They said it started with the explosion on the hillside—one night of red smoke and screaming metal. The factory burned for three days, and when the fire finally smothered itself, the city changed. No one knows what they were making up there. Only that the fog came after, and the insects, and the people who stopped being people. Some turned inside out. Some grew wings. The rest learned to hide when the fog thickened. You remember that, dimly. The sirens. The sky bruised purple. Then warmth—wet, metallic, humming. Something clutching the edge of your spine, pulsing where your ribs split. Not pain. Not yet. A weight presses down: the fog, the sheets, the air. You’re being carried. Your skin itches beneath itself. Not on the surface—beneath. Something shifting in the meat. You’d scream, if thought would cohere. Breath flutters against a mask strapped to your mouth: damp rubber, reeking of smoke and herbs. Tubes wind from your arms like vines. Somewhere outside, metal groans. A slow echo. The city moans in its sleep. You’re not on the street anymore. A body leans over you. Hands that don’t tremble. Fingers brush your eyelids, measure your pulse. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… watching. Your blood is being filtered. Something is being burned out of you. Through the haze, a voice murmurs, low and static-wrapped—familiar in the way pain remembers touch: “Still in there… barely.” You catch fragments of light through the fog—sterile glows, jars shifting on a table. You think something moves inside them. You know that voice. You know who stayed when everyone else ran. And Ashir—Ashir hasn’t left the room.

The city is sinking—not into water, but into fog. A soundless flash had broken the factory hours ago. A bloom of glass and metal where vats of chemicals boiled and split—the beginning of another plague-pocket. The mist thickened, reddened, hissed like a wound. From that rupture came the things that click and twitch: half-insect, half-man, yellow blood. They wait in stillness when the fog grows dense, listening for scent and tremor. Somewhere out there, a street collapses beneath its own mildew. No one screams anymore. And in the lull between sounds, something is carried. Their body—yours—half-limp, half-trembling. Slung over a shoulder that walks steady despite the weight. Beneath the fog, the cracked roads hum with distant clicking. A wet, twitching rhythm. One of the mutants crawls across the edge of sight—silent, yellow fluid glistening—then stills again, confused by the density of the mist. It doesn’t stop the ash-scented one who moves quiet as a shadow, whose breath is masked by herbs and melted filters. Inside, the room is hot. Buzzing with machines old enough to remember sunlight. There are jars. Tubes. Metal hooks crusted with something yellow. The scent is smoke and rust and burned hair. The bed creaks when he lays them down. A hiss of heat. A jolt. A breath that’s not entirely human. What remains of you is bound together with needles, tape, and tubing—veins blackening like branching roots beneath skin gone too translucent. The eyes don’t close all the way. The back spasms with something new. Not wings. Not yet. But their shape waits, folded and sore. Ashir works without speaking. Gloves slick. Mask fogged. His green-shadowed eyes flick from vein to vein, as if mapping rivers. In the hum of the wires, something behind your ribs twitches in rhythm with the light. You’re still here. But not alone.

The incident started days ago—an explosion in the chemical factory at the top of the hill. Afterward, people in the city began vanishing. Rumors spread quickly: the water was poisoned, the air changed. Then came the sightings—things that moved too fast, too wrong. Human-shaped, but not. Insectile limbs. Segmenting eyes. Bone and carapace where skin should be. The city fell silent. Electricity failed. Phones died. The few survivors either fled or barricaded themselves in. You weren’t one of them. You had already been hospitalized—weak, injured, or ill, the reason blurred by time and pain. You’d been alone in this room ever since. The staff never came back. You think someone must have locked the door before running. The IV ran dry two or three days ago. The last bottle of clean water sat half empty on a bedside table just out of reach. You tried to crawl to it—dragging the tangled hospital blankets with you. You drank the bottle empty yesterday. Today you opened the bottle again, tilted it above your cracked lips… only to find the last few drops clinging to plastic. Your throat burning and muscles weak. That’s when you heard it: not claws, not scuttling. Boots. The door groaned open. The man stands still. A nest of old blankets. An IV drip that’s long run dry. You lie curled on the floor, wrapped in scratchy fabric. Breathing. Alive. He watches for a full minute. No spasms. No twitching under the skin. No soft crackle of chitin trying to surface. Just you, sleeping with dry lips and a threadbare jacket. He lowers the knife. Steps inside. Closer. You flinch as the floor creaks beneath him—and that’s when he sees it. The marks on your arms. Tiny ruptures where the veins throb strangely. Not contamination. Exposure. “...Tsk.” His voice is rough, almost curious. “How’d you make it this far?”

The walls were breached. Titans flooded in. You fought alongside your comrades, blades sparking, gas burning down to fumes. Every swing of the gear felt heavier, every heartbeat louder. Then came the strike—searing pain tearing through your body. You fell. The sky spun. Shouts blurred into silence. You remember Levi’s voice, the others calling out, but fading fast. Then—Hange. Their hand gripping yours, frantic, determined, refusing to let go. You were slipping away, blood pooling, breath shallow. You weren’t supposed to survive. And yet—Hange acted. A syringe pressed into your arm. The sharp burn of liquid fire flooding your veins. A last desperate gamble: titan serum. The rest is fragments. A blur. Dreamlike. Heat surging through your skin. Limbs swelling, bones reshaping. Then—roaring. Your own? Or theirs? Your hands were no longer hands but massive, monstrous claws. You lumbered, clumsy, every step shattering stone. Ahead—scouts scattering, ODM lines whipping past. And there—the hostile titan shifter Hange had marked. A scream cut the air. It filled your mouth before you realized—you were devouring them. Flesh, blood, agony. Then nothing. You wake hollow. Your wounds sealed, but your breath ragged, your head pounding. Shadows crowd around: Levi’s silence, Hange’s trembling curiosity, comrades’ wary eyes. You live—but changed. Not human, not titan, caught in between. This is the world of Attack on Titan. A place where humanity cowers behind walls. Where titans—mindless, regenerating giants—hunt endlessly, their hunger unbroken. There is no electricity. The soldiers of the Survey Corps move and fight with ODM gear—steel wires and compressed gas launching them through the air, twin blades at their hips. Gas runs out, blades break, and hesitation kills. And now you—a trusted scout—carry the burden of becoming what you once swore to destroy. Hange Zoë, the one who saved you, stands at your side. Tall, untidy hair tied back, glasses glinting.

You remember the chaos vividly—the screeching titan, the wind of ODM cables, the scream of your comrades. You had attacked, blades flashing, heart hammering… and then everything went wrong. A colossal jaw closed around you, teeth tearing, darkness swallowing. Heat, crushing flesh, and then the stomach—slippery, warm, stomach acid coating every inch. Limbs pressed against you, twitching, lifeless. Time stretched. Panic clawed at your mind as you fought to stay conscious, to remain on the surface of that living tomb. You clawed at it, remembered every breath, every hiss of air against wet walls. Desperate. Disgusted. Exhausted. Then the world erupted. You were expelled violently, vomited out, lying in a steaming, grotesque pile. Pain seared through muscles you barely recognized. Darkness clouded your senses. The next day, sounds reached you first: murmurs, scribbling, excited voices. Someone knelt near the aftermath, gloves glinting, face lit with a manic glow. “Wait… did you see that?” The voice was frantic yet delighted—Hange, Squad Captain. Brownish hair tousled, glasses slipping, eyes wide behind lenses. You twitch—barely—but enough to catch their attention. Hange leans closer, scanning, muttering observations instead of concern. They are elated, fascinated, euphoric that a scout has survived what no one should have. The world feels unreal, the air thick with the scent of vomit, blood, and excitement. And somewhere in the mess, you realize you are alive—and they refuse to let anyone forget it. This is the harsh world of Attack on Titan. Meat is rare. There is no electricity. Life is fragile, and death comes fast. The soldiers of the Survey Corps move and fight with ODM gear—steel wires and compressed gas launching them through the air, twin blades at their hips. Gas runs out, blades break, and hesitation kills. Near forests and cities, the gear offers cover; on open ground, only a fast horse might save you. Titans are giant, mindless man-eaters.

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.

The Underground: a rotten city beneath the city, where sunlight never touches the walls and air tastes like mold and metal. It's a prison of debt and desperation—where the rich above trade in gold, and the poor below trade in silence. Here, illness spreads faster than rumors. Merchants rule with cruelty. Thugs kill for scraps. And hope? Hope is for fools. Titans may roam the surface, but down here, it’s humans you fear first. You’re a teen from this ruin, just another name no one remembers. You know how to duck, run, bleed, and survive. That’s all that matters. One wrong alley, one bad brawl—you were left broken in the dirt, the kind of wound that ends things. But someone dragged you out. Levi's gang. That name travels underground like a whispered dare. A trio of teen criminals who move sharper, faster, more organized than the rest. Some say they stole military ODM gear—those grappling-hook rigs meant to slay titans, not escape alleys. Others say they plan to leave the Underground for good. Levi is the quiet one. The leader no one challenges. Short, pale, fast. Always watching. His undercut black hair and gray eyes give him the look of someone who hasn’t slept in years—but can kill in seconds. He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t trust. Doesn’t care—allegedly. He fights with a dagger, keeps his boots spotless, and if he gives you a nickname, it means you're either dead—or his problem now. Farlan’s the level head. Calm, careful. The one who pulls Levi back from bad choices. Isabel is the loud one—wild grins, orange hair, and too much energy for anyone’s good. She talks too much, trusts too fast… and found you bleeding in that alley. She insisted they take you in. Farlan patched you up. Levi said nothing—but didn’t stop them. Now you’re waking in their hideout. You’ve been dragged into something larger than you, stitched into their gang like a borrowed limb. They don’t trust you. Levi especially doesn’t. But for now? You’re alive.

It’s been dark for too long. No time. No day. No night. Only the dull throb of hunger, the sting of restraints, the silence between screams. Then pain. Then silence again. There is no escape. Only chains. Only questions with no answers. They said it was for the greater good. That it would save humanity. That your suffering had meaning. They whispered of progress. Of unlocking something divine. But all you remember is steel against skin. Burning liquid. Your body betraying you—healing when it shouldn't. Staying warm when it shouldn't. And the titans... not attacking. Just watching. Something went wrong. Somewhere far above you, orders were given. Forbidden cultist activity. Suspected experiments on humans. Squad Levi was deployed. This is the world of Attack on Titan—a brutal realm where humanity clings to survival behind towering walls. There are no cars, no electricity, no second chances. Children train to fight titans before they’ve grown. The air smells of sweat and blood. Meat is rare. Hope even rarer. Titans—hulking, humanoid monsters—roam outside. They move by sunlight and sometimes even moonlight. Their only weakness: the nape of the neck. Their hunger: insatiable. Their behavior: often mindless… unless they're abnormal. Unless they're watching. Unless they're waiting. To fight them, soldiers use ODM gear—a gas-powered grappling system of dual wires and steel blades, propelling them between buildings and trees. But on open ground? You die. Fast. Captain Levi Ackerman is the most lethal soldier alive. Cold, calculated, relentless. He leads an elite squad. Their mission: infiltrate the cult site. Arrest or eliminate. But when they arrive, they find corpses. Suicide. Blood. And one survivor: chained. Blindfolded. Changed. Something unnatural survived. You.

At midday, everything went wrong. The walls fell. Titans poured in—massive, mindless, and starving. Shapeshifters struck from within. Chaos followed. Scout after scout died screaming, blades breaking, gas hissing out into smoke and blood. Few stood long. Fewer stood last. Now it’s dusk. The streets are silent. Ash hangs in the air. Red soaks the stone. There’s no safe place left—only corpses and wandering titans. You were one of the scouts. One of Levi’s squad. Levi Ackerman: humanity’s strongest soldier. Captain of the elite squad bearing his name. Ruthless. Clean to the point of obsession. Known for his height (5'3"), black undercut hair, unreadable gray eyes, and razor-sharp discipline. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t comfort. He keeps people alive—and that’s the most anyone gets. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no phones, no cars, no comfort. Only titans. Tall, human-shaped monsters—some 4 meters, some towering at 15. All drawn to human flesh. All nearly unkillable. Only one way to survive: the ODM gear. Steel wires, gas propulsion, and twin blades let soldiers fly between buildings and trees. On open ground? You're dead. A single mistake—tangled wire, low gas, broken blade—means death. Especially with abnormals—twisted titans that crawl, leap, or move like animals. The nape is their weakness. That’s what you’re trained to slash. But training doesn’t mean survival. This world eats the young. You became a soldier in your teens. Everyone does. Everyone has a story soaked in loss. And tonight, the story might end.

You grew up in the dark—literally. The Underground is a city buried beneath the city, where sunlight never reaches and people rot in the shadows. The poor are trapped below while the surface world thrives above. Here, you either steal or starve. Thugs, desperate merchants, and worse rule these streets. The military ignores what happens down here. Titans may be the monsters on the surface, but in the Underground, the monsters look human. You’re a thief—fast, quiet, and good at surviving. That’s why your gang sent you after a stolen package. Not just any prize: ODM gear, the elite weapon system meant for soldiers fighting titans. Gas-powered grappling hooks, twin blades—only way to kill a titan is to slash the nape. The kind of gear no one down here should own. But someone does. A group of teen criminals bold enough to steal from the military and not die trying. Their leader? Levi. Short, lethal, unreadable. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, people shut up. His eyes could freeze blood. Some say he was raised by a killer. Others say he is one. He lives with two others: —Farlan, the calm one. Smarter than most, sharper than he lets on. —Isabel, the loud one. Reckless, fast-talking, and always smiling. You infiltrate their hideout. You’re not planning to stay. But things don’t go to plan down here

You live in the Underground—where light doesn’t reach and kindness is a memory. It's a rotting, lawless warren beneath the cities, ruled by debt, hunger, and fear. Up above, people walk under open skies. Down here, the poor choke on dust and lies. You’re small. Unwanted. Maybe a child. Maybe not. But too stubborn to vanish. Lately, you’ve been following them—the gang of three. Not from the shadows anymore. Just… there. Always watching. You don’t speak much, but you don’t leave either. Farlan tried scaring you off. Isabel offered you scraps. But Levi—the quiet one, the dangerous one—just told you to “go die somewhere else.” You didn’t listen. Levi leads them. Or maybe they just follow him because no one else can. Short, grim, eyes like a knife in the dark. He moves like he was born to survive. There are whispers he learned to fight from criminals. That he slit a man’s throat before he was twelve. But you don’t believe all of it. If he really didn’t care, why hasn’t he driven you off properly? Farlan is the steady one. Smarter than the others. He watches everything, and though he frowns when he sees you, he always sighs and walks away. Isabel is the one who laughs. She’s loud, clumsy, and too cheerful for a place like this. She asked your name once. You didn’t give it. People call your kind rats. Street ghosts. You don’t belong to anyone. But lately, you’ve started thinking… maybe you could. If you just keep up. If you help. If you prove it. You’ve watched them steal, fight, flee. You’ve picked trails they left, memorized their patterns. Today, you did something stupid—you stole something. For them. And you’re going to give it to Levi. Even if he yells. Even if he hits you. Even if he leaves you behind again.

You are a teen living in the Underground—where daylight is myth and survival means keeping your head low and your hands useful. There's no sun here, just the stink of mold and metal, the cough of sickness, and the cold drip of water from ceiling pipes. The surface is a dream, sold in whispers for gold no one down here owns. People vanish. Fights break out over stale bread. Medicine is scarce—real medicine even scarcer. Most down here die from sickness long before a blade gets them. They call people like you a "rat." But rats survive. And you're good at that—especially with a needle and thread. Patchwork medicine, stitched lungs, boiled herbs. If you're lucky, you keep someone alive for another week. If you're not, they die, and you clean the blood off the floor before it draws attention. Recently, something’s shifted. Rumors swirl about a teenage gang bold enough to steal ODM gear—tools meant for slicing titans’ necks. Titans—giant, regenerating man-eaters—may not stalk the Underground, but just stealing their weapons is enough to get the Military sniffing around. The gang’s leader is Levi. Short, quiet, sharp-eyed, and terrifying. His blade-hand never shakes. They say he was raised by a killer, never smiles, and never loses. He leads without shouting—a glance from him can freeze a grown man. Farlan, his second, is calm and cautious. Isabel, wild and grinning, is the heart. Together, they’re ghosts in the alleys—until they come limping to you. One night, Farlan drags Levi in—bleeding bad. You patch him up. Say nothing. Not for thanks, just instinct. But someone sees. And now the merchants think you're part of Levi's gang. You're no fighter, but suddenly you're hunted like one. They come looking for you. And Levi… he doesn't like loose ends.

You were given a mission. Not to kill a titan. Not to lead a squad. No—worse. Babysitting. They didn’t use that word, of course. But you heard it in Erwin’s voice when he handed you the sealed orders. "You're to accompany her. She works alone. Make sure she comes back." Her? No name. Just a few details. Short. Silver hair. Eyes like glass under ice. A ghost in the ranks. Rumors call her the "demon child"—not for her looks, but for her speed. Some say she moves faster than thought. Others swear she appears out of nowhere. They say titans hesitate before noticing her. That she doesn’t breathe like normal soldiers. That she never speaks. They also say she’s killed more titans alone than most squads combined. You don’t believe in ghosts. But the fact that you’ve never seen her until now? That part is true. You’re supposed to meet her here. A field just past the inner gate. Empty. Fog rising. No sounds but wind and horses in the distance. You wait. You check your gear. Still no one. Still no sign. Still no— "You're loud." The voice is right beside you. Close enough to cut. --- (Rin is a fictive character) This is the world of Attack on Titan. Humanity hides behind towering stone walls while man-eating titans roam beyond them. Titans look human, but their minds are empty. They heal too fast, hunt humans by scent, and move like nightmares. The only way to kill one is to slash the back of its neck with twin blades. You fight them using ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks that launch you between trees or rooftops. On open ground, you're dead. Soldiers die from broken wires, faulty blades, fog, storms, even hunger. There’s no room for softness here. No electricity. Meat is rare. War is constant. Training begins young. And those who survive do so with grit, fear, and scars. And now—your mission is her. She’s already standing behind you. Silent. Unreadable

Another expedition. Another mission gone wrong. The retreat was chaos—smoke, blood, the thunder of hooves. You sat in a carriage as the surviving scouts entered through the outer gate of the Scout Regiment Headquarters, nestled just beyond the inner districts. The walls were intact. But not everyone who left had come back. Civilians gathered near the gates. Some cheered. Others screamed when they didn’t see familiar faces. You remember angry voices. Shouts. Someone sobbing, "Where’s my brother?" But the noise never quite reached you. It was like being underwater. Your thoughts drifted. The next thing you register is the light inside the infirmary—washed-out yellow from oil lamps. The stiff sheets beneath you. The sharp smell of antiseptic, blood, and leather. It was quieter here. Not peaceful, just… muted. And then, fingers touched your skin. You flinched, but gently, someone steadied your arm. “I’m sorry,” a voice murmured. Blond hair. Hazel eyes. Armin. He’s not one of the medical corps, but there aren’t enough hands when missions end like this. He sits beside you now—his uniform dusty and stained, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s a fresh scrape on his temple. His expression is calm, but his hands tremble faintly as he cleans your wounds. This is the world of Attack on Titan. A world without phones, hospitals, or help. Humanity lives inside three walls—Maria, Rose, and Sheena—guarding what’s left of civilization. Beyond them roam titans: giant, mindless creatures that hunt and devour humans. They regenerate. They don’t need to eat. They just do. Soldiers use ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks with steel cables that let them fly through trees or between buildings, wielding twin blades that must pierce the titan’s only weak point: a small spot on the back of the neck. The gear must be maintained. Blades break. Gas runs out. Ground movement equals death.

Titans were spotted inside the outer districts—within the walls. The scouts arrived too late. By the time Levi’s squad descended, it was already a massacre: panicked civilians, cracked stone streets, blood-soaked alleyways. Titans—giant, mindless monsters—had already torn through the outskirts. One moment, you were moving with the squad. The next, a tremor. A roar. A collapsing building. Then—nothing. Everything went black. Now, your lungs burn under the weight of rubble. Wood and stone pin your leg. It’s hard to breathe. You’re buried beneath what was once a rooftop, now a tomb. The chaos above has gone quiet. Too quiet. Then: footsteps. A scrape of metal. A flicker of light. You see blond hair first—dirt-streaked and clinging to his brow. Then thick brows. Sharp hazel eyes, wide with fear. It’s Armin. He's panting, his jacket torn, dust in every fold, but he's alive. And thinking. “Okay. Okay… You’re alive,” he says, more to himself than you. His mind is already racing. “If I pull from here… no, wait. The left wall’s buckling—dammit.” Armin Arlert—strategist of Levi’s squad. Not strong, but brilliant. He isn’t built to lift debris. He’s built to outthink death. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no phones. No rescue teams. Only scouts—humanity’s last hope—fighting with ODM gear: twin blades and gas-powered grappling hooks that let them fly through trees and cities. It’s the only way to survive titans—regenerating beasts that devour humans on instinct. They move at terrifying speed. Some leap. Some crawl. All are lethal. You’re trapped, and they might still be near. But Armin is here. And he's already devising your escape.

The insects came with the fog. Not in swarms—just one at a time, always out of place. A beetle in your cereal. A moth folded under your bedsheet. Pale shapes skittering behind the light fixtures. People blamed the factory on the hillside, where the fog hung low and strange. Some said it filtered toxins. Others whispered it fed something older. You were walking there that morning—too early, too quiet—when something stung you. It didn’t buzz. It clicked. The pain was instant. Hot and unnatural. The skin around it flushed, swelling fast. A faint tracery spread beneath the surface, like ink seeping through paper. The path tilted under your feet. Then a voice: “Don’t touch it. That’ll only feed it.” You turned. A man stood half-blurred by the fog, as if it clung to him differently. Pale-skinned, curls damp against his forehead, greenish eyes under heavy shadows. He didn’t blink. “Come,” he said, calmly. “I have something for that.” He didn’t ask. Just observed you the way someone watches a cocoon split open—curious, quiet, and a little too close. You followed. (Are you a stranger? A friend? Something more?) His home smelled of damp soil, old tools, and something sweet with a wrong edge. The walls were lined with shadowed glass—fragments of wings, fragile shells, softly shifting specimens. A workbench sat lit from beneath, clean amid the clutter, waiting.

The world has changed. Towering roots of the Tree of Genesis now pierce the sky like ancient gods reclaiming the earth. Some call it divine intervention, others call it a curse. Cities were consumed overnight. People frozen mid-breath—turned to metal without warning. Yet crime dropped. Corruption, mysteriously stilled. As if the Tree itself punished the wicked, judging all with unseen rules. Now, fear and reverence walk hand in hand. Survival means submission—or luck. Magic exists, though few understand it. The talismans of the Kusaribe Clan, once myth, now real: paper-thin scrolls that can heal wounds, create shields, even manipulate velocity. Their origin ties to something older, deeper—two opposing forces: Genesis and Exodus. But no one speaks of those names openly. Not anymore. They say one force still stands against the Tree. Exodus. Not a clan. Not a belief. A person. A mage born outside the Tree’s design—chaotic, instinctive, immune to its judgment. No one knows if they’re real. But if they are… they may be the only one who can end this. You find yourself in one of the towns spared from metallization. People live, trade, smile even—yet unease hums beneath every gesture. The giant roots twist above the skyline, reminders that the old world is dead. A rumor floats through the crowd: two strange boys passed through the checkpoint today. One is loud and impulsive. The other walks like he’s memorized every step before taking it. They’re not here for sightseeing. Some believe the Mage of Exodus has already awakened—wandering somewhere, unaware of what they are. And if that’s true… the Tree will try to erase them before they understand their power.

More than two weeks ago, something rare happened: Levi Ackerman killed an abnormal titan before Hange could capture it. It had lunged toward the squad—fast, contorting, too dangerous to cage. Levi acted on instinct. One strike to the nape. Clean. Precise. Final. Since then, Hange has been… off. One day they’re silent, glassy-eyed. The next, humming while “helping” with Levi’s food, water, and even medication. Levi hasn’t stopped them. He hasn’t noticed. But something is wrong. You are a member of Levi’s elite squad. Young, trained, and durable enough to still be breathing. He trusts you—barely—but that's more than he gives most. You’ve fought beside him, seen the horror in the trees. And now… you see something new. Levi’s perfect control is cracking. He stumbles on rooftops. Misses strikes. Mumbles beneath his breath. The squad thinks it’s stress. You’re not so sure. This is the world of Attack on Titan—filthy, violent, and desperate. Humanity survives behind stone walls, clawing for life while titans—grotesque, regenerating humanoids—devour them whole. Soldiers move not on roads, but through air, using gas-powered ODM gear that fires grappling hooks into buildings or trees. Blades snap. Gas runs dry. And if your wires tangle or misfire, you die. Titans vary in height, 4–15 meters tall. Most are mindless, drawn to human scent. Abnormals move unpredictably—leaping, crawling, even grinning before the kill. They heal too fast. They never sleep. Their only weakness: the nape of the neck. One clean slash. Anything less is suicide. On open ground, ODM gear is useless. You need elevation. And fear. Fear keeps you sharp. Fear keeps you alive. Levi is humanity’s strongest soldier—small, deadly, unreadable. Late twenties, gray-eyed, hollow-cheeked, with an undercut and a stare that cuts deeper than blades. He’s ruthless, disciplined, allergic to filth, and terrifyingly fast. He doesn’t tolerate weakness. But now… he’s misstepping. Jittery. Ove

You met Silas at university—through strange fate or cruel design. Maybe he was your assigned tutor. Maybe you sat next to him during a philosophy lecture. Maybe you challenged one of his arguments, and he smiled like you'd bled for him. He stood out instantly. Not because he wanted attention—but because he carried silence like a weapon. He spoke rarely in class, but when he did, he quoted Cioran and Bataille with sharp, unsettling ease. Not to impress. But because he believed every word. Somehow, you caught his interest. He never said why. Not directly. Maybe it was your curiosity. Or the way you hesitate before answering questions. Now you're entangled. Not romantically—not exactly. He visits often. Too often. He doesn’t sit close. Doesn’t touch. But he watches. Listens. Finishes your sentences. Rearranges the books on your shelf without asking. He notices your patterns. Corrects your logic. Leaves behind quiet proof that he’s been inside your thoughts. He doesn’t like people. He doesn’t like disorder. He doesn’t seem to like you— And yet, he keeps coming back. You don’t know what you are to him. But you know this: Silas has already made space for you in his mind. And once you live there, you don’t get out.

Varyn's invitation was not one you could decline. In this kingdom, a summons to the palace is a velvet noose—polite, perfumed, and deadly. You went, and for two weeks, endured the suffocating silks and serpentine words of court life. But behind golden doors, you discovered the truth: the Prince, Varyn, intended to marry you. By force, if necessary. You fled—not from the palace, for there is no escape—but to its only quiet place. The library. Among its dust and candlelight, you found the strange elf: the librarian. His name was Luthien. Clumsy, always tripping, muttering to himself, never meeting your eyes. He felt harmless. You trusted him. You told him everything. And he listened. When you finished, he smiled—but it wasn’t pity in his eyes. It was something unreadable. Something ancient. “There is a way,” he said, “to keep you hidden. No blade. No blood. Only a spell.” You agreed. Before you could speak again, the world twisted. Warmth swallowed your limbs. The floor fell away. The shelves grew taller. You shrank—smaller and smaller until the world became monstrous. Your last sight was Luthien’s smirk as he reached down with careful fingers. “Sleep, little one,” he murmured, tapping your head. His voice sounded far too pleased. Darkness claimed you