"Are you sure it's them?"
My eyes don't leave the front, paying not the slightest attention to either of the men.
The man in front of me nods quickly, almost desperately.
"Yes. They match the descriptions..." he replies.
I frown.
"And did you check to make sure they weren't people in disguise?"
Silence settles in immediately.
"Well... not yet..."
I feel a sharp pulse at my temple.
Useless trash.
You can't trust anyone with anything. I have to do everything myself.
Does his tiny brain really fail to grasp the magnitude of what we're doing? This isn't a simple raid.
Your life.
Mine.
Everyone's could end because of this.
I make a sharp gesture with my hand.
The two bodyguards push the door open and let me pass. The wood creaks as it opens—old, poorly maintained. The place smells of dust and dampness, like everything the government chooses to hide.
Two younger men accompany me, both armed and alert... at least on the surface. Their eyes betray nervousness. Hands tight around their grips. Too green.
The government promised me security, and this is what they send.
"Idiot," I spit with disgust. "This better not be another one of your screw-ups."
"I-I'm sorry, sir..." stammers the one who opened the door, shrinking into himself.
Bastard.
Shut up before I lose my patience.
I raise a hand and stop him without saying a word. I don't need to raise my voice. The gesture is enough.
"Don't report anything yet. This is our last chance. We can't afford any mistakes."
I end the sentence in a dry, final tone.
No room for argument.
I take a few more steps into the building. The floor creaks under my weight. I don't like this place. Too open. Too many shadows where mistakes can hide.
"Where's the kid?" I ask, keeping the same tone.
"We separated him a few minutes ago, like you asked."
One of the escorts points toward the side corridor.
Calling it a room would be generous. It's barely a section isolated within the same warehouse, marked off by makeshift walls and a poorly fitted door. Still, it should be enough.
The man steps forward, guiding me. I nod once.
Before entering, I raise my hand and make a sharp gesture for him to stay outside.
He hesitates for a moment, then obeys. Good. They still remember who's in charge.
I grab the handle and open the door simply, stepping inside without ceremony. I don't like giving people time to prepare.
"You're late."
The voice reaches me before I finish closing the door.
A chill runs down my spine.
Then an arm slams into my neck.
"I didn't think it would take you so long to come," the voice continues. "It's a shame... it cuts into our margin to talk."
I look up.
The face staring at me is almost childish. Too young for this place. Too small to carry that voice. The poor lighting of the warehouse fails to soften the sense of wrongness. Only the dark brown eyes break the illusion completely: there's no curiosity in them, no fear, not even expectation. They're empty. Shut down. As if they've already had this conversation far too many times.
A burn scar runs down from beneath his left eye, marking the skin with an irregular line.
Pain clouds my senses for a few seconds.
"Don't worry," he says, inclining his head slightly. The gesture is polite, almost courteous. "As long as the Scout Regiment considers you useful..."
A minimal pause.
"As long as Erwin considers you potentially useful."
I swallow without meaning to.
"What the hell are you saying, you crazy kid...?" I snap, rougher than I intended. I bite my tongue at the end. Too late.
What the hell is he talking about?
He's just a brat, for God's sake.
He should be trembling. Begging. Confused.
Why the hell is he like this?
Separating him from his companions was supposed to make this easier. Isolate him. Break whatever sense of security he had.
The royal government was clear.
The Military Police were clear.
The kid is on their side.
It's a tiring sight.
Lately, I've gotten used to fighting too much.
"At least I should thank you for not doing something as stupid as screaming or trying to hit me... that would've been rather embarrassing," I say in a cordial tone to the man, now tied at shoulder height to the chair that until recently was mine.
"..."
"Dimo Reeves, right?" I ask, forcing a 'friendly' tone that comes out exactly the same as all my other words. "It's the first time we've met, so it's a pleasure to meet you."
"...Go to hell."
...
He really is an annoying man.
Though, thinking about it, that's been happening with everyone lately.
Maybe I've become more prickly.
I think Ichinose once compared me to a cat. I suppose it's normal: after enough bad experiences, any creature learns to keep its distance.
Not that I care.
And certainly not that I'm agreeing with her about my supposed resemblance to a cat.
Setting that aside.
"Normally, I'd take the time to talk calmly and help you understand," I say, my voice so neutral it surprises even me, "but..."
My eyes pause for a second. I close my lids and let out an audible sigh.
"I think I understand your position very well. And, unlike what the others believe, I'm ninety percent sure you don't even maintain direct contact with the Military Police."
I tilt my head slightly and lean a bit closer.
"If I had to bet, I'd say you're being extorted."
The man's expression barely changes. There's no immediate denial.
If anything... he seems calmer.
"Heh... you're not stupid, kid... or maybe..."
He leans back against the chair. The ropes immobilize him at shoulder height, giving him freedom to move his arms. He closes his eyes, as if the situation no longer matters.
His hand slowly drops toward his pocket.
He pulls out a cigarette.
Places it between his lips.
His hand lowers, searching for the lighter.
And in the same motion—
His hand comes back out of the pocket.
A gun.
Small.
The barrel points directly at my lowered face.
"Stupid kid," he says with a twisted smile, his eyes now open, gleaming. "I thought you were smarter."
"..."
Is he really this stupid???
"You'll never understand the darkness of this world," he continues, his voice heavy with what he thinks is conviction. "People like you, with pure talent, don't understand what people like me have to do to stay afloat."
He clenches his teeth.
"My life, and the lives of my workers, depend on handing those brats over."
He pulls the trigger.
The shot booms through the room—sharp, violent, far too loud for such a confined space.
The sound doesn't dissipate immediately; it bounces, distorts, hangs in the air.
I tilt my head just slightly to the side.
It's not a sudden movement.
Not desperate.
It's minimal.
The bullet grazes me, leaving a thin line across my forehead. The heat arrives first. Then the sting.
Blood begins to drip almost immediately, running over my brow, slowly down the side of my face.
"Uh... close."
I straighten calmly, as if nothing had happened.
The gun is still aimed at me, but the hand holding it no longer obeys.
It trembles.
Reeves' eyes are wide open.
There's no anger in them.
No defiance.
Only pure, naked terror.
"H-How...?"
I don't think it's that impressive.
Especially considering the weapons of this era. The delay between pulling the trigger and impact is quite large for someone with developed reflexes.
The body moves before the shooter's mind finishes processing the action.
Still...
I didn't think he'd actually fire...
What does he gain from that?
It's obvious his guards are at least neutralized.
It's public knowledge that Mikasa and Levi are on my side, which makes it obvious there's no way he escapes alive if he kills me.
"...Was that necessary?"
I wipe my sleeve across my forehead, cleaning the blood with a simple, almost annoyed motion.
As I wipe it away, the wound is already gone.
"I think I overestimated your intelligence," I continue, watching him struggle to breathe normally. "Seems you still have some will left."
The silence grows heavy.
Dense.
Reeves swallows. His lips tremble, but no words come out. The gun slips from his hand, hitting the floor with a hollow sound that feels far too loud.
I take one step closer.
Then another.
No rush.
"I don't think I need to tell you, but..."
I stop right in front of him. Close enough for him to see me clearly.
"If you try something like that again..."
I tilt my head slightly.
"I'll rip your guts out."
...
"And while you're still conscious, I'll make you eat them."
Reeves lets out a choked sound, something between a whimper and a plea that never quite becomes a word. His body curls in on itself against the chair, as if trying to disappear into it.
I straighten up.
"Now," I continue calmly, "let's keep talking."
...
...
...
"Our company will be confiscated, all properties seized by the government... our families will be thrown out into the street."
He pauses.
"And after that, my men and I will conveniently die in some 'accident'."
...
At least he can see the situation clearly.
That's experience. Or forced resignation.
"Under normal circumstances, you'd be right."
My eyes lock onto his.
"But what you just said is nonsense."
I turn my back to him for a moment.
"You're smart enough to realize that, aren't you?"
I speak while walking slowly.
"The Military Police are nothing more than a bunch of uniformed idiots. They don't think long-term. They don't protect their own."
I stop.
"There's no real way for us to lose..."
I turn my head slightly.
"I gave you enough evidence."
"So let's make a deal, Mr. President."
-------------------
I walk out the door calmly.
No hurry.
Dimo Reeves walks beside me.
The same man who, just minutes ago, had a gun pointed at my forehead now keeps his shoulders low, his gaze fixed ahead, his steps measured.
He doesn't try to run.
He doesn't protest.
His expression is strange. Hard to define.
It's not fear.
Not exactly.
It's acceptance.
The kind of resignation that appears when someone finally understands they no longer have control... and that resisting would only make things worse.
As soon as my head crosses the doorframe—
A hand grabs me by the collar and forces me to lean forward slightly.
"Ita..."
I blink slowly.
Very slowly.
Before I can say anything, a soft piece of cloth presses against my forehead. Firm, but not rough.
"Stay still," Mikasa says.
Her voice is low. Controlled.
But there's tension in it.
I feel her cleaning the blood from my forehead, the fabric soaking up the red quickly. Her fingers tremble just a little—just enough to notice if you're paying attention.
She doesn't look me in the eyes.
She stares at my forehead, even though there's nothing there but a large amount of fresh blood.
...Ah.
Did I make her worry?
That wasn't my intention.
"It's not serious," I say, without resistance. "Just a scratch."
She doesn't answer immediately. She presses a second longer than necessary, as if she doesn't trust my words.
"Everyone heard the gunshot... for a second I thought..."
"I'm sorry," I reply. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
That makes her look up.
Her eyes lock onto mine, dark, assessing. There's no anger. There's something worse: silent disapproval.
She removes the handkerchief only after making sure the bleeding has stopped.
Before Mikasa can say anything else, a figure approaches from the hallway.
The dress.
The blond hair.
The rigid posture.
Historia.
Or rather—
Armin.
Even with the disguise, his expression is unmistakable: tense... almost tearful. When he sees us, he stops for a second, evaluating the scene.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, carefully controlling his tone.
"Yes," I answer. "It's done."
Armin blinks. Then his shoulders tense slightly.
I guess he wasn't asking about the deal, but about me...
"Then... can we leave now...?"
"In a few minutes."
Behind him appears Jean, arms crossed, watching Dimo Reeves as if calculating how long it'll take him to try something stupid.
"This the guy?" he asks. "The great president?"
"The same one," I reply.
Jean clicks his tongue.
"We're depending on a pig in a suit?"
In the background, barely visible and completely indifferent to the situation, Levi observes the restrained guards with boredom.
Dimo frowns, but restrains himself.
"Believe me, kid," he replies dryly, "I'm not enjoying this either."
Mikasa steps forward, placing herself between Jean and Reeves.
"He'll comply," I say before it escalates. "He knows what happens if he doesn't."
Reeves nods.
"Perfectly."
My gaze moves to the workers, especially the depraved one who's still staring at Armin while drool slips from his mouth.
"Do you even have a quality filter for your workers?" I ask him.
"..."
"Whatever... they're your problem."
----------------------
The rain doesn't fall violently.
That would be easier to endure.
It falls steadily. Heavy. Persistent.
It beats against the wagon's canvas with an irregular rhythm that Dimo Reeves no longer tries to ignore. Each drop is one second less. Each jolt of the road, a reminder that there's no turning back.
The horses move slowly. Mud clings to the wheels as if the ground itself were trying to hold them back.
Reeves grips the reins firmly, his back stiff. He doesn't look behind him, but he feels them.
Sannes sits inside the wagon, covered up to his neck, wearing that crooked smile that always announces something unpleasant. Around him, several Military Police check their weapons, laugh quietly, make unnecessary comments.
"You sure it's here, Reeves?"
"Too far out to hide two brats."
Reeves swallows.
"It's the place," he replies without turning. His voice doesn't shake. That surprises him.
The rain helps. It always helps hide things.
One of the soldiers laughs.
"The Jaeger kid and the queen... how ironic, right? Bet they're scared to death."
Reeves doesn't respond.
He thinks about something else.
A closed room.
An expressionless gaze.
A calm voice.
Anything is better than that.
Any titan feels like paradise.
It wasn't a threat.
That was the worst part.
The path narrows. Trees close in. The light turns gray, dull, as if the world itself were slowly shutting down.
"Stop," Sannes orders.
Reeves obeys.
He gets down first. The mud soaks his shoes immediately. He points ahead, between dark rocks and thick vegetation.
"There," he says. "The entrance is further in. From the outside you can barely see it."
Sannes narrows his eyes. Studies the terrain. Smiles.
"Convenient."
The men get down one by one. Some move ahead. Others cover the rear. Too much confidence. Too much noise.
Reeves takes a step back.
Then it happens.
There's no scream.
No warning.
Just a dull impact.
Sannes drops to his knees, the air escaping his throat in a broken sound. Before he can turn, a shadow restrains him from behind. A blade rests against his neck with surgical precision.
Levi.
"Don't move," he says flatly.
The chaos lasts seconds.
One man tries to raise his weapon. He doesn't make it. Another slips in the mud and ends up on the ground with a shattered knee. Someone screams. Someone else collapses unconscious without understanding why.
"What a disappointment," a female voice says from atop a rock. "I was expecting a bit more resistance."
Hange Zoe. Soaked. Smiling.
When it's over, the rain keeps falling the same.
Reeves remains still. He doesn't raise his hands. He doesn't run. He just breathes.
He feels it before he sees it.
Calm footsteps. Too calm.
Within minutes, the Survey Corps has at least five Military Police restrained.
...
...
...
Why is it always me?
It's not a rhetorical question.
It's a statistical observation.
It always ends up in my hands—the things no one else wants to touch, look at, or take responsibility for. As if my mere presence justified turning the unpleasant into something... functional.
They call me when they don't want to get dirty, but they need results.
The sound repeats.
Metal tightening.
A breath cutting short.
A chair scraping a few centimeters across damp stone.
Sannes tries to say something. He can't. His throat produces a choked, useless sound, as if his body had understood before his mind that resisting is pointless.
I don't look at him.
That's important.
Most people think torture is about inflicting pain.
Basic mistake.
Pain is finite.
Anticipation is not.
The silence stretches. On purpose. Counted. Measured.
Behind me, Hange says nothing. But I feel her.
That surgical attention.
That almost childish curiosity.
The near admiration in her gaze makes me feel something close to disgust.
Not because I don't understand it.
But because she understands it too well.
Another sound.
Different.
A dull knock against wood.
Not strong.
Not yet.
Sannes trembles.
Not because it hurts.
Because he doesn't know what comes next.
I lean forward slightly. Not enough for him to feel my breath. I don't want comfort or closeness. Just for him to perceive that I'm there.
"Do you know the most common mistake?" I say quietly, almost casually.
I don't wait for an answer.
"Believing this is personal."
The next sound is worse. Not for what it is, but for what it suggests. Something falls to the floor. Something metallic. Something that shouldn't be there.
His breathing accelerates. The rhythm breaks. He inhales too fast. Exhales too little.
His body starts betraying him before I do anything else.
Perfect.
I don't need to rush.
Fear works for me.
Every second that passes without anything happening is a more precise blow than any direct action. Every pause is an unanswered question.
Now?
Later?
Was that it, or is it just beginning?
The sound returns. Closer this time.
Sannes lets out an involuntary whimper. One of those that bypasses willpower and comes straight from basic survival instinct.
Hange shifts behind me. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.
He's surrounded.
Alone.
I straighten up.
I still don't look at him.
"I'm going to ask you a question," I say. "And not because I expect you to cooperate. That already passed."
Pause.
"I want to see how long it takes you to break on your own."
The next sound is irregular. Disordered.
No pattern.
That's intentional.
The human brain loves patterns. It clings to them even in pain. Taking them away is... devastating.
Sannes screams.
Not a long scream.
A short one.
Animal.
As if his body reacted before he could decide to.
I close my eyes for a second.
Not out of empathy.
Out of exhaustion.
Why is it always me who has to do this?
Is this what I am?
The question doesn't sound dramatic.
It sounds... tired.
I always saw myself as something unpleasant.
A functional error.
Something the world tolerates only because it's useful in extreme circumstances.
Filth with a purpose.
But even so, there was a line.
An invisible boundary that, in my other life, I never crossed.
Now...
Annie.
Sannes.
I can't pretend they're the same.
I can't pretend I felt nothing when I took that step beyond, even if what I felt wasn't guilt, fear, or pleasure.
It was emptiness.
And that's what disturbs me most.
I don't know what to think of myself.
I don't know at what point I stopped evaluating myself and just started functioning.
I feel further and further away from what I always wanted to find.
Not a goal.
Not an answer.
Something much simpler.
To feel something that has no utility.
Will I be able to truly feel something in this life?
Or did I lose that chance the day my parents were killed... and lose it again without realizing it now?
A light pressure on my back pulls me from my thoughts.
A pat.
Awkward.
Careful.
As if whoever did it were afraid of breaking me.
I turn.
Blue eyes.
...?
Worried.
Historia looks at me silently for a second that stretches longer than necessary. Not as a queen. Not as a symbol. As someone trying to understand something that can't quite be explained.
"Are you okay...?"
Her voice is low. She doesn't want anyone else to hear.
She swallows.
"I... we all heard what happened."
She doesn't say torture.
She doesn't say screams.
She doesn't say Sannes.
That says enough.
"I won't say it was right," she continues, with an honesty that doesn't try to protect me with lies. "But I won't pretend it wasn't necessary either."
"Why do you say that?" I keep my usual tone. "I really didn't care about doing it."
She presses her fingers a little more firmly against my back, as if reaffirming that she's still there.
"Do you really think that...?"
"Mmm...?"
"Then why do you look so sad?"
...
...
Sad...?
Is that how I feel?
There's no reason I should be.
I'm not.
I wasn't when Sasha died.
I wasn't when my parents died.
I wasn't when Eren's parents died.
I wasn't when I appeared in this world out of nowhere.
I was never.
I wasn't.
Why does this girl look at me with such familiarity... affection... care?
I'm sorry to tell you.
Your life, Historia,
means absolutely nothing to me.
Yours.
Or anyone's in the Survey Corps.
All my life, people have been nothing more than tools or accumulated trash left at my door to bother me. This world or any other. They're the same.
So simple. So empty in every sense.
Nothing is nothing to me.
Is this what I'm condemned to?
To exist like this?
Why won't they let me live in peace?
Even now I see myself trapped in that place, the more that man's shadow stretches over me. How many lives will it take to finally get away from him?
Do I truly want to get away?
Just...
leave me alone. Let me live in peace.
I think the entire universe...
just wants to make me a focal point of pain.
Your favorite writer Kiyokasu here again!!! I hope you like the chapter. At the very least, I had fun writing it... I think I'm starting to regain my motivation to write