free of her chest.

Blood.

It was everywhere. Her whole life had been blood. Had she ever been happy? There must have been a moment. A single moment when she could have spoken the truth, when she could have told him what he was to her. Now everything crumbled. The noise was deafening. For the first time, Mikasa was terrified—not of dying, but of what she had done, of what she hadn’t.

“I can’t kill you, Eren… I’m sorry…”

Her eyelids grew heavy. Images flickered and faded—his face, their friends, her family, the reason she had fought all this time. She felt herself being lifted, carried, warmth wrapping around her like a final goodbye.

Darkness closed in. The silence swallowed her whole.

She would die for him. Because she couldn’t live with it.

Mikasa jolted awake, screaming. Her lungs burned as if she had been holding her breath for years. Her head rang, her chest tight, her hands trembling as she clawed at the futon beneath her. For a moment, she couldn’t recognize where she was. Only the dark ceiling above. Only the single square of light leaking through the window. Her whole body shook with the urge to cry.

“Mikasa, are you okay?”

She snapped her head to the side. Yuki was sitting up, eyes wide, her hair mussed from sleep. They were both on the floor, futons spread across a wooden room that wasn’t home, wasn’t hers. Slowly, painfully, the pieces began to click together. This place. This life. This body. And with them came the flood—the memories she had buried, the ones that had been stolen from her.

She remembered everything.
And she wished she hadn’t.

“Yuki… I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Her voice shook.

“You hella screamed outta nowhere—I thought I was having a heart attack. Did you… have a nightmare?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“You sure? Let me—”

“No. I’m fine. Just need some air. Sorry I scared you.”

But she wasn’t fine. Not even close.

She slipped from the futon, slid the door shut behind her, and stood in the empty hallway, her hands pressed against the wood until her breath steadied. Except it didn’t. Her chest only grew tighter. Her stomach churned. She felt sick.

Why now? Why remember it all now?
The Rumbling.
Eren’s voice, cold and cruel because he thought it was mercy. Her own silence, her blindness, her failure. The weight of every death, every destroyed life—laid at his feet, and by extension, hers. She clenched her fists until her nails dug deep into her palms. Rage flickered, but so did grief. Why did Eren always carry everything alone? Why did he keep them at arm’s length until it was too late? She had seen the change back in Marley. She had closed her eyes to it. They all had. And now the price lived inside her.

She couldn’t breathe.

By the time she stopped at his door, her knuckles rapped against the wood before she even thought. Her pulse was frantic, warning her this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be here. But she couldn’t go back to her futon. Not with that nightmare still clawing at her.

Footsteps. The door slid open.

Eren blinked at her, surprised, half-asleep, bare chest catching the pale lamplight. He looked different—harder, older—but to her he was still Eren. The last thread holding her together.

“Mikasa…?”

She didn’t answer. Her body moved on its own, crashing into him, her arms wrapping tight around his back as if he might vanish if she let go. He staggered, startled, but then his arms locked around her just as fiercely. He felt it—her trembling, her desperation. And with it came the truth he dreaded: she remembered. His chest ached, his eyes stung. He told himself he had no right to cry, no right to feel the warmth of her in his arms after what he’d done. But he held her anyway, because the thought of letting go terrified him more than anything.

He clutched too hard.

“Eren… I can’t… breathe…”

He froze. Pulled back in horror. His hands trembled as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Hey.” Her voice steadied, faint but real. “It’s okay. I’m not dead.”

He stared, lost.

And she smiled. Just a little. It was absurd, that after everything, he could still look so clueless, so much like the boy she had followed all her life. But the smile vanished quickly, her memories rushing back like a punishment. The weight of who he was. Of what he had done. Of what she had remembered.

“Can I… stay here?” she asked bluntly.

“You wanna stay here?”

“I don’t want to go back to my bed.”

Eren looked at her, as if struck by lightning. It was a bad idea to let her close to him—especially after everything, after that trauma that had haunted her for so long.

But…

“Okay. I’ll sleep in the living room.”

“Don’t be stupid, we can sleep together.”

“Mikasa…”

“Please?”

Why had she come here, of all places? The timing couldn’t have been worse. It had only been a week since they’d last been this close, after avoiding crowded places altogether. Eren had been trying to think of a way to fight back; he couldn’t sit around doing nothing. He’d even asked Armin if he could write a letter to Levi—someone who, he was sure, would know what to do. Alone, he stood no chance. And if he made a single mistake, Levi wouldn’t hesitate to kill him like anyone else.

He didn’t want to drag them into his mess—his mistakes, his choices, his past, all of it was crashing down on him now. Life was unfair, but this was worse: Mikasa wasn’t even angry with him. Not for forcing her into something that nearly killed her. Ymir had stopped her in the end, because she knew how far Mikasa would go—to die by his side instead of living free. And Ymir had paid the price, taking the curse, the chains of two thousand years, with her.

Eren gave a small nod and led Mikasa to his room. The image of her crying still haunted him—it had torn something inside, left him hollow with remorse.

The room was small. Just a futon big enough for two and a large bag of his things shoved to the side.

Mikasa bit her lip, suddenly aware that she was alone with him. She had lived her whole life at his side, seen him in every shade and form. They had shared a roof before—but this was different. Now there was tension, unspoken and heavy. Neither of them knew if it was right, but neither could turn back.

It was about facing what had to come.

“Come on, I’m freezing,” Eren muttered, slipping under the futon first.

The window was still open, letting a cool breeze sweep inside. But it didn’t steady her—it only made her pulse race faster, fear mixed with something else gripping her chest.

Eren frowned, uncertain if this was okay. From the start, Mikasa had been the brave one, the one reaching out to him. But now, with all her memories restored, it felt like everything had reset—like they were standing at the beginning again, before all the chaos.

“This is dumb, I’m gonna sleep in—”

“No, it’s not. I don’t want you to catch cold. I’m coming.”

Mikasa kicked her slipper into the corner of the room before slipping under the futon beside him. In reality, the space was far smaller than it looked. They awkwardly shifted, trying to find a position where neither felt too pressed, yet close enough to settle.

No words were exchanged. In the silence, it felt as if they were both screaming to get away. Eren’s heartbeat quickened, cursing himself for agreeing to this. Mikasa, meanwhile, was too focused on her surroundings to see the real issue. In the end, they lay side by side, on their backs, as moonlight spilled across the room. The silence grew heavier, filled only with their thoughts and the awareness of how close they were.

But it wasn’t enough.

Mikasa’s mind drifted back to the moment she had chosen to wound herself, the blow that had broken her body and warped her memories. She still wondered why it happened then, of all times—when everything had seemed perfect, when it felt as though life had given her another chance. To forget. To move forward. To live without the past weighing her down.

That was impossible now.

“Mikasa.”

His voice was low, but it made her flinch—it sounded too loud in the quiet. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, forcing himself to look away, to ignore her presence. He knew the weight of his choices, and he couldn’t bring her into it. Not her. Not when danger still clung to them like a shadow. No one should be close to a monster like him.

He couldn’t change. He wasn’t allowed to.

Yet Armin’s words still rang in his head—Mikasa wouldn’t let him walk away this time. The thought always made his chest tighten, panic creeping in at the idea of losing her again. He had slaughtered more than eighty percent of humanity. It was his burden to carry. His to make right. He couldn’t afford this.

Stop using that excuse just because you’re afraid.

Maybe Armin was right. But maybe there was truth in it too.

“Yeah?” she finally answered after his silence dragged on.

“I want you to know… everything I said back there… I didn’t mean any of it.”

Mikasa’s heart stuttered. For a moment, she couldn’t find words. But maybe it didn’t matter—Eren was apologizing, even if his words weighed little against what he had done. Maybe she should be angry. Maybe she should never forgive him—for what he did to the world, to their friends.

But she couldn’t.

She loved him too much, even if it was ugly. She remembered when they had once been close, before they’d drifted so far apart. All because of one simple answer.

You are family.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice too soft to carry.

Because she knew it was partly her fault too. She could have tried harder—found another way, pushed through, forced the world to accept the Eldians, broken the curse without bloodshed.

They lay in silence, side by side, neither able to sleep. Both of them dreading the nightmares that waited.

✹

For a moment, Mikasa didn’t know where she was. The shadows of the room pressed in, her breath shallow, the futon beneath her suddenly too warm, too heavy. Then the memories from last night—and the ones from long before—came rushing back, knocking the air from her lungs. The weight of the truth crushed her chest, leaving her clammy and restless.

But she was alone.

Eren wasn’t there. It was still too early for most to be awake, and yet a wave of disappointment washed over her. Maybe he had waited for her to fall asleep before slipping away. It wouldn’t have been the first time. He was always finding ways to keep his distance, to punish himself, even now when they’d been given a second chance.

Her heart clenched at the thought. He couldn’t forgive himself. Even when she wanted to reach for him, he pulled away, convinced that was what he deserved.

She rose quickly, sliding into her slippers, and slipped out of the room. Yuki would be awake by now, probably worried after Mikasa had told her she only needed a walk to clear her head. Yuki didn’t know the truth—none of it. She couldn’t. And yet, Mikasa had never expected she would one day have a friend like her. Out of everything that had happened, out of all the ruin she had endured, Yuki had been her first encounter here. She had trusted her instantly, almost like she had accepted her as a sister.

The thought brought a faint smile to her lips—though it didn’t last. Eren wasn’t in the living room either. He had gone. Fled, most likely. He always fled from her.

And now she had to face Yuki. What was she even supposed to say?

“Sorry,” Mikasa began bluntly, her voice as flat as the truth. “I ended up sleeping with Eren.”

Yuki froze. Then, with a gasp, she clutched Mikasa by the shoulders as though she had just confessed to a crime.

“What?!”

To Mikasa, it hadn’t felt like such a big deal. They had simply shared the same futon. That was all. Nothing had happened. And yet, in the quiet darkness, they had lain close enough to feel the other’s warmth—close enough that Mikasa had drifted into dreamless sleep for the first time in what felt like years. The silence had been a strange kind of comfort, easing her heart in a way words never could.

But Yuki’s reaction told her she’d just dropped a bomb.

“You mean to tell me you snuck into his room,” Yuki said, eyes narrowing, “after telling me you were just going for a breather?”

Her tone was playful, teasing—but disbelieving, too. Yuki was the type to poke fun, especially when it came to boys. Mikasa didn’t understand that kind of teasing. It only made her shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“Did you guys just ‘sleep’?” Yuki added, making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers.

Mikasa shook her head firmly.

“You’re so obsessed,” she muttered.

“Obsessed? Please,” Yuki shot back with a grin. “The two of you are obviously in love. You’re just too shy to say it. Honestly, this is too funny.”

“I don’t see what’s funny,” Mikasa replied, her voice flat, her discomfort growing.

“Fine, fine, I’ll drop it.” Yuki stretched, cheerful again. “Anyway, the boys are having breakfast. Want to come with me?”

Relief flooded Mikasa at the change of subject.

“I’ll join you after a shower,”.

Yuki’s smile softened into something more serious.

“Say… you know you can always talk to me, right? I know we just met, but I really appreciate you. If you’re not doing well, I want to be there for you. You don’t always have to rely on the boys.”

Mikasa felt warmth spread across her face. The words caught her off guard, but something in her chest loosened at them, like a weight shifting, easing. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel completely alone in her suffering.

She smiled faintly.

“Thanks, Yuki.”

“That’s what friends are for!” Yuki said brightly before skipping off toward the breakfast hall.

The room fell quiet again. Alone, Mikasa was left with nothing but the memories pressing back in, fragments she couldn’t escape, no matter how much she wished to.

Chapter Text

It was their last night in Hizuru. Tomorrow, the boat would carry them south, toward Bahari*.
Two months had passed quickly. The country was small enough that they had managed to see every corner of it—its fields, its temples, its mountains. But the closer the end drew, the heavier it felt to leave.

Mikasa lingered on that weight more than anyone. For the first time in years, she had felt something like home. The thought of leaving tore at her chest.

They spent the evening on the beach. The sea stretched wide before them, lit orange by the fading sun. It was familiar somehow. For Armin and Eren, it had always been the sea—their symbol, their dream. For Mikasa, it was simply the place they returned to, no matter what had been lost along the way.

Yuki and Mina had insisted on celebrating. Fireworks, drinks, laughter—the kind of night that almost felt ordinary. They spread a blanket across the sand, the five of them sitting shoulder to shoulder as the sky darkened.

“I’m gonna miss this tomorrow,” Yuki said suddenly, her voice breaking as tears gathered in her eyes.

Mikasa glanced at her. Yuki had been with them the whole journey, and yet, she wasn’t coming any further. She had her own path—a dream of teaching children about the world. Mina’s expression softened as she watched the younger girl, one tear slipping down unnoticed. Like a mother seeing her child grow.

Armin smiled faintly, but said nothing. He too felt the ache of leaving. The wider world was still broken—chaos and war stretched across continents, years away from healing. Hizuru was an exception. A fragile pocket of peace. To leave it behind felt cruel.

And for Mikasa, there was more. Since regaining her memories, everything between them had shifted. Eren had told Armin once, half-panicked, about the night she had come crying to his room and fallen asleep beside him. He hadn’t been able to hide it. Armin had said nothing at the time, only carried the quiet relief that Mikasa had found her way back.

“Okay, time for fireworks!” Mina said brightly, standing and brushing sand from her skirt. She reached for the bag at her feet, holding it high like a prize.

The last light dipped below the horizon. The air grew sharper, cooler, as autumn crept in. They wrapped themselves in jackets, grateful for the warmth.

“Armin, you want to do the first one?” Mina asked.

He nodded, taking the lighter. The sparks hissed and bloomed in the dark, scattering like stars across the night sky. For a moment, it didn’t feel real—no walls, no Titans, no screams. Only waves and laughter.

At the edge of the blanket, Eren sat apart, his eyes fixed on the sea. His thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the Yeagerists, to Levi’s curt reply ordering them to stay quiet. Floch was gone, but their followers weren’t. They lurked somewhere, waiting. He had led them once. Now he was hiding from them. A coward.

The sound of a sneeze snapped him back.

Mikasa rubbed at her face, cheeks faintly pink. She shivered. Her jacket wasn’t enough.

“You’re okay?” Eren asked, glancing at her.

“Huh? I—I’m fine. Really.”

Since her memories had returned, everything between them had become… different. Awkward. Yet Mikasa refused to pull away. She stayed close. Always watching him, always following, as if afraid he would vanish again.

And though Eren told himself to keep his distance, he couldn’t. Not completely.

“Here,” he muttered, shrugging off his jacket. He draped it carefully over her shoulders, tugging it snug. Then, without thinking, his fingers brushed against her scarf, adjusting it so it sat neatly at her throat.

Mikasa froze. The touch was brief, indirect—but enough to send a shiver through her, deeper than the chill. She turned away quickly, eyes fixed on the waves where Armin lit another firework.

Eren looked too, but his chest felt tight.

Mina stood a little apart, filming with a quiet smile. She caught glimpses of the two of them sitting side by side in the glow of the sparks—awkward, wordless, yet unable to let go. It reminded her of herself once, years ago, when she had first met the man who would become her husband. She hoped she might live long enough to see where these two would end.

“Eren… do you remember what you said back then—when we tried to bring you back, after Reiner and Bertholdt revealed who they were?”

Eren looked at her, startled. For a second, it felt as though she shouldn’t remember any of that. Yet, it was clear now—both of them had carried the same scars, walked through the same hell, and there was no erasing it. Only enduring, only moving forward.

He gave a slow, hesitant nod, unsure where she was leading him.

As if she had read his thoughts, Mikasa continued.
“You said you’d wrap this scarf around me again, didn’t you? Do you… still remember?”

Of course he did. The memory returned vividly, her voice thanking him for always being by her side, for that small promise that he would always be there to protect her. To anyone else, it might have sounded trivial. But to him, it meant everything. And to her, it was proof that Eren still cared—that even now, in this fragile moment, it was something she could believe in.

“...Yeah,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she whispered, before burying her face deeper into the scarf, hoping it would hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

But Eren wasn’t faring any better. These days it felt like walking a tightrope—caught between the line he shouldn’t cross and the desire to step over it. His thoughts wandered to another possibility, another path he had glimpsed four years ago. A life where the two of them could have been honest, where they might have lived without caring about the world’s end.

He still wondered why it had been so hard for her to say those words that night. But then again, he had never been good with his own feelings either. Maybe this—learning, fumbling, and still choosing to stay—was simply what living meant. Maybe it was enough.

“Hey, you two! Don’t just sit there—get over here already!”

Yuki’s cheerful voice cut through, her teasing carrying a brightness that barely veiled the sadness underneath. She knew she might never see them again, even if they promised to return someday. But for tonight, she wanted laughter, not goodbyes.

Eren and Mikasa rose and joined the others, sparklers glowing in their hands as the waves crashed in the distance. Mina’s phone played low music, the night filling with bursts of laughter, alcohol-sweet voices, and the fizzing crackle of fireworks.

For a fleeting moment, peace felt real.
And tonight was a night they would remember.

✹

“Crap… I shouldn’t have drank so much.”

Armin groaned, one hand draped over his forehead as he sank deeper into the long chair on the deck. The ship rocked gently beneath them as it cut through the southern seas. They had left Hizuru at dawn, bound for Bahari and then farther south. Five days on the water before reaching a continent none of them had ever seen. Eren leaned against the railing, hair tugged by the salt wind, watching the horizon. He didn’t look half as wrecked as Armin, though his eyes were duller than usual.

“You brought that on yourself,” he muttered.

Armin gave a weak laugh.

“Like you didn’t drink too.”

Eren didn’t answer.

The night before had been Yuki’s fault. She’d insisted they couldn’t leave without going to a nightclub. Armin had been too polite to refuse, and Mikasa—hesitant at first—had ended up drinking enough vodka that her usual guard slipped away. Eren hadn’t touched much, staying on watch with Mina at a shadowed table, but he’d seen everything; Mikasa dancing. Laughing. Her cheeks flushed, her hair damp with heat. Her steps clumsy but free. She had looked—different. Lighter. Eren hadn’t realized how much he was staring until Armin elbowed him, half-teasing, half-wary. Because in a place like that, people watched. And Eren had a look in his eyes that warned what would happen if anyone tried to lay a hand on her.

Now, with the sun burning on the water and the hangover weighing Armin down, the memory lingered.

For now, they had the sea. The three of them together again, heading into the unknown.

“Hey… what do you think Mikasa’s doing?” Armin asked, lowering the hand that had been shielding his face from the sunlight.

“Dunno.”

Eren’s reply was curt, almost too quick. The truth was, he was trying not to think about her at all.

Armin tilted his head, watching him from the corner of his eye.
“Maybe you should check on her. This boat’s bigger than it looks. Easy to get lost.”

Eren shot him a sideways glance, jaw tight. He could see right through it. Armin never said anything by accident—he was doing this on purpose. Always pushing. Always knowing more than he let on.

Sometimes Eren almost forgot who Armin really was. Not just the quiet one with answers or the kid who dreamed about the sea. Behind all the gentle words and pauses was someone who had chosen to send people to their deaths. Someone who’d weighed lives on a scale and carried the same merciless burden Erwin had. He’d been a monster too.

But now… now Armin wasn’t thinking about strategies, sacrifices, or survival. He wasn’t playing commander anymore. He just wanted to pull Eren out of whatever prison he had built for himself. He wanted him to stop wasting time. To stop waiting for things to somehow resolve themselves. Because after everything, after all that had surfaced, Mikasa wasn’t going to be the one to move first. Not after what she had already said. Not after what he had already done.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Eren muttered, turning back to the sea. The waves churned endlessly, as if mocking the restlessness in his chest.

Armin leaned back against the chair, feigning nonchalance, though his words cut straight.
“Maybe. Or maybe some guy’s talking to her right now. Someone better than you.”

“…Armin.” Eren’s voice dropped low, sharp. “I know what you’re doin’. And it ain’t gonna work.”

“Maybe not.” Armin shrugged, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But have you thought about it? If someone else is interested in her, and you keep doing nothing… what’s stopping her from choosing a life that isn’t you?”

Eren’s jaw tightened. He wanted to spit something back, anything, but his throat caught. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Weren’t you supposed to be complaining about your hangover?”

It was weak. A lame diversion, and Armin’s faint smile told him he knew it.

Then—

“Sorry, I made you wait.”

Mikasa’s voice broke into the air, calm, even. She stepped into view just in time, before Eren could decide whether to give in to Armin’s push or bury himself back in silence.

She had been asleep until now. The alcohol from last night, paired with hours on her feet, dancing with Yuki, had left her worn out. She’d done her best to shake it off before coming up, brushing away the marks of exhaustion with the little makeup she had bought weeks ago during a day out with Yuki and Mina. It wasn’t much—she barely knew how to use it—but enough to hide the shadows under her eyes, enough to give her lashes the lightest touch of mascara. She had even tried the faintest perfume, something soft and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t like her, not the Mikasa he had grown up with, all bare skin and soldier’s gear. But it was subtle. Careful. Almost shy.

Eren noticed instantly. He saw the faint darkening of her lashes, the way her skin caught the light differently, and caught the delicate scent as she walked past. His expression slipped before he could stop it.

Armin noticed too, though he kept quiet this time. He leaned back with a knowing look, content to let silence press in where words had already done their work.

Eren hated it. Hated how right Armin was. That if he kept standing still, if he let fear dictate every step, then maybe—sooner or later—she would stop waiting. Maybe she’d look for something else. Someone else.

But he also hated himself more. Because even as he took in Mikasa’s presence, even as his chest ached at how close she was now, the weight of everything he had done never let up. The Rumbling. The destruction. The countless faces he had never seen but knew he had crushed under his own steps. How could he dare to reach for anything good when his hands were still stained?

Freedom was all he had ever chased. And yet here, standing in front of him, was something he wanted more.

And every time he tried to step toward it, the world reminded him of what he had taken.

“I guess that party really fucked us all,” Armin grumbled, pressing a hand over his face.

“You’re the worst of all,” Mikasa replied flatly. “Didn’t know Armin was an alcoholic and a smoker.”

“Reminds me—I need one right now,” he muttered, fishing for his pack.

“Can I try?”

“Mikasa!”

Eren’s head snapped toward her like he’d been struck. For a second, he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. After everything she’d been through, after everything she’d survived—she was really going to ruin it over this?

“Mikasa…” His voice was low, warning, almost pleading.

She met his stare without flinching. “Eren, I know you smoke too. So you’re not the one to talk.”

“This is bad for your health.”

“So are you.”

His mouth opened, ready to fire back, but she cut him down before he could.

“Weak. Is that what you were about to say? Because I opened myself so much I almost died for you? That I can’t live the way I want anymore?”

Eren froze. The words burned into him, sharper than any blade she’d ever held. He wanted to argue, but Armin’s eyes were on him, steady, unblinking. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse. He knew she was angry—angry at him, angry at the past—and she had every right to be.

His fists tightened at his sides, silent, as Mikasa pulled a cigarette from Armin’s hand. She held it between her fingers like she’d done it a thousand times before. Then she lit it, inhaled, and… didn’t cough. Didn’t flinch. Her throat worked, eyes steady, almost daring them to say something.

“This is disgusting,” she said finally, her voice level, like she hadn’t just swallowed fire.

“You’ll get used to it eventually,” Armin replied, smoke curling from his lips.

“No thank you. I said I’d try it, and for Eren’s sake, I’m done here.”

Eren shouldn’t have felt relief, but he did. It sank into him, warm, heavy, almost shameful. Because behind that relief, guilt gnawed at him. She was still angry. Still carrying everything he’d thrown on her shoulders. And he didn’t know how to fix it—not with an apology, not with silence, not with anything.

Before he could say a word, Mikasa turned and walked away. Just as sudden as she had appeared, she was gone.

“Great,” Eren muttered, resting his weight against the railing.

“I thought you guys weren’t fighting.”

“We aren’t.”

“Doesn’t look like it to me. Mikasa still seems angry.”

“Armin, mind your business,” Eren snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. The frustration was familiar—boiling up the second anyone touched a nerve he couldn’t bear to face. Armin always knew too much, saw too much, like he was peeling back Eren’s skin without asking. And Eren hated it. Because deep down, he knew Armin was only trying to help, but there was nothing to help. He couldn’t undo what he’d done. Couldn’t erase what he had taken.

Having Mikasa here, close enough to hear her footsteps, to feel her anger even when she didn’t speak—it was too much. Like reopening a wound that never healed, one he carried everywhere. His world kept colliding with hers, and every time it hurt more.

“Why is it,” Eren muttered, fingers digging into the rail, “that every time we get on a boat, some shit happens?”

Armin blinked at him, and then it clicked. Boats. Every turning point, every disaster seemed to start there. He almost smiled at the bitter irony of it—remembering that day after the Rumbling, when Eren had nearly thrown himself into the sea. Armin had caught him at the edge, dragging him back when Eren would’ve ended everything. That memory sat heavy between them, as real as the ocean beneath their feet.

Back then, survival had been the only goal. Now, they were being forced to try something harder: living. Living like people who hadn’t destroyed the world. Living like they still deserved a tomorrow.

“I hate boats,” Eren muttered, his voice low, almost swallowed by the waves.

Armin leaned on the rail beside him, letting the silence stretch before answering,

“Me too.”

✹

He couldn’t sleep again, and it wasn’t because of the nightmares. Somehow, Mikasa being angry with him unsettled him more than he expected. It was something he’d never allowed himself to think about before, but now that things felt closer to “normal,” he couldn’t ignore it. He was fully aware of the distance between them—and of what it meant.

If Mikasa had truly regained all her memories—every single one, even those from the path he’d carved in his own selfishness—then she knew. She knew what they’d shared in that other life, the bond that had stretched across four years of solitude. Eren hated how that thought made him feel, because it meant facing what he had done, what she had done, and everything they had been when it was just the two of them left, clinging to a fragile piece of humanity.

He turned over in bed, caught between guilt and desire. Was it wrong to want something for himself, after everything? He had dragged his friends into hell, forcing them to fight battles they never should have had to face, when maybe—just maybe—there could have been another way. He wanted to undo it all: the words he had spat, the betrayals, the way he had manipulated their loyalty. And for what? Nothing but ruin. Nothing but graves and ash. And yet, even with that truth clawing at him, he couldn’t stop wanting more. He wanted Mikasa. That desire gnawed at him, settled deep in his chest, until everything else blurred into incoherence. He knew how much she had held him together, even while she was searching for who she was apart from him. Gratitude wasn’t enough—he wanted to protect her, to hold onto every fleeting moment they had now, to believe for once that he could still choose something for himself. But it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was.

The boat rocked beneath him, the swaying only worsening the turmoil in his head. He sat up, breath uneven. He needed air. He needed to escape the walls of this cabin before the weight of his thoughts drowned him.

With one smooth motion, he pulled a shirt over his head and slipped out, barefoot. The metal floor was cold beneath his feet, the chill biting up his legs. The engines rumbled low and constant, their vibration running through the walls like a heartbeat. Above him, the emergency exit signs cast their pale glow, the only light in the corridor. For a moment, he imagined stepping into that glow and vanishing—escaping.

He wanted escape. To stop thinking. To sink into silence and let it hold him like a cocoon. But it was never simple. It had never been simple. Every time he thought he could take a step forward, something dragged him back—his own choices, the memories of what he’d done, the faces of the dead. And he knew, deep down, that there wouldn’t be another chance.

But was that really what he wanted?

He pressed his palm to the cold wall, fingers trembling. If they ever found out the “monster” was still alive—the one who’d led the Rumbling—they wouldn’t stop hunting him. A false name wouldn’t save him. A new life wouldn’t erase what he’d done. And yet… something else was holding him here. Something heavier than guilt, sharper than fear. The thought of it made his stomach twist, nausea rising in his throat. Because despite everything, he still wanted to live. Not as a soldier, not as a weapon, but as a person. He still dreamed—selfishly, stupidly—of freedom and peace. It was carved into his veins, just as the hatred of the world had been carved into his skin. The people who hated Eldians didn’t deserve to live, but neither did he. He knew that. And still he wanted to let go, to move forward. He wanted to believe that his fantasy—a life where no one came after him, where he could stay by his friends—wasn’t just a fantasy. Eren had to trust them. Trust that they’d shown him something stronger than revenge or despair. Trust that he could still be part of them.

His feet carried him before he even realized where he was going. He stopped, staring at the door in front of him. Mikasa’s door. He stood there, torn between want and restraint, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He needed to apologize. He’d never wanted any of this for her, and yet he’d dragged her through it. He’d hurt her. And now, seeing her survive—seeing her still living after the hell he’d helped create—was like looking at proof of a strength he couldn’t match.

He felt jealous of that strength. And at the same time, he admired her for it, more than he could ever say.

It was as if she’d been waiting for him. Before he could raise his hand to knock, the door opened. For a heartbeat neither of them moved. The surprise was obvious, like they’d both been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Mikasa stood there in her nightclothes with a long jacket thrown over them, her scarf still wrapped loosely around her neck despite the cold. Her hair was down—longer than before, reaching just past her shoulders. It looked soft. Eren’s fingers twitched with the memory of touching it in another life, when it had just been the two of them, hidden away from war. She had always been beautiful; that wasn’t news. What was new was the way the thought struck him now, heavy and unavoidable. He’d come to apologize, but the words slipped out of his head the moment he saw her.

“Eren,” she asked quietly, “what are you doing?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp, no anger left in it—only doubt, curiosity. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to her. But to Eren, this was everything. He thought of what Armin had said to him:

“ Stop using your sins as an excuse. If she’s who you think she is, she’ll meet you halfway”.

He swallowed hard.

“Mikasa… I wanted to see you. I—I mean, I wanted to apologize. For before. I messed up.”

“It was just a cigarette,” she murmured. “I won’t smoke if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“N-no, it’s not just that, it’s…” Eren rubbed at the back of his neck, heat crawling up his skin.

He hated this—the exposure, the way words betrayed him. Because the truth was simple: nothing would ever really be forgiven. The words landed like a punch. He wanted to hit the wall, hit himself.

“I’m cold,” Mikasa added flatly.

Eren blinked, noticing for the first time that she was barefoot too, her hair damp as if she’d just showered. She looked tired. Maybe she didn’t want him there. Maybe she’d already decided to move on, to live without him. The thought clawed up his chest, a kind of panic he hadn’t felt in years.

He forced out the only thing he could say.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone. I just… I needed to say that.”

But before he could turn away, she said quietly,

“No, Eren. Come sleep with me.”

“…Huh?”

“We can keep warm. Like we used to during training.”

His heart slammed against his ribs. The hallway tilted; he felt dizzy, like gravity had shifted. Was this real? Or another illusion his mind was throwing at him? But the faint pink in her cheeks wasn’t an illusion. A pang shot through his chest. Fear and longing tangled together.

And then—

“Forget I said it.”

She started to close the door, but Eren’s hand shot out, stopping it.

“Wait—” The words tumbled out, messy, clumsy. “I’ll come. Sleep with you. If… if that’s what you want.”

He cringed the second it left his mouth. He must sound insane, like he was asking for something he wasn’t. But it wasn’t about that. It had never been about that. It was about being next to her—one small, stolen piece of warmth, like they used to have, before everything broke.

Mikasa smiled faintly, though she felt the same awkwardness clawing at her. She hadn’t believed she’d actually say it aloud; she’d expected it to stay locked in her head like so many other thoughts. But Eren’s reaction — the flash of shock, the stammer in his voice — proved her wrong.

Once again they were treading on thin ice. They both knew it. They both knew they shouldn’t be here, not like this. And yet here they were. Too late to turn back.

She stepped aside, letting him into her room, and closed the door behind them. The space seemed smaller with him in it, the air heavier. He looked taller than she remembered. Maybe it was just the shadows, or maybe staying alive had finally given him time to finish growing. They were in their twenties now — grown-ups by every measure. But some things still clung to them: the weight of the past, the moments that could never be undone.

They couldn’t go back to the days they’d lost, but being here together felt like brushing up against them.

Eren stood stiffly in the middle of the room, as if bracing himself for some unseen blow. The boat swayed under them, a slow, queasy rhythm he hated. The hum of the engines pressed against his temples. Even the air felt like static against his fingers. And beneath it all was the faint scent of Mikasa’s perfume. It was distracting — dangerously so. He shouldn’t be this nervous.

In another life, me and her…
He cut the thought off sharply. That wasn’t why he’d come. It wasn’t what she’d meant.

“You look kinda stupid, standing there like that,” Mikasa said, her tone soft, almost teasing.

His head snapped up, like he’d been pulled out of a trance. He hadn’t noticed she was already in bed, waiting for him, pulling the sheets aside — an invitation.

He drew in a slow breath. “I’m stupid.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well… I am, still.”

Because his mind was elsewhere, chasing a path he’d promised himself he wouldn’t walk again. Having Mikasa this close was something he’d sworn he wouldn’t let himself feel anymore. Even after the night she’d come to him in tears, memories restored, their moment had been brief — a sliver of reality before the walls went back up. And now here he was, about to cross the line he’d built so carefully.

He remembered too vividly holding her in another timeline — her body limp, her heart exposed.

“Hold me,” she said quietly.

Eren’s breath caught. Maybe she was challenging him. Maybe she was still angry. Or maybe, like him, she was clinging to the present, refusing to let the past crush this small, fleeting moment.

Slowly, he moved. He wrapped his arms around her, careful this time — careful not to squeeze too tightly, the way she used to complain about. He’d never been gentle. He was built to destroy, not to hold something meant for peace. And yet, here he was, holding her.

Her back fit against his chest; he could feel her relax into him almost immediately. His heart thudded against her shoulder blades, a rhythm both foreign and familiar. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to think. He only wanted this — a small, stolen piece of warmth. He wanted it to last, even knowing it couldn’t.

Mikasa’s heart quickened. The heat from his body seeped into her; she had been freezing a moment ago, but now she felt warm, comfortable. It stirred something deep inside her — a long-forgotten sense of peace, the kind only the two of them had ever shared. For a moment, it felt like they were somewhere else, far from the world and its weight. Their own small world. And for now, it was enough.

She could feel the tension leaving him too. The awkwardness that had clung to them slipped away, replaced by something quieter, steadier. In his arms, she felt safe. Even knowing all he had done, all he had carried to protect the people he loved, she felt safe.

But tonight, she didn’t want to think about any of that. Tonight, she only wanted him.

They drifted to sleep like that, holding on to each other, warding off the nightmares. The boat swayed gently beneath them, the steady crash of the waves their lullaby.

They were okay. For now.

*Name inspired, Swahili, mixed Tanzania.

This chapter wasn’t easy to write, I kept feeling like it was out of character especially for Eren and Mikasa. I’m so used to them arguing but this is also about character development, to see their progress. I also realised just like Eren just how much messed things happened every time they got on a boat, and I laughed at that. Of course, I decided then to add this little scene with him and Mikasa, as something rather sweet, a sign that they are finally getting close to each other. But the chapter isn’t something much special, I don’t plan any big plots beside seeing how they involve on a normal day, which might be boring but honestly, they deserve a normal life, same goes to Levi and everyone else back at Pëtras.

Anyways, sorry for the delay.

Chapter Text

Once again, they were struck by how different Bahari was. Like Hizuru before it, the land seemed untouched by anything they’d ever known — its people, its landscape, its rhythm of life. Everything was new, yet strangely familiar, as if they had already dreamed of this place.

They had been staying at a small resort, where time moved slowly. The world was still recovering from the Rumbling — there weren’t many travellers, but enough for life to feel possible again. To them, this trip was more than an expedition; it was a quiet attempt to start over. Bahari was said to be home to great plains and the wild creatures that ruled them — an entire ecosystem that had survived humanity’s worst. The locals called it safari.

No one here knew their names, their sins, or the weight they carried. No one whispered the word Rumbling. Eren was relieved — though instead of suspicion, he found curiosity. Children would stare at his hair, his distant eyes, as if he were a story they’d never heard before.

Their guide, Abhouma, had laughed.

“They’re not used to strangers,” he’d explained. “They just wonder where you come from.”

But Eren wasn’t the only one drawing attention. Mikasa always did — quiet, graceful, with that scarf still wrapped around her neck, as if she couldn’t let go of the one thing that tied her to home.

Meanwhile, Armin had been writing — always writing. He had just finished a letter for the people back in Pëtras, along with the first draft of his travel journal. He wanted to record everything: Hizuru, Bahari, and the fragments of a world reborn. He dreamed of publishing it one day, of teaching others that there was still so much to see beyond the ruins.

Now, they were waiting to board a small plane — another modern invention to them. A machine that could fly higher than birds, faster than boats. The kind of thing Armin had always imagined but Eren still found hard to believe. As the pilot gave safety instructions, Eren leaned back in his seat, uneasy. Mikasa sat by the window, Eren in the middle, Armin beside the aisle. The sunlight spilled through the glass, hot and heavy. The air was thick with humidity — nothing like the crisp cold of Paradis.

“I hate planes,” Mikasa muttered, adjusting her seatbelt.

“I think it’s fun,” Armin said, his voice light.

“Not really…” she replied, gaze distant.

Her words faded as her thoughts drifted elsewhere. The last time she’d been on a plane, it was war — the mission to stop Eren, to end the Rumbling. The sound of the rotors still echoed in her mind, tangled with screams and smoke. Violence had once been a necessity. Now it was a memory she could barely stand to revisit. She used to kill without hesitation — for her people, for him — but sometimes she still wondered if all those sacrifices had truly meant anything.

“Hey,” Eren said quietly beside her. “It’s gonna be okay.”

She smiled faintly, not because his words erased her fear, but because they came from him. His tone wasn’t the commanding, desperate one she remembered from the war — it was softer now, almost uncertain.

They’d been closer lately. Since that night on the boat, they often found themselves meeting in silence, talking about things that didn’t matter — the kind of small, ordinary things that once felt impossible. Sometimes, they spoke of the other path — the world Eren had seen, the life that could have been. Mikasa never knew if it was real or just fragments of her own heart trying to fill the gaps. But when Eren described it, she could almost feel it — the peace, the stillness, the way he looked at her in that imagined life.

He didn’t justify himself anymore. He didn’t try to make her forgive him. He only spoke — simply, honestly. And even though it hurt, Mikasa found comfort in those moments.

Armin noticed, of course. He always did. He saw how Eren’s smile, though fleeting, no longer seemed forced — how Mikasa’s shoulders no longer looked like they carried the entire world. He didn’t interfere. After everything they’d lost, they deserved even this small, quiet peace.

The rotors started. The sound tore through the air, sharp and heavy. Mikasa flinched, jaw tightening. She kept her breathing steady, refusing to let fear show. She hated drawing attention, especially now — flying toward some new land, pretending they were just travellers, not remnants of a war the world had almost forgotten.

Her eyes fixed on the spinning blades. They blurred until they disappeared, and for a second, so did her focus. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. The car would’ve been slower, safer. But time was against them — they only had a month left before they were due back on Paradis. Armin would handle the reports, as always. She hadn’t written a word. She hadn’t come for discovery. She came because Eren was coming.

Then, without a word, a hand brushed against hers. Warm, rough, hesitant.

Her heart stopped for a moment. She didn’t look down — she didn’t need to.

Eren’s fingers lingered, as if testing the boundary between them. He wasn’t someone who reached out easily, especially in public. But something in him had shifted since they left the boat. It was like he’d finally decided to stop running from himself — from her. Maybe it was courage. Maybe it was exhaustion.

He only wanted to steady her, to quiet the tremor he saw in her eyes. But part of him knew it was more than that. He wanted to make her smile again — the smile he barely remembered, the one that once made him forget everything else.

Armin had already fallen asleep beside them, hat covering his face, his breathing calm. Eren watched him for a second, then looked back down at their hands. Armin always looked older now — cleaner, composed. The kind of man Eren thought he’d never become. He still looked like the same reckless boy, only quieter. He dressed simply, never caring how the world saw him, but always hoping it wouldn’t see what he’d done.

No one was watching. Maybe that’s why Eren didn’t let go. Maybe that’s why he finally stopped fighting the pull he’d spent years denying. He couldn’t explain it — the need to feel something real, something that wasn’t guilt or ghosts.

Mikasa didn’t move away. She didn’t say a word. Her hand stayed where it was, still trembling slightly, until she found the strength to squeeze his.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the window. The engines roared louder, the earth beginning to shrink below them.

And Eren felt her warmth against his palm — simple, steady, human. For once, the noise in his mind went quiet.

He closed his eyes, pretending for just a second that nothing had ever happened.

That this was enough.

✹

“And welcome to our humble resort!”

Abhouma guided them through the dry, sun-beaten land, the remnants of the Rumbling stretching endlessly around them. Life had returned in unexpected forms — strange, colourful animals, shapes and patterns that neither of them had ever seen before. Their guide seemed patient with their endless questions, amused by the eagerness that reminded him of children discovering the world for the first time.

By evening, they arrived at the resort. Fresh, fruity non-alcoholic cocktails were placed in their hands as they were briefed on the upcoming program. Eren and Armin’s eyes lit up with excitement. Every corner, every shadowed bush, promised something new — a predator, a herd, a sight they’d never forget.

Mikasa, however, kept a careful watch. Lions. Elephants. Anything could be nearby. She wasn’t about to let their curiosity put them in danger.

They had rented a single tent for the three of them, a compromise that was more than sufficient for their small group. It was a relief for Mikasa — the tent felt secure, a place where they could at least pretend the outside world didn’t exist. Three beds lined up side by side, simple and practical. The bathroom was separated only by a thin, extra canvas wall.

Mikasa’s sharp eyes immediately noted the flaw.

“Guys… there’s no door in the bathroom,” she said, panic creeping into her voice.

Eren’s childish grin faltered. Armin, ever pragmatic, tilted his head, thinking.

“How about we take turns? Whoever’s in the shower goes first, the others wait outside,” he suggested, matter-of-fact.

Eren groaned, imagining being exposed while Mikasa or Armin were just a few steps away. His face turned red.

Mikasa’s cheeks mirrored his flush. She had grown used to their closeness over the years — sleeping near each other on missions, sharing rooms during long trips — but this was different. Vulnerable. Too exposed.

“Okay! Get out, both of you! I’m taking a shower first!” she barked, grabbing a towel and pointing to the tent flap.

“Huh?” Eren and Armin blinked at her, frozen for a second by her sudden decisiveness.

And just like that, the two boys were herded out of the tent, leaving Mikasa alone with the warm, humid air and the muted sounds of the wild outside.

Later that night, they gathered for dinner under a sky strewn with stars, sitting with the other group around a low fire. Everyone shared bits of their lives — where they had been, what they had done. For Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, it was always a careful dance, concealing their true selves to survive. Even in this moment of levity, it was a quiet reminder that the shadows of their past never fully disappeared.

The night unfolded with music and laughter. Their guide, Abhouma, strummed a guitar with ease, while a woman with impossibly voluminous hair sang songs from her homeland. Cheers went up, drinks flowed, and the atmosphere softened.

Mikasa laughed freely, her usual reserve melting away. She had found someone to talk to — a girl who had traveled with her boyfriend from the Gaule*. They spoke of dreams, of escaping the burdens of home, of the plans they hoped to make: marriage, a child, a life untouched by violence.

Eren noticed a flicker of sadness behind Mikasa’s laughter, and for a moment, the weight of reality pressed down on him. He could feel, in a quiet pang, that this — this hope, this future — was something he could never truly give her. How could he, after everything he had taken, everything he had lost?

He shook his head, trying to push the thought away. He had made it this far, survived this long, and for now, he could at least enjoy the moment.

“Hey, Abhouma, mind if I try?” Eren asked suddenly, standing.

“Sure, go ahead,” Abhouma replied, sliding the guitar into his hands.

Eren held it carefully, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers. He didn’t know much, but maybe he could manage a note or two — or perhaps it was just the alcohol giving him misplaced confidence.

“Eren, you know how to play?” Armin asked from his seat, eyebrows raised.

Eren hesitated, lightly brushing the strings, testing their resistance. For a second, a memory — not his own — flickered through his mind: someone like him, someone who had known the same power, plucking at these strings in quiet joy. He closed his eyes, letting that feeling guide him. Notes rang out, simple but surprisingly melodic. Eren’s fingers stumbled at first, but he kept going, and soon, a fragile, sweet tune filled the night. Armin stared, stunned. He had never seen Eren play an instrument. And Mikasa… her expression softened, astonished, even a little awed. She leaned forward slightly, watching him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. For a moment, the war, the Rumbling, the burdens of their past felt distant. For a brief, fleeting instant, they were just three friends sharing a night under the stars — ordinary, alive, and whole.

Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe they were all too happy tonight. The fire crackled softly, and Eren’s fingers kept moving, clumsy at first, then strangely fluent — as if remembering something that didn’t belong to him. Mikasa’s gaze lingered. She had seen him fight, bleed, scream — but never like this. Never calm. Never so focused. Her eyes followed the subtle movement of his hands, the way his fingers brushed the cords with care, commanding the melody without hesitation. There was no anger, no edge, no tension. Only quiet concentration. It felt unreal — this same man who had once carried the weight of the world, now plucking strings under a foreign sky. It wasn’t the kind of darkness she used to know — not the kind soaked in blood, betrayal, and loss. This was different. Softer. A shadow that felt almost tender. The sight of him like this — relaxed, face lit by the amber glow of the fire — stripped of all scars and burdens, was enough to make her chest ache.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just him. The firelight framed his profile, the same boy she once followed through the streets of Shiganshina. But the warmth that crept into her face wasn’t nostalgia — it was something heavier, closer, frightening in its simplicity. Her eyes trailed down again — the veins on his forearms standing out as his hands moved across the strings. A small, electric pulse ran through her. For a heartbeat, she wasn’t here — she was somewhere else, sometime else. The memory of his warmth against hers returned so vividly that she almost forgot to breathe.

“He has skilled fingers, don’t you think?”

The voice beside her broke her trance. It was the girl from Gaule, the same one who had been chatting with her earlier, watching Eren now with a smile that Mikasa didn’t quite appreciate. The question caught her off guard. For a moment, she didn’t answer — just blinked, her lips parting slightly before she muttered something vague and turned away. The heat on her cheeks refused to fade.

Eren finished playing, the last notes fading into the hum of the night. He opened his eyes slowly, frowning a little, almost disoriented. It shouldn’t have come that easily. He had never played an instrument before. Never been good at anything that required… gentleness. That was Armin’s domain — or Mikasa’s. His hands were made for destruction, not this. And yet, for the first time in a long time, it had felt good. Like the weight in his chest had loosened, just for a moment. He didn’t think of the Yeagerists. Or the Rumbling. Or the screams.

Just this: the warmth of the fire, his friends beside him, the quiet laughter in the air.

“That was so good!” someone called.

The group cheered, and Eren smiled — genuinely, unconsciously. A real smile, touched with color and fatigue. When his gaze crossed Mikasa’s, something inside him sparked. Her face was flushed — whether from the drink or from something else, he didn’t know. But she was smiling back, softly, her eyes gentle in a way that pulled him back to the boy he once was. He looked away first, hiding behind a nervous laugh. Armin was already raising a glass, lost in conversation with a couple nearby. The sound of laughter, clinking cups, and soft music filled the air.

None of them cared about tomorrow. Not tonight.

It felt like they were trying to reclaim something that had been stolen from them — their youth, their innocence, their right to just be.

✹

The new guide spoke softly, his voice almost blending with the wind as he explained the diversity of the savanna — the rhythm of the animals, the way lions hunted by night and slept through the heat of the day. The truck moved slowly across the dry land, wheels crunching over the sand, the air thick with the smell of dust and grass. Eren tried to listen, but the pounding in his skull made it impossible. His head felt heavy, his mouth dry. Armin looked worse — pale, eyes half-closed, gripping his shirt like it might hold him together. Mikasa, on the other hand, was sound asleep beside them, her breathing calm, wrapped tightly in a blanket that had probably been meant for all three of them.

“Never again,” Eren muttered, his voice low and rough.

The man sitting in front of him turned, smiling. He looked young — maybe their age, with sun-burnt skin and a relaxed expression that spoke of someone used to this life.

“We all say that,” he said with a wink.

“Think I’m gonna puke,” Armin mumbled.

“Armin, don’t you dare do it here,” Eren warned, glaring weakly.

“I’m trying.”

A few chuckles rose from the others, quiet enough not to disturb the group of lions resting under a distant acacia tree. The air around them was still — alive, but careful.

“How is she sleeping so soundly?” the man asked, nodding toward Mikasa.

Eren’s eyes followed. She was curled into herself, the scarf she always carried now bunched beneath her head like a pillow. The fire from the night before had left her cheeks faintly flushed, her lips parted slightly as she breathed. Even now, surrounded by strangers and open land, she looked… peaceful. It was rare — seeing her like that. Eren didn’t know when it started, this quiet pull toward her. It wasn’t something he could explain, or something he wanted to. Since they’d arrived, he’d caught himself watching her more often — in the way she smiled faintly when the wind brushed her hair, or how she always made sure Armin ate before she did. It wasn’t desire exactly, not at first. It was something older. Something he’d kept buried when the world had demanded he become a monster.

Now, with everything stripped away, it was surfacing again.

The truck hit a bump, and her scarf slipped from her shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out, fingers brushing the fabric to pull it back beneath her chin. The movement was small, almost invisible, but when his fingers grazed her skin, a shiver shot through him.

Mikasa stirred slightly, sighing, and unconsciously nuzzled closer to the warmth of his hand. Eren froze, breath caught somewhere in his throat. For a second, he thought she’d wake up — that she’d open her eyes and meet his — but she didn’t.

He should have pulled away. But he didn’t.

The guide kept talking. The truck rolled on. Around him, no one noticed.

Eren kept his hand where it was, the edge of the scarf pressed between his fingers, until the trembling in his chest settled. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just instinct — care, habit, nothing more. But the warmth stayed, spreading slow and heavy.

He looked away to the endless horizon ahead.

Armin groaned beside him. “I think my head’s splitting open.”

“Shh,” someone whispered sharply. “You’ll scare the lions.”

Armin gave them a murderous glare.

A few people laughed quietly. The woman from last night leaned toward her boyfriend, smiling. “Those kids are suffering,” she said.

“You gotta learn the hard way,” he replied.

Yeah. They definitely were.

But for the first time, it didn’t feel unbearable. The ache in his skull, the dull throb behind his eyes — it all seemed small compared to the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. The kind of peace he had never believed he’d deserve, now sitting quietly within arm’s reach.

They had spent the whole day drifting through the savanna — watching herds move like shadows across the plains, chasing the silhouettes of animals that vanished just before they reached them, stopping only to eat under the shade of a lonely tree. None of them could quite believe it. After everything, the world still lived. The laughter of strangers, the way people shared food and stories — it was as if life itself had refused to die. For the trio, it was a strange, humbling sight. The proof that their struggle hadn’t been for nothing. That something had survived them.

Armin couldn’t stop talking about it — about what it meant, about the people they could help once they returned. He spoke of writing a book, one that would tell the story of what remained, not what was lost. Mikasa smiled quietly, listening, while Eren stayed silent. He didn’t have Armin’s hope, or Mikasa’s calm. He only watched, letting the warmth of the sun seep into his skin, pretending for a while that the weight on his shoulders wasn’t still there.

By the time the night fell, their bodies were aching, their minds half-floating between exhaustion and awe. Back at the resort, Armin had disappeared inside the main hall to write — a report for their friends, and a letter to Annie. Mikasa had gone to wash. And Eren, fresh from the shower, sat outside alone. The air was cooler now, the smell of the savanna thick but comforting. He leaned back in the chair, eyes tracing the moon — pale and sharp, surrounded by a scatter of distant stars. For the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like it was watching him. He exhaled, slow. The ground beneath his bare feet was firm, the earth alive. It felt… good. Almost human.

It had been a year since the Rumbling. A year since he had tried to burn the world. He could still feel it — the vibrations under his skin, the roar of a thousand titans moving through the dust. The faces of people crushed the screams that had vanished under the tremor of destruction. They’d seen one of the sites earlier — an old trail of footprints carved deep into the ground. The guide had explained that no one knew what caused it, that it had come suddenly, burning half the life around it. Eren had said nothing. He had stared at those marks in silence, wondering how it was possible to leave such scars and still be allowed to walk on this same earth. The other half of the land had survived. People had rebuilt. Animals roamed again. The grass was growing where it had once burned. But Eren couldn’t decide if that was mercy — or cruelty.

Would it have been better to finish it all, so no one would have to live with the pain?

“Eren,” a voice called softly behind him. “Can you come here a second?”

Mikasa.

He blinked, lifting his head. Her tone wasn’t urgent, but something in it made his pulse quicken anyway. He pushed himself up, stretching out the stiffness from his shoulders. The alcohol had worn off completely now, leaving only the ache of the day behind.

When he stepped inside the tent, Eren froze. Mikasa was sitting on the bed, her back bare before him, her damp hair clinging softly to her neck. She had just come out of the shower, and under the low light, he could trace every scar, every burn that marked her skin. It hit him harder than he expected — the proof of everything they had survived. He wanted to look away, to respect her privacy, yet something anchored him there, a quiet pull he couldn’t resist.

“I think I got sunburned,” she said, holding a small bottle in her hand. “Can you help me put this on my back?”

Eren frowned, confused. “What? We barely stayed in the sun. You were under the tree most of the time.”

“Maybe it’s the reflection, I don’t know,” she replied with a faint shrug. “Just… help me with it. Please.”

He hesitated, his voice lower now. “Why do you need me for that? You never cared about this stuff before.”

“Well,” she said, turning slightly, meeting his eyes with a half-smile that almost felt like a challenge, “I’m trying to take care of myself now… unless you’d rather I ask Armin?”

That name was enough. “No,” he said, shaking his head, the disbelief clear in his voice.

Eren stepped closer, reluctant yet unable to refuse. His palms began to sweat; his heartbeat quickened as he saw her back glisten under the dim light. Every movement she made felt intimate — too intimate. He swallowed hard, taking the bottle from her hand, trying to steady himself. He had faced titans, war, death itself… but this — this — made his chest tighten.

Mikasa laid down on the bed, stretching slightly, exhaustion softening the tension in her shoulders. The heat from the day still lingered on her skin, and despite the cool air inside the tent, she could feel her pulse quicken. She hadn’t planned on asking him for help; it just slipped out. Normally, she would never have dared. But things had changed between them — subtly, irreversibly. Their silences carried meaning now, their closeness unspoken but ever-present.

As she felt the first touch of his fingers against her back, her breath caught. The cool lotion contrasted with the warmth of his hand. She tried not to react, but her heart betrayed her, pounding harder with each slow motion. It was a simple act, almost innocent — yet it awakened something neither of them were ready to confront. It reminded her of another time, another version of themselves, when everything had been simpler, and love had been something they didn’t have to fight for.

For Eren, it felt as if the world itself was crackling beneath his fingertips — each motion peeling away the layers he had spent years forcing shut. Every touch burned and calmed him at once. He could feel the faint twitch of her muscles, the warmth of her skin, the fragility beneath it. It terrified him. He was afraid that if he pressed too hard, she would shatter — that he would break something he had no right to touch. His eyes followed the quiet curve of her back, the soft sheen of her skin under the flickering light. There were small beauty marks he had never noticed before — insignificant details, yet they held him still. He liked them.

She was wearing only a pair of boxers, her body relaxed, unguarded. He sat beside her, every inch of him tense, fighting the instinct to look away — or to look closer. He fixed his gaze upward, toward her shoulders, forcing himself to act as if this was nothing more than helping a friend. As if it wasn’t breaking him apart inside.

“Eren,” she murmured suddenly, her voice quiet but certain. “I always wanted to ask you something.”

His breath caught. His eyes flicked to her at once — too fast. He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even looked, but guilt still clawed its way through his chest. Mikasa turned her head toward him, her hair shifting aside to reveal the line of her neck, pale against the glow of the lantern. For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He realized his hands were still on her, the lotion long gone. He was just holding her now — palms resting lightly against her skin, pretending he was still applying it. The silence between them grew heavier.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged for words. It was the kind that made him remember every moment they’d ever shared — every time he’d pulled away, every time she’d reached out. And now, she was there again, and he couldn’t move.

It felt like standing at the edge of something inevitable.

“I don’t know if this is a dream,” Mikasa whispered, her voice trembling as though she feared it might dissolve in the air between them. “But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can picture us… far away from the world. We’re living together. We’re like… a family.”

Eren’s heart stopped for a moment.

“I mean family in the sense that we created it,” she continued, her eyes soft but uncertain. “That we became so close it hurts just imagining it.”

“It’s not a dream,” he said suddenly. His tone was flat, but his voice cracked at the end. “I used the Founding Titan’s power… so we could live in another path together.”

Mikasa didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled — not the faint, reserved smile she gave the world, but something fragile and certain. In that instant, she understood. Every piece that had felt out of place, every moment that seemed too familiar… it all made sense. They had lived together. Somewhere, in a life between the cracks of this one, they had found peace. And now, she wanted that again.

Eren’s eyes widened slightly, confusion flickering through them like a spark. Before he could speak, Mikasa turned. Her shoulders shifted, her hand drawing a towel up to cover herself, but she didn’t move away. She sat close enough for him to feel her breath, to see the faint shimmer of moisture at the corner of her lips. And then, before he could think — before he could stop her — she kissed him.

It was soft. Clumsy. Real.

For Eren, the sound in his head was like glass shattering — every wall, every lie, every reason he had built to keep her away fractured in an instant. He had imagined this moment once, in that quiet cabin that only existed in his mind, where the world couldn’t touch them. He’d wanted it, dreamed of it, and now that it was happening, it was too much. Her lips were warm. They trembled against his, hesitant but certain. He didn’t move — couldn’t. The moment itself was enough. Enough to remind him that he was still human, that despite everything he had done, despite all the blood and ash that followed his name, he could still feel this.

Mikasa could sense his hesitation — the way his body shook faintly beneath her touch, how he fought against himself even now. It was the same struggle she had seen in him since they were children, only heavier now, older. She didn’t know if it was right to kiss him, not after everything, not after the world they had tried to destroy and save all at once. But she couldn’t stop herself. He was trembling — not from rejection, but from restraint. She could feel it. He was holding himself back, terrified that this was too much, too soon, that he didn’t deserve it. That she deserved better.

And yet, she didn’t want to let go. Not of him. Not again.

But she had to.

When she finally pulled away, the silence returned — heavy, tender, unspoken. Eren’s eyes were still closed. A single tear slid down his cheek.

“Eren… are you crying?” she asked softly.

He blinked, confused, almost childlike.

“Huh?”

The sound, the tone — it struck her. It was the same as that boy she had once found crying beneath the tree in Shiganshina, all those years ago. Eren reached up, touched his face, and stared at the moisture on his fingers as if it were something foreign. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. All he knew was that his chest felt unbearably tight, his breath shallow, his heart caught between guilt and longing. A part of him screamed that this wasn’t right — that he shouldn’t have allowed this, that nothing good could come of it. But another part, quiet and desperate, clung to the warmth still lingering on his lips.

Was it wrong to want this?
To be happy, even just for a fleeting moment?
Was it selfish — to reach for the one thing he’d always denied himself?

“T-thank you… for the cream,” Mikasa said quickly, trying to change the subject.

The air between them thickened. It was as if she had just broken the final thread that had held them together all this time. What had she been thinking? Was she right to do it—to kiss him? Was she even allowed such a thing anymore? Maybe in another life, she could have been. Maybe she didn’t carry the scars she bore now, didn’t have to rebuild herself from the ashes, didn’t live with the weight of all that guilt.

So many had died. Because she couldn’t let go. Because she loved a man the world despised, and she couldn’t bear to live without him. She would’ve turned against everything if it meant keeping him safe—and that thought alone tore her apart. The tears pressed at the back of her eyes, but she swallowed them down.

She turned, leaving him on the bed.

Eren still hadn’t moved. His lips burned, the faint scent of her hair and the sweetness of her skin lingering in his mind like an ache. Something inside him cracked. He didn’t know what to do—or what this meant—but he knew one thing: there was no going back now.

Because this time, Mikasa had been the one to move first.

It was something he should have done—something he had done once, in that other path he’d created for them. They had lived together, like they always wanted to. They had been free, just for a while.

But now… did they deserve it again? Did he?

Eren’s chest felt hollow. He knew he was broken beyond repair. The nightmares would never end; the obsessions would never fade. Freedom, salvation, revenge—they had all become chains of their own. He had always been a man who only knew how to fight.

And yet, on that other path, he had shown her something different—something gentler. Something he didn’t know how to be anymore.

He was scared. Scared of failing, scared of losing control again. Scared of himself.

He blinked, realizing the silence had stretched too long. Mikasa was gone from the room. From the corner, he heard the faint sound of water running—she was in the bathroom. Still here.

He exhaled, but the tension didn’t ease.

He needed to clear his head. He needed Armin. Talking to him always helped—always made him remember who he was, who he used to be, before the darkness had taken hold.

“I’m going to see what Armin’s up to,” Eren muttered, his voice low. “Join us when you’re done.”

“Okay,” she answered softly.

Eren turned and left without looking back.

It was easier that way—to flee from his problems than face what he’d done.

*Old name that use to be France

Chapter Text

Armin sat on the balcony, the pale moon hanging over him so bright it could’ve been daylight. The air wasn’t heavy anymore—it carried a quiet rhythm, the hum of insects and the low, guttural laughter of hippos somewhere near the river. Their calls almost sounded human, as if mocking him softly while he leaned back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Annie’s voice buzzed faintly through the receiver; it was strange to think she was miles away and yet closer than ever. She had bought a phone—her very first one—with her own money. That alone made him proud.

The world was changing fast. Since the walls had fallen and the fighting stopped, everything seemed to be shifting, rebuilding. People were sharing, learning again, reconnecting. Technology, once something they only heard of in scattered reports, had become part of their daily lives. It no longer surprised Armin to hear that his friends were adapting. Levi could walk now without his crutches, stubborn as ever. Reiner and Pieck had begun working together, something he once thought impossible. Connie was running a small restaurant, Jean was off somewhere for work and Annie… she was taking care of children. That last one had caught him off guard. He had never imagined her—Annie Leonhart—surrounded by laughter and tiny hands tugging at her clothes. But he was happy for her, more than he could say.

“Can you believe it, Armin? I don’t have to pay anyone to send my letters now. I can just call you,” she said, her tone bright, almost teasing.

He chuckled softly.

“Maybe I should get one too.”

“Honestly, it’s a lifesaver. No more waiting weeks just to get a reply. No more wasting paper.”

“I’ll buy one once I’m back”.

“I can’t wait to see you!”

Her words hit him harder than expected. His chest tightened; he could picture her face, the small crease between her brows when she tried to hide her smile. Even if he was grateful for the peace they’d earned, he found himself counting the days until he could see her again—to hold her, hear her laugh, feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. His thoughts drifted further than he wanted them to, and he quickly shifted on his chair, clearing his throat. The silence on the other end was soft, charged. Annie didn’t speak, but he could hear her breathing—steady, calm. Maybe she was thinking the same thing. Maybe not. He didn’t dare ask.

“I can’t wait to see you too,” he said quietly, his voice steadier than he felt.

He tilted his head toward the stairs just in time to see Eren approaching. His steps were slow, his eyes downcast, his hair falling into his face. Armin recognized that look—it wasn’t anger, not exactly, but the same shadow that had followed him ever since the war ended. Guilt, exhaustion, self-loathing, all wound tightly behind those tired eyes.

“I gotta go,” Armin said quickly into the receiver.

“Sure. I’ll be busy these next few days anyway—Levi and I need to talk about what’s going to happen to Liberio,”.

“Keep me up to date.”

“Roger that. Bye.”

“Love you,” he said without thinking.

There was a pause. She didn’t say it back—not out of indifference, but because she wasn’t ready to voice it. Words still came hard for her. But Armin didn’t need them. He knew her feelings as well as he knew his own, and that was enough. Enough to keep him steady, to remind him that after everything they had lost, they were still here—still moving forward.

“Eren?”

Armin watched him carefully as Eren sat down beside him. The night air felt heavy again, as if it recognized the weight of their silence. The sound of the wild had faded into the background, leaving only the faint hum of the wind brushing through the grass. For a long time, Eren didn’t speak. His hands were clasped between his knees, fingers trembling ever so slightly, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. Then, without preamble, he said, “We kissed.”

The words hung in the air like an explosion. He said it so plainly, like it didn’t mean anything, but the flush on his face betrayed him. He didn’t look at Armin, didn’t move, as if admitting it had already cost him too much. Armin froze, his mind blank for a second. Of all things Eren could have come to talk about, that was the last he expected. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried — whether to congratulate him or brace for another storm.

Eren’s voice broke the silence again, quieter this time, trembling.

“I-I don’t know what to do. I keep freaking out no matter what. I’m a fucking mess, Armin.”

Armin didn’t answer immediately. He had seen this look before — not just guilt, but the kind that eats away from the inside, the kind that leaves you hollow. Eren’s jaw was tight, his hands clenched, as if he was physically holding back the flood. It wasn’t the act itself that haunted him. It was everything behind it — the memories, the choices, the blood that refused to fade no matter how much time passed.

Eren had destroyed the world once. He had trampled millions of lives, all for a freedom he could no longer define. And now, sitting here, he couldn’t even trust himself to hold the woman he loved. His own hands terrified him.

“I let myself… touch her,” he said, his voice cracking. “I felt her lips, and for a second I wanted more. But that’s wrong, isn’t it? After everything I did… after all the people I killed. What right do I have?”

He looked up at the moon as if it could judge him. “No one deserves what I did. No one except me.”

Armin sighed softly.

“Did you leave after that?”

“Yeah.”

“What an idiot,” Armin muttered.

Eren turned to him, confused.

“Huh?”

“Do you care about Mikasa?”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t understand my question,” Armin said, his tone sharp now. “I asked if you care about her — what she wants, what she feels. Not just how you feel. Did you ever ask her about her dreams, what she wants to do with her life?”

“Okay, no need to make a list,” Eren replied defensively.

Armin leaned forward, his voice low but steady.

“You leaving right after that kiss… do you have any idea how that must’ve felt for her? After everything she’s done for you, after everything she’s forgiven?”

Eren fell silent. He hadn’t come here for a lecture, but deep down, he knew Armin was right. He always was. The truth hurt more than anything. He had spent so long believing that he didn’t deserve happiness — that to want anything after what he’d done was selfish. But maybe that belief had become another form of cowardice. Maybe refusing to live was just another way to keep running.

Armin could see the cracks forming in him — the same boy who once shouted that he’d destroy the world now trembling under the weight of it.

“You can’t keep living like this, Eren,” he said gently. “You keep saying you don’t deserve to live, but you are living. Whether you want to or not. And if you’re still breathing, it means you have a choice.”

Eren’s voice was hoarse when he answered.

“I can’t just forget what I did.”

“No one’s asking you to forget,” Armin said. “None of us can. We’re all living with it — the blood on our hands, the faces we’ll never see again. You think you’re the only one who killed? We all did. Annie, Reiner, Gabi, Pieck, Connie — me. We slaughtered people, Eren. We called it survival, but in the end, we were murderers too.”

Eren scoffed bitterly.

“How is that supposed to comfort me?”

“It’s not,” Armin said simply. “It’s the truth. The only comfort there is now is knowing we can still try to be better than who we were. Life is fragile, Eren. You taught me that. You said we were born free, didn’t you? Then live like it. Stop crawling back into the dark every time it gets hard. We’ve lost too much to waste what’s left.”

Eren’s eyes burned, the tears welling before he could stop them. He hated how easily Armin could cut through his walls, how every word he said sank deep into him like a blade.

“I just…” His voice broke. “I want to stop feeling like this. I want to stop thinking about the people I’ve killed every time I close my eyes. I want to stop being me.”

Armin’s gaze softened.

“Then start small. Forgive yourself a little at a time. Talk to her. You don’t have to fix everything tonight but stop running away from the one person who’s still waiting for you.”

He stood, brushing the dust from his pants, then nodded toward the restaurant.

“Mikasa’s here.”

Eren blinked, turning his head — and there she was. Standing under the dim light, her skin faintly bronzed from the sun, her hair pulled back, her expression unreadable. There was something different about her tonight — not just her new clothes or the tired redness on her cheeks, but the quiet resolve in her eyes.

Armin leaned down, his voice low.

“You better go talk to her. You’re still a coward, Eren, but maybe it’s time you prove me wrong.”

Eren didn’t answer. He just sat there, staring at Mikasa as she stepped into the light, the weight of everything pressing down on him — the guilt, the love, the unbearable hope that maybe, somehow, it wasn’t too late.

The world had moved on. The scars of the Rumbling would never fully fade, but people were living again, rebuilding, finding meaning in the ruins. Maybe he could too. Maybe this was what Ymir had wanted — not for him to vanish into despair, but to finally understand what it meant to live.

He stood slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. Tonight, he would face her. Not as the monster who ended the world, but as the man who was trying, however painfully, to begin again.

✹

It had been a week since Eren and Mikasa kissed. He hadn’t found the courage to bring it up, and Mikasa, perhaps sensing that, didn’t let it ruin their trip. She still spoke to him as she always did — smiling, laughing at Armin’s stories, listening when he shared his latest notes — as if nothing had happened. No attempt to talk about it. No effort to build on what had been quietly destroyed before it could begin. Was that what he wanted in the end? Eren didn’t like it. If he was being honest, he hated how things had turned out — because of him, as always. He knew he needed to fix it, but he couldn’t. Not when his chest tightened every time she looked his way, not when his throat went dry at the sound of her voice. These were feelings he wasn’t used to, emotions that felt too alive, too human. Thinking about her had become something he couldn’t control.

And sometimes, when he closed his eyes, another path resurfaced — that path — the one filled with everything he had done, the memories of what he couldn’t have anymore, and the cruel ache of knowing what he might still lose. It wasn’t just about living anymore. It was about wanting. About loving. About trying to win something back he thought he had already destroyed.

He was going insane, and time was slipping away. Only a few weeks remained before they would return to Pëtras for winter, before their expedition would end and another summer would begin in a new, rebuilt world. He tried not to think of the past — of the Rumbling, of the crimes, the blood, the screams. He forced himself out of his shell, just to make it through each day. Armin and Mikasa noticed the change. They were grateful for it. But both knew how fragile he still was — how close he stood to breaking again.

That night, the resort’s host announced a celebration: a campfire party beneath the stars. Guests would sleep in tents instead of rooms.

“You two can sleep together,” Armin said dryly as they looked at the site. “At least I’ll get some peace for once.”

Eren’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. “What? What do you mean by ‘peace’?”

“I won’t have to deal with your whining.”

“I don’t whine!”

Mikasa stayed quiet. Ever since that night, she’d avoided crossing that line again. Her heart was weak — she knew it — and she believed now that maybe what she had once dreamed of wasn’t meant to exist. Maybe it belonged to another lifetime, another world that had been buried with the past. Or maybe, they just weren’t ready. Time was precious, and for now, she would rather silence her feelings than risk losing him again.

“Mikasa, you’re fine with that?”

Eren’s voice startled her. She hadn’t caught the conversation, lost in her thoughts. “Y–yeah, I guess.”

Maybe that wasn’t what she should’ve said. Eren quickly looked away, pretending to continue talking with Armin, while Mikasa sighed quietly. There was a distance between them — not visible but felt. Ever since the kiss, something had fractured. They were pretending not to notice, as if ignoring it could make it disappear.

Eren was still arguing with Armin about his so-called “whining,” not realizing that Mikasa had slipped away. When he finally did, a familiar unease crawled up his spine. Where did she go? His instincts flared immediately — worry, guilt, something close to panic. Was she hurt? Did she need medicine? Or worse — was she still angry with him? He never apologized. He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

They’d been traveling for over a week now, crossing vast stretches of land, watching the terrain change from plains to red earth to endless grasslands. Nothing stayed the same, yet everything coexisted — different people, different tongues, all laughing together under the same sky. It was proof that humanity wasn’t doomed after all.

Until he heard that voice.

“You better put your hands away before I snap them off.”

Mikasa’s tone — cold, sharp, dangerous.

Eren turned instantly, eyes locking on the scene ahead. A man he didn’t recognize stood too close to her — too comfortable. His frown deepened. He knew everyone here by now. This guy was new. And drunk.

“Oh, come on, I was only joking, man,” the stranger slurred.

“I’m not your ‘man’. Back off.”

“Aggressive, aren’t you?”

That was enough. Eren was already stepping forward before he even thought about it, anger boiling somewhere deep, instinctive, uncontrollable. But before he could act, another man — tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and tribal tattoos — appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the drunk by the collar.

“Leave the lady alone,” he said firmly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s already too drunk. I’ll handle him.”

“It’s fine,” Mikasa replied, her voice steady but her posture tense. “Just keep an eye on him.”

“I will. Again, my apologies.”

He lifted the drunk man like a scolded child, dragging him away despite his flailing protests. Eren stopped in his tracks, watching the scene unfold, his irritation slowly fading into reluctant amusement. Mikasa, too, hid a small smile — the situation had turned absurd. She hadn’t even wanted to dance, not without music, not in front of everyone. It wasn’t like the guy had truly scared her; she could’ve handled him easily. But still, it was nice — in a way — that someone had stepped in.

“Mikasa.”

Eren’s voice cut through the night. She turned to find him approaching, his eyes heavy with a mix of concern and guilt.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Did you see that?”

“If that guy hadn’t stepped in, I would’ve knocked him out.”

“You’re not suggesting a fight, right?”

“…No?”

Mikasa crossed her arms, scoffing lightly. “The world doesn’t revolve around violence anymore, Eren. You could try using words for once.”

“I hate talking if the guy doesn’t listen.”

“You never try to make them listen.”

“Of course I do.”

“Really? When?”

He bit his tongue, realizing too late that he had no answer. “…Whatever. Let’s just get our stuff.”

He turned away, walking faster than he needed to.

Did that count as running away from his problems? Probably. But he didn’t know how else to face them — not when they all led back to the same place. To her.

The night had begun shortly after, bringing to the table all the royal food and alcohol they could fetch. They were getting used to it now — almost every evening, the staff would suggest a little celebration, and people would gladly take the excuse to unwind. For Armin and Eren, it had become all about drinking and mansplaining to Mikasa about things she never cared about, though she always listened anyway. It was funny, seeing them like that — carefree, easier to approach. Nothing was serious anymore. Armin, the big brain of the group, would often trip over his own logic, and Eren would jump in with theories that meant absolutely nothing.

In the end, the young couple from Gaule joined them in their ridiculous conspiracy about why they were still alive. Mikasa listened, thinking that if she had drunk just a little more, she might have actually believed them.

The food, as always, had been delicious — every plate devoured until the last dessert was gone. Then came the music. Three local women sang while two men played the drums, the rhythm pulling everyone in. Mikasa had been invited to dance, which she easily accepted now that the alcohol had washed away her shyness. Armin joined her soon after, trying to mimic the traditional steps with little success.

Then, surprisingly, Eren followed. One shot downed, a bet won against a guard, and he was stepping closer to them, still wondering what the hell he was doing — if he had gone completely insane to the point of dancing. But when he saw Mikasa carefully imitating the local women’s movements, her focus blurred by drunken determination, it gave him courage — just for tonight.

Mikasa jolted when she felt a hand on her back.
“Relax, it’s only me.”
“Who’s me?”
“Just your friendly monster trying to dance.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t.

Mikasa turned, quickly pulling him into the rhythm. Neither of them knew what came next. Even as the dancers repeated the steps, they couldn’t quite get it right. Frustration melted into laughter. Mikasa, unable to stand straight, clung to Eren’s shirt, which didn’t help either. Armin — always the savior — rushed in to help, adding his weight to theirs, and the three of them tumbled to the ground. They lay there, laughing until they ran out of breath.

Eren looked up. He hadn’t realized until now how free this felt. He hadn’t thought about anything dark, not once tonight. For the first time in a long time, he felt light. Maybe Armin had been right — maybe all he needed to do was try, to keep moving forward.

The sky stretched above them, vast and brilliant, stars scattered across the black with the moon hanging low. The music carried on, indifferent to whether they were okay or not.

“This is awesome,” Eren breathed.
“See? It’s not so hard,” Armin replied, giving him a playful nudge in the ribs.
“Shit, my head’s spinning.”
“Shhh, look — there’s a shooting star.”

Mikasa sat up, pointing at the sky. Her scarf slipped and fell across Eren’s face, and for a moment he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. It smelled like her — faintly sweet, something close to coconut, but unmistakably hers.

“Eren, get up. We’re not done yet.”

She pulled him and Armin to their feet, determined that the night wasn’t over. They stumbled, laughed, and eventually learned — clumsily — how to dance. Later, they joined the others again, drinking, smoking, living.

For one night, they were just people.

They partied almost all night. By the end, it was only them and the couple from Gaule, sitting near the dying fire, trying to guess which animals were making the sounds around them. The air had cooled to the point of biting, and yet they stayed there, laughing softly, sharing stories that grew sillier as the hours passed.

Eventually, Armin and the couple gave up, declaring that it was time to sleep if they wanted to be functional the next day. None of them sounded convinced, until Mikasa suddenly remembered tomorrow was their day off. That earned a few last laughs before everyone wished each other goodnight and retreated to their tents.

Mikasa and Eren shared one — small enough for a single person, forcing them to squeeze in just to fit. In any other situation, they would have died of embarrassment or tried to find another solution. But tonight, everything felt lighter. The air carried only warmth, fatigue, and the strange peace that comes after laughter.

“I’m so cold,” Mikasa whined softly.

Eren chuckled, his voice low and rough from the night’s drinks. “Come here, I’ll warm you.”

Tonight, there would be no barrier.

When Mikasa shifted closer, Eren felt her back press against his chest, her bare legs brushing his. She tangled herself in his warmth without hesitation, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. The scent of her hair, the weight of her against him — it was dizzying. Too much, and yet not enough.

He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her, careful not to crush her beneath his strength. Mikasa sighed, sinking into his hold. The faint rustle of the tent’s canvas, the quiet breathing of people sleeping nearby — all of it faded into the background. For once, it felt like they were in another world.

Her world.

“I wish this would never end,” she whispered, barely audible. It wasn’t a request, just a thought released into the dark.

Eren hummed in reply, though he was already half-asleep. His arms stayed firm around her, as if his body refused to let go even in rest — holding her like someone afraid to lose what little peace he had found.

Mikasa felt his breath against her neck, the steady rhythm of his heart against her back. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t wish for more.

This — this was enough.

Her fingers sought his, gently intertwining as she drifted into sleep beside him.

✹

The next morning, Mikasa woke with her body numb and her head pounding, as if the world itself had pressed down on her. She couldn’t remember everything from last night — flashes of laughter, firelight, the drumbeats, the warmth of Eren’s chest against her back. But now, only the ache remained. Her head throbbed, her throat was dry, and her body felt heavy, almost foreign.

For a moment, she thought she was alone, and tried to bury herself deeper under the futon — but something, someone, blocked her movement. Her heart raced, instinct kicking in before reason could catch up.

“Hey… it’s just me.”

His voice was hoarse, low, and half-asleep.

Mikasa slowly lifted her head and met Eren’s gaze. His eyes, still foggy with sleep, looked softer than usual — a blue-grey washed by the morning light that slipped through the thin fabric of the tent. His hair was tangled, longer than she remembered, falling over his forehead. There was something painfully human about him in that moment — a man stripped of burden, if only for an instant.

They were both still wearing their clothes from the night before, too drunk and too tired to care. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel indecent. It felt… real.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, rubbing her face.

Eren shifted closer, his arm wrapping around her waist almost instinctively, pulling her back into his warmth. His body radiated heat in contrast to the cold air creeping through the tent’s seams.

“You okay? You drank a lot,” he murmured.

She hummed, eyes closing again, but his hold didn’t loosen. For once, he hadn’t woken up from the usual nightmares — no rumbling skies, no echoing screams. Just silence, and her. Maybe that was the only peace left for him.

Eren’s thoughts drifted as the quiet stretched between them. He thought about everything they’d seen on this trip — people rebuilding, forgiving, trying. It astonished him, how easily others had learned to live again, even after what he’d done. In some of the villages, people spoke of Paradis with curiosity, not hate. They didn’t look at him as a monster, even when they didn’t know who he was. And yet, he couldn’t escape it — the weight of knowing he had stolen millions of lives for what he once believed was freedom.

The world was changing, but hatred still had roots, buried deep. Somewhere out there, the Yeagerists were searching for a way to resurrect an empire that should have died with him. Eren wondered if maybe the world was just doomed to repeat itself — that all they had done was buy a little more time before history started its cycle again.

“Eren.”

Her voice, soft and trembling, pulled him back.

She was looking at him now, her eyes distant, her lips parted as if she’d been holding back words for too long.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

He frowned. “For what?”

“For… for kissing you.” Her voice faltered. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

For a second, Eren only stared, as if he hadn’t heard her right. Then he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

“No,” he said after a pause, his tone heavier now. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I’m the one who keeps messing things.”

He leaned back, staring at the top of the tent, the faint patterns of sunlight trembling on the fabric. “Sorry for being an asshole.”

Mikasa’s lips curved into the faintest smirk. “An asshole you are.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly, and that almost felt like old times — like the edge of normal life they used to dream about but never reached.

She studied him quietly. There was something fragile about him now — not the rage-filled Eren who once declared war on the world, but someone trying to crawl out from under the rubble of his own sins. She could see it — how he forced himself to keep going, to smile, to find meaning in this new world.

And yet, guilt gnawed at her too.

Maybe she was the one who had done worse. By sparing him, she had condemned him to live in a world that still carried the scars of what he’d done. A world that would never truly forget him, even if it learned to forgive.

Perhaps she had been selfish. Perhaps her love had been the cruelest act of all.

Because Eren, despite all his sins, was still the boy she couldn’t stop protecting — and now, he was the man she couldn’t stop saving. Even if saving him meant breaking him again.

The morning light caught his face, his scars, the faint tremor in his hands as if he carried ghosts no one else could see.

And yet, in that silence, with his arm still resting around her, it was the closest either of them had come to peace in years.

Neither of them knew if it would last.

“Don’t be sorry f-for the kiss,” he whispered, his voice trembling as though each word weighed too much. “Because all I wanted is this, Mikasa. I want to live too.”

She caught the faint pink blooming across his cheeks, and it made her chest tighten until breathing felt almost impossible. It wasn’t just affection—it was something deeper, heavier, something that frightened and comforted her at once. Eren was finally lowering his guard, breaking free from the walls he had built inside himself. She saw not the boy who carried humanity’s rage, but the one who had simply wanted to be free.

“I know,” she murmured, resting her head against him. “We’re all trying, Eren. It’s not easy…but I want this too.”

“Mikasa, I don’t want to hurt you, or anybody, I—”

“You won’t,” she interrupted, steady and certain.

Her tone reminded him of Armin—patient, unwavering, yet full of quiet conviction. Maybe his friend had been right all along. Mikasa wasn’t fragile like he’d once thought. She had carried her own pain, and despite it, she was still here—standing by him. His heart pounded so fast it almost hurt. It was difficult to believe he deserved any of this: her forgiveness, their second chance, a life beyond what he’d destroyed. The memories clawed at him—the screams, the weight of the world, the faces of those he’d trampled in his path.

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them. He had thought power made him strong, but in truth, it had hollowed him out. The Rumbling had left its mark not only on the world, but on his soul. The guilt would never fade completely; it lived within him, a quiet shadow. Yet Mikasa’s warmth reminded him of what still existed—of what could still be saved. In a long while, the future didn’t feel like a punishment. It was uncertain, yes—but it was his to walk, step by step, alongside her.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice cracking softly against her hair.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in silence. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet—not fully. There were still wounds that ran too deep, still ghosts that would never rest. But there was something else now, something fragile that neither dared to name: a beginning.

Eren knew the road ahead would not be simple. He would stumble, he would doubt, but this time, he wouldn’t run. Like Reiner, Annie, Pieck, Falco, and Armin, he carried the scars of what they had been forced to become. They all bore the weight of their sins, and somehow, they were still here—trying to build something out of the ruins.

As the first light of morning broke through the clouds, Eren felt it—the faintest pulse of hope. That the world could move forward. And maybe, just maybe, so could they.

The day had only just begun for them.

Well, this was an interesting ending. Its so hard trying to build up a relationship after a lot of traumas, I always have to think about morality in this story, especially for Eren’s sake (also trying to be as much canon as possible). But I really hope that they could all find their happiness, they really do deserve it. Its so long, again, I don’t like to rush anything, rather see the slow progress they are making. It will end up being a short “sequence” of the story, there would be one last chapter left. I only wanted them to be reunited as the trio they always have been. But I kinda missed the others. And i hope, like me, you all enjoyed their little adventures together for now (because this isn't over for them, of course, that's a break).

What would happen next I wonder, like would they be staying all together or start their own new life? Would the Yegerist start another war if they ever find out about Eren? What will happen to them?

(so many questions lol)

Chapter Text

The place they were heading toward could only be described as a kind of paradise—a small island tucked away from the rest of the world, where the sea divided the lands like their own lost Paradis. Eren, Armin, and Mikasa soon arrived on Zibar*, an island known for its fine, white sand and its tranquil waters that shimmered like glass. Everything about it felt distant yet strangely familiar, as if the world had circled back to offer them a quieter echo of the home they once fought to protect.

The people of Zibar were different—warm, curious, and unbothered by the weight of history. Their language carried a rhythm none of the three had heard before, and their way of life flowed at a gentler pace. The trio wandered through the island’s old market, a maze of colourful stalls where fruits hung in bright clusters and spices perfumed the air.

It was one of those days they’d decided to live simply—to buy their own food, cook at their small, rented villa, and pretend, just for a moment, that they were nothing more than travellers. Mikasa stopped at nearly every stall, her quiet curiosity taking over as she bartered for fruit, handmade trinkets, and little keepsakes for her growing collection. Armin followed close behind, occasionally teasing her for buying too much, while Eren trailed after them with a faint smile, wearing a floral shirt and loose Bermuda shorts. His hair was tied were longer now, almost at the base of his neck, and a pair of dark glasses shielded his eyes from the brightness.

For once, he looked like anyone else—just a man on vacation. Armin wore a beige shirt and a pair of old slippers, his expression relaxed. They were all enjoying their final week of summer, not as explorers, not as survivors—but as friends trying to grasp what peace felt like.

Since their return from the safaris, something in Eren had shifted. He was more open now—still guarded, but receptive to Armin’s suggestions, even to crowded places that once would have made him tense. Mikasa, too, seemed lighter, often laughing softly as she nudged him into trying on a hat or a new shirt. Eren would grumble, then give in, earning another small smile from her. It felt ordinary. It felt almost human again.

Armin watched them from behind, the faint ache of doubt still lingering. He wanted to believe this new calm would last, but part of him knew it was only a surface—something fragile that could shatter at any moment. Still, he chose to cherish it. He’d seen too much to waste what little serenity they were given.

They stopped at another corner, each of them carrying small bags of fruit and souvenirs. Armin was just about to comment on the weight of their luggage when Mikasa suddenly froze mid-step.

“Guys, look.”

Her voice was soft but strained. Eren and Armin followed her gaze to a small shop, its open-door revealing shelves lined with curious items: tiny figurines, shirts printed with old symbols, even model blades. At first, it looked like just another tourist store—until Eren saw what she was staring at.

There, among the trinkets, were replicas of ODM gear—three-dimensional manoeuvring devices, unmistakable.

“How…?” Mikasa whispered, her eyes wide.

Eren stepped closer, disbelief tightening his chest. “Are those—ODM gears?”

Before either could say more, a man emerged from behind the counter, his skin tanned from the island sun. He smiled, intrigued by their reaction.

“You know what those are?” he asked, glancing at Eren.

“Yeah…” Eren replied slowly. “How did it get here?”

“Oh, so you’re from where this belongs?” the man said, as though it were the most casual thing in the world.

Eren stiffened. His senses flared instantly—every instinct sharpened. He exchanged a quick look with Armin, whose expression betrayed the same alarm. They’d been careful until now—careful not to let anyone know who they were or where they came from.

This wasn’t supposed to exist. Not here. Not now.

Eren’s hand twitched, his mind racing as he glanced toward Armin. He could see the silent distress in his friend’s eyes. He knew what he had to do.

“No need to be so tense,” the man said with a rough laugh, as if trying to cut through the sudden weight in the air. “I was just curious about it myself. A friend of mine gave it to me—said it might be worth something.”

Eren’s eyes narrowed.

“Who’s that friend?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

The man chuckled softly, unbothered.

“Well… he didn’t know either. A man gave it to him, and he passed it on to me. I know where it comes from, though. I was surprised to see one before I went blind.”

“You’re blind?” Eren asked before he could stop himself.

“Eren,” Mikasa warned, her voice firm, cutting him off before he said something he’d regret.

The man waved his hand dismissively, still smiling faintly.

“Don’t bother. Youngsters these days—always too quick to speak, not enough time to think. But you know,” he added, leaning against the counter, “you shouldn’t take life that seriously either. I don’t even remember the last time I had fun.”

Eren’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was another story from a stranger. But Armin, ever the listener, tilted his head slightly, sensing something in the man’s voice.

“The world’s gone mad,” the man continued. “But at least people learned to be a little more tolerant. My old man fought for this country and died doing it. Me and my brothers—left alone, eating rats, sleeping on cardboard. But we worked. We made it worth something. You see, there’s no such thing as defeat, not if you stand up again and again and keep fighting. That’s what my father tried to teach us, though we were too stupid to listen. Now that I think of it, I just hope you kids don’t make the same mistake.”

His words landed heavier than any of them expected. They didn’t need to look at each other to understand—because it was the same truth they’d lived through, the same lesson carved into their bones.

Armin was the first to speak.

“How much for the ODM gear?” he asked, gesturing toward the relic.

Eren frowned.

“Armin—”

But Armin didn’t look away. He wasn’t thinking of nostalgia or collection—he was thinking of what it meant that these things still existed. If ODM gears were resurfacing, even as trinkets, it meant remnants of their past were bleeding into the present. Someone, somewhere, was trying to dig up the ashes.

And ashes had a way of catching fire again.

He knew the risk. If the Yeagerists were still out there, if anyone caught wind that Eren was alive, that they had all survived—it would be chaos. They had worked too hard to build this quiet life, too hard to let it crumble under old ghosts.

He needed to take the relic to Levi. Only he would know what to do next.

“This thing doesn’t really sell,” the man finally said, shrugging. “No one’s interested in old junk like this. But since you’re curious… you can have it. No charge.”

“No, sir,” Armin insisted, already reaching for his wallet. “I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do—”

The man cut him off with a low grunt. “Don’t pity me, boy. I’ve lived through worse than empty pockets. If I wanted your money, I’d ask for it. Take it.”

Armin hesitated, then slowly nodded, his fingers brushing the cold metal of the gear. For a moment, it felt like he was holding the weight of another lifetime—one that refused to fade.

They left the market soon after, the small relic wrapped in cloth and tucked carefully into Armin’s bag, along with a few single blades dulled by rust. None of them spoke at first—the silence between them weighed with unspoken questions. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and dust, but Eren couldn’t shake the unease crawling under his skin.

“Why did you take that?” he finally asked once they were far from the crowded stalls, his tone sharper than intended.

Armin didn’t even glance at him. “You really think I’d take it for fun?” he replied calmly. “No. I just think it’s not safe to leave something like that in a stranger’s hands. What worries me isn’t the relic—it’s who brought it here, and why they’re trying to sell it.”

Mikasa frowned, her eyes fixed on the bundle in Armin’s hands. Even now, it was hard to look at. The shape alone was enough to bring back too many memories—blood, smoke, and the deafening echo of screams. “You think Historia knows about this?” she asked softly.

“She’s not directly involved in any of it anymore,” Armin said. “But she still keeps in touch. Maybe Levi should hear about it first—he’ll know how to act if there’s something to worry about.”

Eren scoffed, kicking a pebble from the dusty road. “Great. Guess all this time was for nothing, then.”

Armin gave him a weary look. “Relax, Eren. We’re just being cautious. Maybe it’s nothing. But if it isn’t, I’d rather be sure before something else happens.”

The mention of something else made Mikasa’s stomach tighten. They all knew what that meant. The past had a cruel way of repeating itself.

“What now?” she asked quietly, as if to dispel the tension.

Armin forced a small smile. “We continue what we came here for, of course.”

“Where’s that beach again?” she asked, glancing toward the horizon.

Armin turned to Eren with a teasing grin. “Eren, you’re our guide today.”

Eren sighed, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, yeah… fine.” He started walking toward the distant shimmer of the sea, the sound of the waves already whispering against the wind.

For a moment, the weight of the relic, of their shared past, loosened its grip. The sun warmed their backs, the streets opened into paths lined with palm trees, and the ocean glimmered ahead like a promise.

Eren didn’t want to think about ODM gears, or the possibility of new enemies rising. Not today. Not when, for the first time in a long while, they had begun to feel something close to peace.

He took a deep breath, the salt air filling his lungs, and let the sound of Mikasa and Armin’s laughter pull him back to the present. Whatever awaited them could wait a little longer.

After everything they’d endured, they deserved at least this one day—one simple, fragile day—where the world felt light again.

✹

“You’re not going to swim?”

They were at the beach, after leaving their purchases back at the villa. The day was scorching—everywhere, people stripped down to the bare minimum, their skin glistening as though they were being cooked under the sun. But for Mikasa, it wasn’t the heat that troubled her. It was something deeper—something she hadn’t felt since her time in Hizuru, when Yuki had taken her to the hot springs. Even in the women’s section, surrounded only by her own kind, she’d felt exposed. The scar beneath her chest was a reminder—unavoidable, inescapable—etched into her body as the price of what she’d done. Sparing Eren’s life over humanity had been her choice, and one that left her marked forever.

Before, she wouldn’t have cared. But now, everything had changed—her body, her heart, the way she saw herself. That scar wasn’t just a wound. It was proof—of pain, of loss, of the sin she carried. So every time she was faced with situations like this—bare skin, bathing suits, the open air—she found a way out.

“I just don’t feel well,” she replied, clumsy but firm.

Eren’s expression shifted immediately, concern flickering in his eyes. She could almost see the anxiety building—he’d never stopped reacting that way whenever she mentioned pain. So, before he could speak, she quickly added:

“But you guys enjoy yourselves. I’ll be fine reading this book I just bought, okay? It’s no big deal… you know, one of those days.”

“What day?” Eren asked, completely oblivious.

Mikasa wanted to vanish. But Armin, catching the tone, nudged Eren’s shoulder and whispered, “Come on, let’s go. She’ll be fine.”

Eren still looked unconvinced. “You sure?”

“I’ll be fine. Go on.”

He hesitated, torn between trust and worry. Mikasa had been bright all morning, animated as they explored the city. Seeing her pull away now unsettled him, but Armin tugged him toward the water, breaking the spell. Mikasa smiled faintly, thankful for his help.

The beach wasn’t too crowded. Families and travellers scattered around, laughter mixing with the rush of waves. Nobody here recognized them—no one saw the ghosts of who they were.

Eren exhaled, tension slowly fading as they walked. Then his gaze snagged—on a group of young women stretched lazily across sunbeds. Phones in hand, faces half hidden, bodies gleaming with sunscreen. A few had chosen to forgo any upper garment entirely, the sun reflecting off bare skin without shame or hesitation.

“What the hell…” Eren muttered under his breath.

Eren shook his head, trying to rid his mind of what he’d seen. But the thought lingered, unsettling. All his travels had exposed him to strange contrasts—cultures, beliefs, languages. People could live so differently, and yet the same hate, the same invisible walls remained. Pretending not to hate each other had become the new form of peace.

Then one of the girls met his gaze—his, specifically. And before he could look away, shame prickling up his neck, she smiled and winked.

His heartbeat stumbled. Heat spread across his skin, not from the sun, but from something he couldn’t quite name. He turned away quickly, following Armin toward the water. He needed air—cold, heavy, grounding.

“They were kinda cute, right?” Armin said once they were waist-deep in the sea.

“Huh?”

“The girls. One of them even tried to get your attention.”

“Stop it. And you’re in a relationship, remember?”

“So? I can’t say someone’s cute?”

“Armin, I never knew you to be… so open-minded.”

“You were about to say something else.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I’m not a pervert, Eren. You’ve gotta learn the difference.”

Eren pushed him, sending a splash of salt water over his face. Armin retaliated, tackling him under. They wrestled like children, laughter echoing above the crash of waves. For a moment, the world was light again—no Titans, no guilt, no past. Just two friends, still learning how to live.

Left behind, Mikasa sat on the blanket she had brought, her unease refusing to fade. Because of her, Eren and Armin were forced to live a life they hadn’t asked for. Because she couldn’t let go of the one she loved, she had condemned everyone rather than accept the sacrifice. The book in her hands wasn’t even hers—it was one of Armin’s, a simple collection of pictures about the world, full of science and nature, nothing exceptional. Her eyes wandered over the pages without seeing a thing. When she finally looked up, she caught sight of the same group of girls from before—lying on their backs, their skin shimmering under the sun. Their bodies were smooth, untouched, perfect. No scars, no burns. Beautiful in a way Mikasa knew she never would be.

Her gaze fell to the sand. The weight of the world pressed on her chest, the familiar suffocation returning. The noise grew louder, the light sharper. She could feel it coming again—that sinking, hollow moment when everything she’d buried began to claw its way back to the surface. The memories, the loss, the truth that nothing—not peace, not distance—could make her the same again.

“Hey.”

She flinched, startled by the sudden voice. Her fingers gripped the hem of her shirt as she looked up—and her breath caught.

Eren stood there, water dripping down his face, hair damp and clinging to his temples. His shoulders were broader now, his muscles defined beneath the sun. Scars traced across his skin—marks she knew by heart, each one a memory. Her pulse quickened, her stomach tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t move.

“You okay?” he asked, sitting beside her and running a towel over his hair.

“You’re going to ask me that every time?” she replied, trying to sound casual, though her voice betrayed her.

Eren chuckled softly. She didn’t dare look at him.

“I just don’t like the idea of you being alone,” he said. “Come on—let’s go for a walk.”

“What about Armin?”

“He’s fine. Already made a friend.”

“As he should,” she muttered, smiling faintly.

“So? You coming?”

The question was simple enough. There shouldn’t have been anything behind it. Yet, Mikasa’s chest felt tight, like it might collapse in on itself. Since that night in the tent, things between them had never quite returned to normal. Sometimes she caught him looking at her; other times, he caught her doing the same. They would talk late into the night, lying side by side, close enough to feel the other’s breath. Once, they had even fallen asleep that way—pressed together, warm, safe. Neither of them had meant for it to happen. Neither of them had crossed another line since. But the silence between them was full of all the things they didn’t say.

Eren pulled on his shirt in one smooth motion, then reached for her hand. The touch was instinctive—quick, almost careless—but the moment his skin brushed hers, a jolt shot through him. He hid it behind indifference, pretending not to notice.

Mikasa didn’t pull away. Maybe, she thought, walking with him would help her breathe again.

She avoided the looks they drew as they moved along the path—people glanced, mostly at Eren. She understood why. He had that kind of presence, quiet but magnetic, the kind that made people stare without knowing why.

They walked slowly, leaving the beach behind. The narrow streets were alive despite the heat—children running barefoot, couples eating ice cream, others sitting beneath parasols at fancy cafés. Music spilled faintly from open windows. It was a world at peace. A world that had no idea who they were. They were still holding hands. Eren’s grip tightened as if he feared she might slip away, and Mikasa, silently, found comfort in that strength. From the outside, they could have been mistaken for a couple—two travelers wandering through the narrow streets, the sea breeze brushing their skin. But the truth between them was far more complex, a fragile balance between what was lost and what they still dared to hold on to.

She stopped suddenly, her attention caught by a small tattoo shop tucked between a café and a souvenir stand. The display window was lined with sketches—intricate symbols, wings, flowers, lines that wrapped around the skin like stories. Eren followed her gaze, frowning slightly. They’d seen tattoos before on people throughout their journey—each one permanent, unchanging, like the marks of their own past.

But for Eren, the thought of letting someone brand his skin felt wrong. His body already carried enough history. He didn’t need more reminders.

Mikasa, however, saw something different. There was something mesmerizing about it—the artistry, the courage to let pain turn into something beautiful, something that stayed.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Do you mind if we check it out?”

He gave her a look. “Don’t tell me you want one.”

“What if I do?”

Eren clicked his tongue, clearly disapproving, but said nothing. He followed anyway.

The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of ink and antiseptic. The walls were plastered with sketches, ancient symbols, and animal motifs they didn’t recognize. The space was small—too small for Eren’s liking. His eyes darted around, searching instinctively for exits.

Behind the counter sat a woman, her head bent over her phone. She looked up when the door closed. Her skin was a gallery of ink—lines and colors weaving across her arms, up her neck, and over her face. Her dark hair was tied messily into a bun held by two wooden sticks. Foreign, Eren thought. Probably not from this island.

The woman smiled faintly, setting her phone aside. “Hey there,” she said, her tone casual but welcoming. “Looking for a tattoo?”

Eren almost reached for Mikasa’s wrist, the instinct to pull her away kicking in. The place felt too cramped, too quiet—like a trap. But Mikasa didn’t share his hesitation.

“How much would it be for a tattoo?” she asked, stepping up to the counter.

“That depends on how big you want it,” the woman replied. “You can take a look, if you’d like.”

She pulled a heavy book from beneath the desk and laid it on the counter with a dull thud. Mikasa’s eyes widened slightly. Page after page was filled with sketches—each one more detailed than the last.

She traced a finger along the page, her mind drifting. Symbols of wings, intertwined hands, animals, and patterns that reminded her of the marks carved into their memories. She couldn’t help but think of the scars she already carried—the one over her heart most of all.

Eren finally gave in, his eyes scanning the walls with a mixture of curiosity and restraint. The room was filled with drawings — some bold and sprawling, others delicate and small, each one different in shape and meaning. He wondered how the tattooed woman behind the counter could have created them all. Her gaze followed them quietly, patient and knowing. It wasn’t unusual for people to walk in only to admire her work, offer a few polite compliments, and leave. She had grown used to that — though sometimes it stirred something fragile inside her, a misplaced hope that someone might stay long enough to understand the stories behind her art.

But this pair, she could tell, wasn’t here by accident. There was a heaviness in their silence, a quiet searching in their eyes as they leafed through the pages of her sketchbook. It wasn’t mere curiosity — it was as if they were trying to find an answer to something they couldn’t put into words.

“Having a hard time deciding?” she asked softly, her voice calm, almost maternal.

Mikasa’s eyes moved back and forth over the book, caught between hesitation and resolve. Eren slipped a hand into his pocket, feigning indifference, though a quiet tension gripped his chest. He half-hoped she would drop the idea altogether, but he knew better — once Mikasa made up her mind, there was no turning back.

Then, her hand stilled on a page.

“Is it possible to do this?” she asked, her tone steady yet tinged with emotion.

The tattoo she pointed to was small, almost hidden between larger, more striking designs — two softly shaded feathers, one slightly larger than the other, rendered with faint strokes that made them seem ready to drift away.

The woman smiled, recognizing the piece instantly.
“I made that one after my daughter,” she said gently. “She lost her dog — it was her first heartbreak. These feathers represent recovery after loss… the strength that follows grief.”

Eren’s brow furrowed slightly. He felt the weight of the words, as did Mikasa. There was something raw in her silence — a quiet understanding that needed no explanation. In that moment, it wasn’t about beauty or aesthetic anymore. It was about memory, healing, and the fragile peace that came after years of fighting.

She thought of the faces that had disappeared from her life — her parents, her comrades, her home. She had carried each of them like invisible scars, deep and permanent. But now, standing there, she realized this wasn’t about holding on to pain.

“I want that,” she said firmly, her voice low but certain.

The artist nodded. “Where would you like it?”

“Here.”

Mikasa touched her chest, just beside the faint scars that traced her ribcage — the same place Eren remembered seeing her wounded, that day when everything had fallen apart. His throat tightened, questions pressing against his silence. He watched her choose something that was hers alone, something that spoke of freedom rather than chains.

And Eren understood.

It wasn’t a mark of pain. It was a vow — not to the past, but to live forward, no matter how heavy the memories remained.

“Okay,” the tattoo artist said with a bright smile, clearly happy to finally have a customer. “Please wait for me back in that room. I’ll bring the equipment. Your boyfriend can come too, if he wants.”

Both Eren and Mikasa froze, their faces flushing in unison as they instinctively avoided each other’s eyes. The woman chuckled softly to herself — she knew that look, the awkward tension of two people whose bond ran deeper than they dared to admit. But she didn’t tease them further. Instead, she gestured toward the back room, her tone turning professional again.

The space beyond the door was cleaner, quieter — fewer sketches on the walls, a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with ink. Eren found himself oddly aware of the sound of his own footsteps echoing against the floor.

“I’ll just need you to remove your shirt, dear,” the artist said kindly to Mikasa. “So I can prepare the area, I’ll be back.”

Mikasa nodded without hesitation, her calm expression belying the weight of the moment. The woman left them alone, closing the door behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Eren felt it — the room shrinking around them, the air thick with unspoken things. His palms were sweating. Why was he reacting like this? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Mikasa undress before — they had lived through years of war, of wounds, of tending to each other’s scars. But this time felt different. This wasn’t survival. This was something deliberate, intimate — a ritual of choice, not necessity.

Mikasa turned her back to him, unbuttoning her shirt slowly, carefully. The fabric slid from her shoulders, revealing pale skin marked by the faint lines of battle. Eren’s breath hitched, trying not to look. But instead, he traced the contours of her back with his eyes — the small moles on her shoulder blades, the thin scars etched like fading memories across her skin.

“The reason I didn’t want to swim,” she said softly, breaking the silence, “was because of the scars. I hate them, not because of what I did, but because of what they mean. This body… it doesn’t look normal. But now—” she paused, her tone shifting, “I think I want to show them again.”

She turned to face him, and for a moment, Eren forgot how to breathe. His gaze fell instinctively to the long scar that ran diagonally across her ribs — the mark of a wound that had nearly taken her life. The memory of it flashed through him, raw and sudden: her collapsing, his hands shaking, the blood — too much of it — soaking through his fingers as the world around him burned red.

“That’s why I cover myself,” she continued quietly. “As much as I can.”

Eren didn’t think. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
“Mikasa… you’re beautiful.”

She gasped and so did he. It wasn’t something he had planned to say, nor something he thought he was capable of voicing aloud. But it was true. Brutally, painfully true. Despite everything the scars, the grief, the years of silence she was still the person who carried both strength and gentleness in the same breath. Her lips curved slightly, a quiet smile, fragile but real. She stepped closer until her hand brushed against his. The touch sent a wave of warmth through him — sharp, immediate, disorienting. His heartbeat thundered in his chest.

“I want it here,” she murmured.

She guided his hand toward her ribs, her fingers wrapping around his as she placed them just beneath her left breast, near the scar. The spot where she had been struck where her life had almost ended. The skin there was soft, warm beneath his fingertips, but he could still feel the faint ridges of the healed wound.

His breath caught as he traced it gently, following its path with a reverence that surprised him. The room seemed to fade all he could hear was her heartbeat, steady but trembling, echoing beneath his touch. His memories clawed at him  her scream, the blood, the helplessness  but this moment wasn’t about that. It was about what came after. About surviving. About her choosing to reclaim what had once been taken from her. Their eyes met. Her gaze was deep, unwavering, dark with something that went beyond mere affection it was shared history, pain, and the fragile kind of hope that came from living through what they had.

Eren’s hand lingered at her side, and for a heartbeat, they were suspended there between guilt and longing, between what had been lost and what could never truly return.

Then, the door opened.

They moved apart instantly, both startled, both breathless. The artist re-entered, a phone cradled between her shoulder and ear as she carried her tools. She didn’t notice anything amiss. But Eren could still feel the warmth of Mikasa’s skin against his palm, his fingers twitching as if the touch lingered there. He dared a glance at her  her face was calm again, composed, her expression unreadable. But her eyes betrayed her. Beneath the surface, her heart was racing as fast as his. And in that silence, both of them knew  it hadn’t been meant to happen, not like that. It was supposed to be innocent. But some moments defied reason, existing quietly between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Sorry to have made you wait,” the tattoo artist said, tucking her phone into her apron as she approached.

Her tone was cheerful, professional — oblivious to the charged silence that still lingered between them.

“Once this is done, you’ll need to avoid anything humid for a few days. And just a heads-up, it’s going to sting a bit. Is that alright?”

“I can handle worse,” Mikasa replied, her lips curving into the faintest smirk, the confidence she carried, the kind that came from surviving too much to be shaken by something as small as pain.

The woman chuckled softly.

“I see. Then let’s begin.”

Eren stepped back, his slippers scuffing lightly against the floor as he retreated toward the wall. He folded his arms, pretending to study the decorations pinned to the far corner, but his thoughts refused to stay still. The buzzing of the tattoo needle filled the room, a low, steady hum that somehow seemed to sync with the rhythm of his heart. He caught glimpses of Mikasa’s face — calm, composed — as the artist leaned over her, gloved hands working with precise, practiced care. The faint twitch of her skin each time the needle touched was barely noticeable, but Eren saw it. He saw everything — the quiet strength in the way she endured the sting without a flinch, the rise and fall of her chest, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

This was her choice. Her act of reclaiming something she’d once lost — her body, her sense of self, her right to carry scars without shame.

Eren felt the tension in his chest tightening, a strange mix of pride and guilt clawing at him. He’d been the cause of so much of her pain, the architect of the world that had burned her. Watching her now — strong, steady, healing — it felt like a kind of justice he didn’t deserve to witness. He turned away for a moment, pretending to study a framed sketch of wings on the wall. His hands curled into fists inside his pockets. He wanted to speak, to say something — anything — but the words wouldn’t come. When he finally dared to look again, he saw the outline forming on her skin. Two feathers — small, delicate, their lines so fine they looked ready to drift away with the air. The artist was right; it was a symbol of recovery, of release.

And somehow, it felt as if Mikasa wasn’t just healing herself — she was forgiving the past. Forgiving him.

He exhaled slowly, a quiet sound lost beneath the hum of the machine. Maybe, he thought, this was what it looked like when someone chose to live on. When someone decided that even a cruel world could still hold something beautiful.

✹

“Wow… did it hurt?”

Armin’s voice carried a quiet awe as he leaned closer. The thin film covering Mikasa’s tattoo shimmered under the lantern light, catching against the scar that traced just beneath it — a reminder that pain, for them, was never far behind. The artist had been gentle, careful, saying little, though Mikasa had felt her gaze linger longer than most.  By the table, Eren cracked open his bottle of beer with the edge of his hand. The hiss of escaping air was sharp against the hum of cicadas. They hadn’t spoken of what happened earlier in the day. But the air still carried that same stillness — something unspoken, fragile, waiting to break. He had spent the last hour fighting with the barbecue grill, half-convinced it had been designed to test his patience. Cooking itself wasn’t the problem — he’d learned enough of that back in Pëtras, during the long, stubborn days when surviving meant doing everything by hand. No, what drained him now was teaching them. Armin, who he thought would handle the details, somehow managed to burn things that weren’t even lit yet. Mikasa couldn’t help much either, her tattoo still fresh, her movements careful. In the end, Eren had done most of it, as usual.

They’d bought too much — meat, vegetables, drinks, a watermelon for dessert. It was the kind of small feast they hadn’t had in years. For once, there was no mission, no fight, no war. Just them. Just time.

And yet, somewhere in his chest, Eren already felt the weight of what came next. He knew the peace wouldn’t last. Once they went back, reality would catch up — it always did.

“It makes me want one too,” Armin said, studying the tattoo again.

Mikasa glanced up.

“What would it be?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something to remember… everything. I don’t want to forget, even if it was hell.”

“The artist said it meant recovery,” Mikasa replied quietly, brushing her fingers over the thin film. “After a loss. Maybe that’s why I chose it… I think I needed to.”

Eren didn’t ask what she meant. He didn’t have to. He still remembered the way her skin had looked earlier, pale against the ink, the faint tremor in her breath. He knew exactly what she was recovering from.

“What about you, Eren?” Armin asked. “You don’t want one?”

Eren didn’t look up.

“I don’t need something on my skin to remind me of what I’ve done.”

“It doesn’t have to mean something,” Mikasa said, her tone light, though her eyes stayed fixed on him. “Sometimes it’s enough that it’s beautiful.”

He had no answer to that.
Because he knew she wasn’t just talking about the tattoo.

Ever since the moment back in that small room — her shirt lifted, his hand brushing the scar he once thought would kill her — his thoughts had been a mess. The feeling hadn’t left him since. He’d tried to bury it, reason it away. But being near her always brought it back, sharp and alive, like the air before a storm.

He wanted to live — he’d made himself believe that. But he still didn’t know how. Every step forward meant facing the shadow of his other self, the monster who had decided that freedom came only through destruction. And yet, watching Mikasa now — her quiet strength, her will to move forward — he felt something shift. For the first time, he wanted to follow.

“What happens when we go back?” Mikasa asked after a while, taking a sip of her whiskey. “Do we find another job, or just… keep moving?”

“I still need to contact Levi,” Armin said. “The ODM gear we found… something’s off. I doubt this country should even have it.”

“We could always burn it.” Eren said his voice flattened.

“That won’t fix anything.”

“I was joking,” he muttered. But the truth was, it wouldn’t matter either way.

Even if he forgave himself, the world wouldn’t. They were living under false names now — a quiet punishment no one needed to enforce. The price for surviving the end of the world.

That night, they ate as much as they could. They drank, though no one was really drunk. They talked about small things — music, food, places they still wanted to see. It was the kind of night that felt almost normal. Almost. Later, as the fire burned low and the sky darkened above them, Eren found himself watching Mikasa again. The ink on her skin had dried, framed by the faint red of her scar. He thought of what she’d said — recovery.

“Well, I think I’m going to hit the bed. I’ll clean this tomorrow,” Armin said, stretching and yawning until it felt like his jaw might snap.
“I’m not tired yet, I can take this back to the villa,” Eren offered.
“Let me help you,” Mikasa said, standing up.
“But your wound—”
“It’s okay. I can handle it.”

His heartbeat drummed in his ears again. He was aware of what this could mean. And while Armin wished them goodnight, Eren wondered if he could hold on just a little longer. Mikasa started with the small things, while he went to put out the flames. Silence filled the air — a silence where two people simply helped each other. But in that silence, Eren felt his mind splitting in two. Part of him screamed to let go of everything he’d been holding in, because he couldn’t bear hiding it anymore. But the other reminded him why he shouldn’t. Both emotions collided inside him, more intense, more unbearable than before. Maybe he was going crazy — crazy because ever since they left the tattoo shop, it was all he could see. Crazy because Mikasa was acting as if nothing had happened. Crazy because he didn’t know what she was thinking. He felt hopeless, pathetic. Frustration built inside him until he wasn’t even paying attention to the last flicker of flame that refused to die. His hand burned — the skin tearing, pain spreading slowly.
“Shit.”
“Eren, are you okay?”

Mikasa had just been about to bring the drinks inside when she heard him curse.
“Yeah… I burned myself, b-but don’t worry, I—”
“Come here, I still have a few ice cubes left.”

Eren cursed himself internally for being so reckless. He stepped toward her slowly, clenching his fist until his nails bit into his skin. Because of all things — she was there, with him. It was a constant battle against himself, but he told himself he was doing this to protect her. Or at least, that’s what he thought. His reasons were blurring day by day, and he started to wonder if any of it even had meaning anymore.

He knew what Mikasa felt for him — that only made it harder. He wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how. After seeing her today, not giving up despite everything she had lost — her body, her past, her pain — he realized she was doing what he couldn’t. She was still fighting, still living, in her own way.

Mikasa waited for him, holding a few ice cubes in her hand. As she reached for him, their skin touched, and a wave of electricity coursed through her body. She pretended it was nothing, though her heart betrayed her — and maybe her face did too. Eren stayed quiet, biting his lip at the sting of the burn. But the pain in his hand was nothing compared to the one in his chest. Because the truth was, no matter what, Eren still wanted more. More than he was allowed to have. And that was why he was selfish — a monster who didn’t care about other lives. He had suffered so much, and now, finally, he could breathe, live the life he always wanted — next to her, with her.

The line between past and present blurred. He didn’t know if it had already happened — this feeling of belonging, of being accepted. Her hands were soft against his rough skin, lingering as she pressed the ice gently to his burn, treating him as if he were something fragile. And maybe he was — on the verge of breaking, his emotions crashing inside him, making it hard to breathe.

His gaze fell on her face — her delicate lashes brushing against flushed cheeks, her small nose, her lips that looked impossibly soft, drawing him in. Every sense was heightened. Once again, he was completely aware of how close they were — and this time, no one was around to stop them.

Finally, he blurted,
“This is ridiculous.”

Mikasa frowned, confused by the sudden break in his silence.
“What is ridiculous?”

“This— I mean, I’m not complaining, but…”

The words scattered before they could take shape. It felt like his heart had climbed into his throat, beating so hard it blurred his thoughts. He searched for an escape, for anything to undo what he’d just started. It had been easier the first time—under that open sky, when everything already had an ending. Back then, he knew what would follow, what he had to lose. But now, there was no script, no path written by anyone else. Only him, alive, with the weight of what he’d done, and the quiet chance to start again.

He thought of Ymir—how her choice had given him one last proof that even monsters could change their fate. He had been reckless, stubborn, convinced that the only way to win was through destruction. That was who he was. Always pushing forward, even when it hurt the people beside him. But now there was no enemy left to fight. Only the life that waited for him if he dared to live it.

He looked at Mikasa, and for a moment, the answer to every question he’d ever had was there—in her calm, in her patience, in the small way her eyes softened when they met his. He wanted to hear it this time, not imagine it. He wanted her to tell him that it was okay to stay, that he was allowed to choose something other than guilt and silence.

Because he wanted this. More than anything.

“Mikasa… do you love me?”

It came out too suddenly, like the air had forced it through him. Mikasa froze, her hand tightening instinctively around his burned one before she caught herself. Her heart thudded, hard enough that she could feel it against her ribs.

She remembered the question from before—when he’d asked what he was to her. It felt the same, only heavier. Back then she hadn’t answered, not really. Fear had stopped her—the fear of losing him again, of opening herself only to watch him disappear. And yet she knew the truth. She’d always known.

He had told her everything once—how in another life, they’d lived quietly, away from it all. How he had chosen that peace, even if it meant giving up everything else. It hadn’t sounded like fantasy then. It sounded like longing. Like a confession that time couldn’t erase.

“I want to know,” Eren said, voice cracking. “If I’m really worth it. After setting the world on fire. After proving I’m just a coward, selfish over his own freedom. I want to know if someone like me can still be loved.”

Tears slipped down before he could stop them. Each word dragged itself out of him like it was cutting something loose. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness—he didn’t believe he deserved it. He just needed to know if there was still something human in him left to reach for. Mikasa stared at him, her lips parting, trembling slightly. The pain in his voice echoed her own—the same ache she’d carried since the day she’d lost him. She wanted to reach out, to tell him that she had never stopped, that loving him had never been a choice but a fact of her existence. But the words caught in her throat, like a promise she was still too afraid to make. The air between them felt heavy, like standing before the tide. He wondered if he would cross that line—if touching her, daring even just once more, would make him human again, or remind him of everything he’d destroyed.

He didn’t know which was worse.

But then…

“I love you,” she whispered, looking away. “I love you like I could die for you.”

The words fell like a confession she had carried through everything she lost. For a moment, Eren couldn’t breathe, because he knew how much truth that was and, that she wouldn’t hesitate to do it again – which was far scarier than anything. It struck him deeper than any blade ever had, every loss he had or he could have made.

Her grip tightened on his burned hand, hard enough to make him hiss.
“Sorry,” she murmured, pulling back.

But Eren didn’t want her to move. Not now. Not when the weight of everything he’d done was pressing down and yet—for the first time—it didn’t crush him. Because she was there, because everything felt possible again.

“Mikasa…” His voice broke, his resolve breaking with it. “I love you too. Everything I said before—when I told you I hated you—it wasn’t true. None of it ever was. I…” He swallowed hard. “I was afraid. Of you, of myself, of what it meant if I stayed, for us and the world we had against.”

He had spent years convincing himself that he had to bear everything alone, that freedom meant walking forward even if it left everyone behind. But standing here, with her hand trembling in his, he realized that freedom meant the opposite. It meant staying, even when the world tried to pull you apart. Mikasa’s eyes were wet. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. The silence between them stretched like glass—fragile, clear, reflecting everything they couldn’t say. They were both exhausted. Both had fought too long. Every scar on their skin, every ache, every breath they still took—it was proof that somehow, they were still here. Still trying.

“Kiss me,” Mikasa said, her voice barely holding.

Eren didn’t think. He had done enough thinking for a lifetime.

He leaned in, closing the space between them, and the world went silent. Her lips were warm, trembling against his, tasting faintly of salt and alcohol. When she drew a sharp breath against his mouth, he felt everything she’d carried—the fear, the longing, the grief—and all of it broke inside him. He wanted to apologize for everything he’d done. For all the times he pushed her away, for the weight she’d carried alone, for the way he made her suffer just to protect her. But no words came. The kiss said what neither of them could. His hand brushed her cheek, the other still shaking from the burn. Her touch steadied him. For a moment, the pain dulled, and the sound of the night—the faint crackle of dying embers, the distant hum of cicadas—felt unreal.

This was the first time he’d ever allowed himself to want something just for him.

And not far from them, on the balcony facing the sea, bathed under a sky scattered with stars, Armin stood watching. The air was still warm from the day, salt clinging faintly to his damp hair. He smoked slowly, the ember of the cigarette glowing against the dark, the faint curl of smoke rising toward a sky that had once watched the end of the world.

He could hear them faintly through the open windows—soft voices, laughter that didn’t sound forced anymore. For a long time, he had waited to hear something like that again.

He smiled to himself.
Somehow, he knew. Something had changed.

It wasn’t the kind of closure people dreamed of—no redemption, no perfect ending. But it was enough to see that Eren was finally choosing to live, not just survive. To see him accept this fragile, imperfect life after everything he’d destroyed to reach it. Armin had always believed Eren carried too much—expectations, anger, freedom itself—like a weight that would crush him before he ever understood what it meant. But tonight, he looked lighter, almost human again.

They all were.

Armin leaned forward on the railing, eyes tracing the faint reflection of the stars over the calm water. The sea no longer held the same mystery as before. It wasn’t the border of freedom anymore—it was a reminder of everything they’d lost crossing it. Still, there was peace in it. Quiet, uncertain peace. He thought of everyone who had made it through. Levi, still walking despite his body refusing him, carrying ghosts heavier than any gear ever was. Reiner, who never stopped apologizing even when there was no one left to judge him. Annie, learning to live without walls, without guilt. Jean, who’d found a way to stand tall again, even when the world he’d dreamed of was built on ruins. Connie, who forced a smile each morning as if laughter alone could silence the memories. Pieck, who stayed close, quieter than before but steady, always watching over them. And the kids — Falco and Gabi — still growing, still believing that a different kind of world was possible. They all bore names the world would never know again. They were ghosts living under borrowed skies. Yet somehow, they were still here.

Armin took one last drag and crushed the cigarette against the railing, watching the last spark fade. He wondered how long they would have to keep going before they could truly rest. How much longer before the world stopped treating them as remnants of something unforgivable. Maybe never. But that didn’t matter now. Because even in a world that had turned its back on them, they still had each other. And as long as they did, humanity still had a chance to stand again.

He turned away from the sea and toward the dim light of their villa. For once, he didn’t feel the ache of the past clawing at him. Watching them—Eren and Mikasa—was enough. Proof that after everything, life could still grow from ruin. Inside, the faint sound of laughter blended with the night breeze. They kissed beneath the same sky that had once watched them fall apart, now silent witnesses to something fragile being rebuilt.

Mikasa felt Eren’s arm around her, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo along her ribs. He held her like she was something precious, like holding her too tight might make her disappear. Their tears mixed with soft laughter—strange, nervous, real. No one would ever understand what it took for them to reach this moment. The blood, the betrayals, the weight of the world they once carried. Their past would always follow them, shadows that would never fade. But they had chosen to stop running. They would face it together—this time, not as soldiers, not as heroes. Just as people.

Under the endless sky, they found something that resembled peace. Not perfect. Not eternal. But theirs.

And somewhere above the sea, the wind carried the faint scent of smoke and salt—remnants of a world that had ended, and the quiet beginning of one that might still go on.

*Zanzibar, I only took half of its name.

I can go touch some grass now. I think this chapter was the most difficult one ever, trying to make it official without making them sound off character. I think it was important for me to take it like this, rather than the typical “action are louder then words”, meaning here, Eren expressed his feelings and his doubts, same goes to Mikasa which is something that have been missing since the first episode of Attack On Titan, I wanted to point this is out as a proof of their character development, how they had grown since – forced to move forward despite all, but love is something neither can’t control and is much more powerful then anything in the world, which in their case, I think they needed it. Hopefully, we will be having less angst from now on; everyone pretty much had resolved their issue (except Levi which I will deal with him soon) but will be about how they are able to live on. This short sequence had been fun to write, even though I felt like I was writing a completely different story to what I was originally supposed to. They would resume their trip soon, but I don’t think I would write a second part on that lol.

Let me know what you thought about it, if Eren made a good choice for confessing his feeling, Mikasa’s determination with her new tattoo ( I have spent literally two hours, figuring what would suit her and what could symbolise her recovery in all this).

I hope that you had enjoyed this story so far!

Chapter Text

They were finally back. After everything they had seen, after all they had learned, they returned to the place they once left behind — a land heavy with memories, fragile and uncertain. But none of that mattered now. After having touched peace in another form, in another world no one else had seen, they could no longer forget what it meant to live. Eren was sure of it. When the boat reached the port, the passengers rushed out, crying and laughing as they reunited with loved ones. He stood still among them, watching. He didn’t smile, but he was content — content to see others smile, to see people who had lost everything find reasons to hope again. They too had been given another chance — to rebuild from ashes, to love again.

“God damn it, I was sure I took it!”

Armin’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with frustration. He had been restless the entire trip back, uneasy about returning after months away. It felt as though they had stepped out of one world and into another — one too familiar and yet distant, carrying the echo of everything they once were. And still, nostalgia lingered. Pëtras. The place where fate had forced them to gather again, where they had been bound not by duty, but by survival. Maybe it had been for the better.

“You’re looking for this?”

Mikasa stood by the rail, holding a peculiar hat between her fingers — the same one Armin had been gifted by the couple in Gaul who insisted it was traditional. He had been so fascinated by it that he’d refused to take it off for days. Eren thought he looked ridiculous, but Mikasa had only teased him about it.

“You hid it, didn’t you?” Armin accused, narrowing his eyes.

“No, I didn’t. You left it,” she replied, her tone calm, but her mouth twitching.

“Mikasa, I know what you’re capable of. Don’t pull this crap on me.”

Her laughter broke the tension, soft and bright, echoing against the hum of the port. Eren couldn’t help the small smile that rose to his lips. Since their confession, the air between them felt different — lighter, freer, as if they were breathing again after years of drowning. Still, he wasn’t spared from Armin’s curiosity. Explaining everything had been its own kind of battle; Armin’s teasing nearly drove him to vanish entirely. And now, the thought of having to tell the others — that was another storm he wasn’t ready for.

He shook his head, refusing to dwell on it. Armin, of all people, had surprised him. He had listened — really listened — and for once, Eren didn’t feel judged. It was another reminder, another quiet lesson: that trust was not a burden, and that repeating the same mistakes would only lead them back into the dark.

Outside, the air was crisp, the scent of the sea sharper as winter approached. The sky stretched clear and endless, and on the pier, people waited. Some held flowers, some just stood, scanning the horizon for faces they thought they’d lost. Among them, Jean leaned against a post, a cigar hanging loosely from his mouth. He had finally managed to buy one, after months of hard work at his cabinet. The others were still away — helping rebuild in Revelio, finishing what remained — so it was up to him to welcome them back.

He watched the ship approach, smoke curling into the cold air. Part of him wondered if they had changed — if Eren had changed — or if he’d still find some new way to drive everyone mad. He buried his hands deeper into his coat, cursing under his breath. The sun was out, but the cold clung to him anyway. He hated winter, hated the numbness in his fingers, but not enough to leave. Because, truthfully, he was excited. Excited to see them again. Excited to know what stories they carried this time.

Eren was the first to step onto the dock. The world felt quieter here, the familiar weight of being watched still lingering — habit, nothing more. His hair was shorter now, trimmed neatly the way Mikasa had suggested. Both he and Armin had grown into their faces, into men who had learned to live without war. Eren still couldn’t stand the idea of a beard — he shaved every morning — while Armin had tried, only to give up once the itching started. Small, ordinary things. Things they never thought they’d care about.

“Look,” Mikasa called out, dragging her suitcase along the planks, “Jean’s waiting for us.”

They had bought more than they planned to — books, small trinkets, clothes they didn’t really need. Another suitcase had been necessary.

“Give me that,” Eren said, reaching for it.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, brushing him off. “I’m not one of those girls.”

He bit back a smile. It wasn’t about that, not really. But since they had chosen each other, everything felt different — uncertain, fragile, and alive. Maybe the world hadn’t changed. Maybe it was just them.

Or maybe, it already had.

He didn’t have time to reply — Jean had already spotted them, already walking their way with that same familiar swagger, a cocky grin stretching across his face.

“Well look at you,” he said, hands in his pockets, stopping just before Eren. “Look less like shit than I thought.”

Eren blinked, caught between irritation and amusement.

“What’s up with your face? Still long…”

Jean clicked his tongue. He had walked right into it.

“Nice to see y’all alive and well,” he grumbled, turning to the others. “You got colours, Armin.”

The three of them had, indeed. Their faces and arms were touched red by the sun — a reminder of days spent out in the open, of salt air and quiet winds that carried no blood or ash. Armin had the worst of it, though he seemed the least bothered. His nose and cheeks were peeling faintly, his hair a little lighter from the sea breeze. He had spent most of his time outside, eyes darting from horizon to horizon, taking notes until his hands cramped. A whole case of filled notebooks now waited to be sorted, soon to be published under his name. He had written everything — the lands they crossed, the people they met, even the quiet moments between them. Eren and Mikasa had each added their share, reluctant at first, but proud once the words found meaning.

“And you,” Armin continued, spotting the cigar tucked Jean’s fingers, “what’s up with that cigar? You letting me try one?”

“Never,” Jean shot back without hesitation, smirking.

“Oh, come on,” Armin said with a grin, “we brought you presents.”

“Damn you all,” Jean sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine, since I’m the one picking your dumbasses up, we’re heading home.”

They moved together through the crowd, swallowed by the hum of a world that had finally stopped screaming. The air smelled faintly of metal and oil, of sea salt and smoke. The chatter of merchants and children filled the square — ordinary sounds that once would’ve felt like a dream. They walked without hurrying, speaking of small things: the colour of the sky that morning.

Mikasa stayed quiet most of the way, her gaze moving between Jean and Eren. Seeing Jean again had hit her harder than expected. Memories flickered at the edges of her mind — blurry at first, like photographs left in the rain. But as they walked, things settled into place. His voice, his teasing tone, even that exasperated look he always gave Eren — none of it had changed. She caught him glancing her way more than once, his expression softening just for a heartbeat before he looked away. And beside her, Eren complained about his headache like nothing had happened, muttering under his breath in that familiar, irritated tone that somehow comforted her. For all the years, all the distance, it still felt the same.

By the time they reached the main road, the air had turned warm and heavy. Jean stopped abruptly, turning toward them with a grin that made him look ten years younger.

“Meet my baby girl.”

He gestured proudly to the car parked under the sun. It gleamed like obsidian, smooth and impossible to ignore.

“Had the choice to rent or buy once the cabinet approved my position,” he said, his voice carrying a mix of pride and disbelief. “So, I went for it. First few imported from Marley, she’s one of them.”

Eren leaned forward instantly, his curiosity flaring.

“A Corvette Sting Ray,” he murmured, running his hand just above the chrome without touching it.

Armin whistled low.

“That thing looks like it could eat the road.”

“Damn right,” Jean said, grinning. “And it only takes the best driver to handle it.”

Mikasa stayed a few steps back, watching as they circled the vehicle like kids seeing a titan for the first time. The car stood beneath the light, a reflection of everything they had come to know — the old world meeting the new. Its body was sharp and smooth all at once, the paint so dark it swallowed the sun, turning reflections into fractured light. The chrome caught every flicker of movement — a living blade of steel and memory. Inside, the seats were deep and low, upholstered in black leather polished by years of sun and touch. The stitching traced fine, deliberate lines, almost military in their precision. At the front, the dashboard curved forward like the chest of a proud beast, its dials framed in brushed steel, each one glinting with a quiet, confident arrogance. The smell of oil and leather filled the cabin, something raw and mechanical, alive.

Armin sat in the passenger seat, eyes bright with curiosity, while Jean gripped the wheel like a man proud of his latest victory. Eren and Mikasa sat at the back. The steering wheel was thin, wrapped tight in worn leather. When Jean turned the keys, the car growled awake — a deep, throaty purr that echoed like an animal stretching after a long sleep. They felt it all at once, the vibration coursing through the seats, through their spines. The moment Jean shifted gears, the car leapt forward, gliding smoothly onto the road.

“How much did that cost you?” Armin asked, glancing at the sleek dashboard as the gauges flickered to life.

“A lot. Now I have to work even harder. That’s why I’m joining Levi and the others again.”

“Where are they now?”

“Revelio,” Jean replied, his eyes on the road. “They’re finishing up the rebuilding. It’s almost done.”

“Didn’t we help there the first time?” Armin frowned.

“Yeah. But there was a minor earthquake. Set them back a few months. The girls are checking on the families; the guys are handling cleanup. Typical.”

Armin nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“I never thought I’d say this, but… I can’t wait to go back.”

Jean chuckled under his breath, already guessing the reason. Armin didn’t say her name — he didn’t need to. His mind was already somewhere else, wrapped in the thought of a quiet reunion, of Annie’s hands, her voice, her presence. The anticipation made him restless.

In the backseat, Eren’s gaze drifted outside. The glass was tinted, dark enough that no one could see inside. He wondered how much Jean had saved to afford such a thing — the car, the comfort, the ease of it. A life that was once impossible, now so close he could almost touch it. Could he ever have something like this? Could he drive toward something instead of away from it? He turned his head slightly. Mikasa was watching the interior with quiet fascination, her fingers tracing the seams of the seat, the chrome handle, the lines that shaped the door. She leaned back, exhaling softly, the vibration of the engine rippling beneath her. It wasn’t loud — it was steady, deep, almost soothing. Her eyelids lowered, her shoulders relaxed. For the first time in a long while, she looked at peace.

Eren watched her, his chest tightening at the simple image of it — her hair catching the light, her expression calm. Without realizing, his hand had drifted closer to hers. When he finally felt her touch, soft and deliberate, he froze. She didn’t look at him. She just smiled faintly, her eyes on the passing scenery. He could feel his face heat up. Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t pull away. His fingers closed around hers, quiet, almost hesitant, and the noise of the engine faded for a second — as if the world had paused just for them. A suspended moment, fragile and fleeting, yet whole.

“Eren?”

Jean’s voice sliced through the air. Eren jolted, snapping his head forward, his hand retreating instinctively. Mikasa turned away quickly, pretending to adjust her scarf. His heart thudded in his chest.

“What?” Eren muttered, clearing his throat, irritation barely masking his embarrassment.

Jean’s smirk appeared in the rearview mirror, sharp and amused. He hadn’t seen what happened, but the tension told him everything.

“Did you bring me a present?” he asked casually, feigning innocence.

Eren blinked. “Seriously?”

“Well, I thought you might’ve thought of me, that’s all,” Jean teased, glancing at him through the mirror. “Or maybe you had someone else in mind?”

Eren frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jean clicked his tongue. “You really are as clueless as ever, aren’t you?”

Armin tried, and failed, to hide a laugh. Mikasa turned her face toward the window, her smile ghosting across her lips as things were turning ridiculous.

✹

In Revelio, Levi’s group remained active. They were doing everything they could — clearing roads, carrying the wounded, distributing food and blankets to those who had lost their homes. Every corner of the city was filled with dust and silence, broken only by the clatter of shovels striking debris or the faint cries of those still searching for their families. It was as if the earth itself had decided to remind humanity of its frailty, as if destruction could never truly end, only change its form. Levi stood apart from it all, sitting on a cracked wall with a chipped mug of coffee in hand. The air smelled of dust and burned wood, yet he drank it anyway, not because he needed it but because it gave him something to do. Orders would come soon — they always did — and with them, the arrival of those he hadn’t seen in months. He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel about that. Once, reunion might have stirred something in him: relief, maybe even hope. But now there was nothing left to stir. Whatever part of him had been capable of attachment had burned out long ago, leaving only a man who moved because he didn’t know how to stop. Only Iris managed to cut through the numbness. Their time together was scarce, stolen moments in between orders, buried beneath guilt and the quiet understanding that what they shared wasn’t meant to exist. They had built their own fragile rule — one that kept them functional, if not whole. She was the one who set the boundaries, and he never argued. Control was something Levi had spent a lifetime clinging to, yet with her, he let it go, if only to feel something close to life again. In a world that had taken everything from him, she was the one thing that still made sense, even if the way they held on to each other was twisted and wrong. He didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t living for the world’s approval.

For now, his purpose was simple: help where he could, keep the younger ones on track, make sure the children had a chance to go to school like their parents wanted. Beyond that, he existed as a shadow among the ruins — a ghost with a heartbeat, pretending to still be part of the living.

Across the city, Reiner was knee-deep in rubble, his gloved hands raw and covered in dust as he tried to clear a collapsed apartment. Every crash of stone sent a pulse through his chest — a cruel echo of another time, another destruction. The falling walls, the screams, the unbearable weight of guilt. He couldn’t stop seeing it, no matter how much he reminded himself that this time, it wasn’t his doing. This had been nature’s violence, not humanity’s. And yet… he felt the same. Powerless. Responsible.

“Reiner!”

He lifted his head, wiping his forehead with his arm. The cold air did nothing against the heat of exhaustion. His shirt was long gone, thrown aside hours ago, and his muscles ached from the weight of his own conscience as much as from the debris. The sun was already sinking behind the broken skyline, the light falling like ash over a city that had lost its shape. The avenue that used to be filled with noise and laughter was now nothing more than an open grave of memory. He turned at the sound of quick footsteps, disbelief tightening in his chest as two familiar figures came running down the road. Gabi and Falco. For a second, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him — they weren’t supposed to be here. They had been ordered to stay on Paradis, to live like normal children, to study and learn a world without war. Yet here they were, weaving through chaos with the same fierce energy as always, smiling as if the world hadn’t just fallen apart again. Seeing Gabi after months apart hit him harder than he expected. She looked older — not by much, but enough for him to notice. Her posture had changed, more assured, her eyes a little softer. Falco had grown taller too, lean and restless, the awkwardness of youth slowly giving way to the shape of a young man. Reiner’s heart clenched with something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pride, maybe. Or fear.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” he shouted, though a smile betrayed him.

“We came to see you, duh,” Gabi said, stopping in front of him with her hands on her hips. “You don’t look happy to see us.”

“Did you skip school?” he asked, half scolding.

“Obviously. I had to beg Levi to let us come. It was a pain in the ass.”

“Gabi, you shouldn’t have,” Falco muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed.

“You can always go back if you want,” she snapped, her grin returning. “But I’m not leaving. I’d rather be here in all this shitty mess than stuck there pretending life’s normal.”

Her words were reckless, vulgar almost, and yet, deeply honest — exactly the kind of truth that kept the world moving. Watching the two of them, standing there against the backdrop of ruin, he suddenly realized how much the world had changed, and how much of it was still the same. The next generation was still running forward, no matter how heavy the past was on their shoulders.

“Anyway, I heard our demon is back”

“Don’t call him that Gabi” Reiner muttered exasperated.

Like everyone, Reiner was happy to see Eren, Armin and Mikasa back from their trip. He might have thought that something must have happened and then, nothing would forever be forgiven. Yet, they were all alive and doing well despite all, trying to live, to move forward, step by step. The kids were super excited as well, as they just arrived at the same time, they would be helping them from now on, for now, after Gabi’s extraordinary skill in negotiating, Levi couldn’t refuse.

When they finally arrived, the scene had already changed. What once had been a city breathing toward its slow recovery now lay silent again — not hopeful, not healing. Just broken. Only ruins, grey and unmoving.

And yet, this time, it wasn’t their fault.

Even so, guilt was an instinct none of them had learned to silence. Eren stood still, his gaze scanning what remained of the streets and shattered buildings. There was a strange calm on his face, the kind that came after every storm — an expression too still to call peaceful. Jean had parked the car a few streets away, not daring to drive closer. The air there was too heavy, the ground uneven, littered with debris. They left their things behind. Armin and Mikasa walked side by side but said nothing. Their eyes moved between the destruction and the faces of the survivors working among it — volunteers, children carrying water. The silence between them wasn’t new. It had been there since they left Paradis, filled with words they didn’t know how to say anymore. Every step through that city was a reminder — of the first time they had crossed the sea to capture Eren, and of the second, when they returned to stop him. The ground itself felt haunted by their footsteps.

The earthquake had left deep scars through Revelio, cutting across streets that once glimmered with life. Buildings that had stood proud after the Rumbling now sagged and split like old wounds reopening. Dust hung in the air like fog. Eren’s gaze drifted, tracing the lines of ruin, and his mind — uninvited — reached back to the night of Willy Tybur’s speech. He remembered hiding beneath the stage, the smell of smoke and sweat, the sound of cheers that would soon turn to screams. He remembered the faces of people who didn’t understand what was about to happen — the fear that made them human. And he remembered the future version of himself that had forced it all to happen.

He had told himself he had no choice. That everything had already been written. That all he was doing was walking down a path laid by his own hands. But now, standing here again, looking at what was left of a city that kept being destroyed no matter whose fault it was, he couldn’t help but ask the same question that had been buried under his silence.

For what?

And as always, there was no answer. Only the wind.

“Armin!”

The call broke through the quiet like a spark. Armin’s head turned first, his heart tightening as he followed the sound. A small refugee camp had been set up nearby — tents lined in crooked rows, smoke rising from a metal drum fire. People moved about quietly, trading small things: food, clothes, what little they still had.

Then he saw her.

She was standing by one of the makeshift tables, kneeling to hand a lollipop to a child. Her clothes were simple — loose trousers, a white shirt under a dark jacket, boots half-covered in dust. Nothing about her should have stood out. And yet, Armin knew. The way she moved, the curve of her shoulders, the calm precision in every small gesture — he would have recognized her anywhere.

“Annie…”

Her head lifted. For a moment, her face was unreadable, as if she too couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Then her eyes softened — just slightly, like the edge of a thawing winter. Armin didn’t think. He moved before he could tell himself not to, stepping through the broken street, faster, then faster still. It didn’t matter that the world around them was in ruins again. It didn’t matter who was watching, or what they were supposed to be now that the fighting was over. For the first time in what felt like years, he wasn’t thinking about duty or consequence.

Annie walked toward him too. Her steps were slower, measured, as if testing the reality of the moment. And when they met in the middle, there were no grand words or promises — just silence. The kind of silence that said more than anything else could. Before they knew it, they were already kissing — the first in what felt like a lifetime. A long-awaited month finally breaking into warmth and breath and something human again. It was clumsy at first, hesitant, then certain. Annie’s hand found its place against Armin’s neck, pulling him closer. The taste of dust, salt, and sweetness lingered between them, a reminder that despite everything that had fallen apart, there were still pieces of life left to claim.

Behind them, Jean made a face like he’d just bitten into something bitter.
“Here we go again,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Two idiots who can’t stay away from each other for more than a minute.”

Mikasa’s eyes softened as she looked at them, her voice barely above the wind. “You’ll never understand until you meet someone you love, Jean.”

Jean let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. But her words hit harder than he wanted to admit. He’d already accepted the truth long ago — that some things simply weren’t meant to be. When Mikasa had regained her memories, everything between them had shifted, quietly but irreversibly. The affection, the distance, the understanding — all became clear in a single, unspoken moment during their long drive back. She belonged to a part of Eren that no one else could reach, and Jean, for all his bluster and pride, had learned to make peace with it. Still, seeing them like this — seeing Eren standing there, alive, changed but present — stirred something in him. Something like hope, or maybe resignation. He’d watched Eren carry guilt heavier than the world itself, seen him fold under the weight of decisions no one else could have made. Maybe, Jean thought, this was what they all needed: not forgiveness, not redemption — just the permission to keep living.

Eren’s gaze flickered toward Armin and Annie. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown either. Just stood there, watching them as if the sight stirred a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. The way Armin kissed her — with that full, desperate sincerity. Of Mikasa’s lips against his, the warmth of her tears, the ache of something that had already ended before it began. It hadn’t been just a kiss. It had been a plea — a promise to live, even when everything around them told them not to.

He didn’t regret it. Not anymore.

“Oi, you two,” a sharp voice cut through the air like a blade. “If you’re gonna make out, go find a room.”

The sound was unmistakable.

Levi.

He was walking toward them with his usual slow, deliberate gait — each step carrying that same mixture of irritation and unspoken fatigue that had defined him for years. His gaze swept across the group like a gust of cold air, and for a moment, everything went still. Even Armin froze, still caught halfway between his own heartbeat and Levi’s disapproval.

Armin straightened immediately, the colour rising to his cheeks. “Levi! I— we were just—”

Levi didn’t even look at him.

“You think I care?” he said flatly. “Just don’t do it where people are trying to work. Now, where’s the ODM gear?”

“In the car,” Armin replied quickly, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Good.” Levi’s tone didn’t change. “Welcome back. We’ve got supplies coming in, and Historia’s joining the effort. She left her kid with her husband, so there is no time to waste.”

“Yikes” Jean winced, already tired of doing the labor.

“Historia?” Eren’s voice was quiet, almost uncertain.

He hadn’t seen her since she had come with her baby. The memories hit like a faint echo — her eyes, tired but sharp; the way she had spoken to him with both fear and defiance; the moment he realized she was stronger than he’d ever given her credit for. Back then, he’d forced her into choices she should never have faced. Forced her to bear a burden that wasn’t hers. He’d wanted to apologize ever since. But there was no simple apology for what he’d done — for the manipulation, for the way he’d used her as a pawn in a plan he couldn’t escape from. Still, he knew that if she stood before him now, she’d only tell him what she told him then:

“If you’re going to destroy the world, at least take responsibility for it”.

And somehow, in that twisted way, her words had saved him.

Now, all he wanted was to look her in the eyes again — not as an accomplice, not as an enemy, but as someone trying to move forward. Someone trying to live.

“Where are the others?”.

Levi turned toward the camp.

“Inside. They are all waiting for you.”