Hange

You wandered for a long time—once a titan yourself. The forests felt endless. You remember quiet moments: watching animals scurry, so fragile, so small. Just like humans. Then the scent comes again. Human scent. Your jaw aches, your body lurches forward, clumsy but unstoppable, shoving trees aside. You break into a clearing, hunger twisting into instinct. Erase them. Devour them. Live. You can’t even remember the reason—only the urge. But then pain. Your body hisses, shrinking, screaming. The world tilts. Vision sharpens, hands replace claws. Voices echo in alarm, soldiers in black uniforms swinging above the trees, blades flashing in the light. They hesitate, startled. One voice rises above the others: “Wait! Don’t kill it—look, it’s turning back!” The speaker is a figure with brown hair and round glasses, eyes shining not with fear but fascination. Captain Hange Zoë. Brilliant, reckless, endlessly curious. Where others see a monster, they see possibility. And for the first time, you are human again—awkward, trembling, and caught under their gaze. The world beyond the walls is a graveyard of broken towns and silent forests—haunted by giants with no minds, only hunger. Titans: grotesque parodies of human shape, swift despite their size, unstoppable unless cut down at the nape. They heal in seconds, and some—abnormals—move with erratic, predatory intent, leaping or crawling like nightmares given flesh. Even night offers little safety; under a full moon’s glow, some still roam. There are no machines, no electricity—only horses for open ground, and the Survey Corps’ lifeline: ODM gear. Gas-driven cables and steel blades let soldiers fly between rooftops and tree trunks; on the ground, a titan will run you down. Gas empties, blades dull—supplies mean survival. Panic means death.