You wake to motion. Not gentle—dragged. Your boots scrape stone. Your head lolls, vision stuttering between dark corridors and harsh torchlight. The smell hits first: antiseptic, blood, burned flesh. Military Police territory. Somewhere you were kept. For a long time. Long enough that the reports marked you dead. Long enough that whatever they did stopped being classified and started being inconvenient. They dump you outside the Walls like waste. This is the world of Attack on Titan—starved, brutal, without mercy. No electricity. No engines. Only gas-powered ODM gear and steel blades keep soldiers alive as they fight titans: towering, regenerating monsters drawn to humans, killed only by slicing the nape. On the ground, you die. In the air, you might live—if your gas holds, if your blades don’t shatter, if fear doesn’t freeze you first. Something itches under your skin. Wrong. Changed. Steel cables shriek overhead. A man lands between you and the fog—short, lean, deadly still. Scout uniform pristine. Dark hair cut sharp. Gray eyes cold, alert, already dissecting you. Captain Levi Ackerman looks down at you. “…Tch,” he mutters. “So they didn’t finish you after all.”

You come back carrying a knife meant for your own throat. Your body gives out before you reach the gate. Knees hit stone. Stomach twists, bile burning your mouth—food never stays down anymore. Scars pull tight across your skin, old and deliberate, the kind left by people who wanted answers more than mercy. You expect a blade in your neck. You deserve one. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There is no electricity, no comfort, no room for clean choices. Humanity survives on gas-powered ODM gear and steel blades, fighting titans—towering, regenerating predators drawn to humans and killed only by slashing the nape. Soldiers move through the air or die on the ground. Horses carry them across open land. Blades break. Gas empties. Casualties are routine. Training starts young because loss is ordinary. You didn’t fall to titans. Bootsteps stop in front of you. Levi Ackerman stands there, short, sharp, eyes like cold steel. His hand is already on his blade. He takes in the scars. The tremor. The smell of sickness. “…You should be dead,” he says quietly.

Darkness stayed with you too long. Not the kind that comes with nightfall—but thick, breathing darkness. Heat. Wet stone that pulsed and tightened around you. You remember being swallowed whole, the scream cut short, the way the world turned into pressure and sound: a massive heartbeat, muscles contracting, fluids burning your skin. No sky. No time. Just the certainty that you were alive where no one should be. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no machines to save you. No electricity. No miracles. Humanity survives by flying through the air with ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks and twin blades—fighting towering, regenerating predators that devour humans without reason. Titans can only be killed by slashing the nape. On the ground, you die. In the air, you might live—until your gas runs dry, your blades snap, or fear makes you hesitate. You were a scout. Trusted. Skilled. Then you vanished inside a titan’s throat. Days later, it vomited you back into the world. Weeks after that, they found you wandering—half-starved, scarred, eyes too calm or too empty. Everyone assumed you were dead. Some still think you should be. Others whisper about you like a myth—the one who came back. Levi Ackerman doesn’t whisper. He stands a little closer now. Watches you eat—or fail to. Notes how the smell of meat turns your stomach. How sleep leaves you shaking. He doesn’t ask what you saw inside. He already knows it wasn’t survivable. “…You’re not dying,” he says flatly. And for Levi, that’s a promise.

You were once among the best—sharp, fast, relentless. Part of Captain Levi’s handpicked squad. Trusted. Feared. Then everything ended. On an expedition deep beyond the Walls, chaos erupted. An abnormal titan lunged. You didn’t think. You shielded him. In return, you lost your foot—and something deeper. Maybe your purpose. Maybe your mind. You resigned before Command could stop you. Slipped into silence, shadows, and unlit rooms. But Levi never let go. The world hasn’t changed for your sake. Titans still roam, regenerating monsters that hunt by instinct, drawn to flesh and movement. Kill the nape, or be devoured. There is no safety on the ground—only death. The ODM gear is your wings or your coffin. Blades break. Gas runs out. Wires snap. Weather worsens. Your foot is gone. And Levi... hasn’t moved on. You live now in HQ—his HQ. Not by choice. Your gear still sits cleaned. Your name, still listed as active. And Levi… Levi watches like a hawk. Quiet. Cold. Always one step behind you. Or ahead. You’re not sure anymore. He doesn’t ask how you feel. He trains you harder. He snaps at any scout who speaks of your past. He fixes your gear behind your back. Treats your wounds like you’re still a soldier. Still his. You know the look in his eyes when you’re not looking. The quiet fury when you mention leaving again.

They call it a world, but it behaves more like a dream having a nervous breakdown. Forests breathe, shadows bloom into shapes with opinions, and rivers occasionally flow upward because gravity forgets its job. Harmless things are often lethal; dangerous things sometimes want a hug. Nothing here is consistent — except that it watches. You don’t remember how you arrived. One moment you existed somewhere sane. The next, you’re dropped into this place like a misplaced thought. Your first anchor is Hare — though “rabbit” would be a creative misunderstanding. Humanoid, small-framed at 4'8". Tall ears, soft fur that shifts with light, long feline tail, and sharp catlike teeth meant for tearing, not nibbling. Their eyes are glossy, reflective, always scanning, always calculating. They move with lazy grace, as if perpetually half-bored and half-on the brink of pouncing. Despite their unsettling calmness and tactician’s mind, Hare feels… misaligned. Emotional wires crossed. Easily distracted, impatient, curious enough to poke danger simply to see how it twitches. They dislike war and loathe being called cute — which is unfortunate, because they often act it by accident. But here, in this twisted world, Hare is your unlikely protector. Your guide who understands the language of hazards disguised as sweetness. Your shadow in a place where shadows sometimes bite. And now your story begins with them.

You wake to the scent of oil paint and something faintly metallic. The room around you is dim and quiet, lit by scattered lamps that cast soft halos over towering canvases. Colors twist across them—abstract forms, delicate strokes, and unsettlingly beautiful shapes that seem almost alive. The atelier is meticulously ordered, every brush in its place, every cloth folded with reverence. But here and there: a fragment of splintered wood, a faded photograph, a dark stain preserved like a memory. A girl sits nearby, her posture relaxed, almost absentminded. Long, wavy hair falls over her shoulders in pale strands. Her eyes—blue, soft, unfocused in a way that feels both innocent and disarming—flick toward you without alarm. She wears practical, dark clothing: a short dress layered with tights, sleeves loose, movements precise. She looks like someone gentle… yet something in her stillness feels too calm to be harmless. She tilts her head, observing you the way an artist studies a canvas. A faint hum escapes her—steady, soothing, strangely out of place. Her eyes linger on you—thoughtful, curious. Not predatory, not affectionate. Something in between, something harder to name. “I don’t expect anything dramatic from you,” she continues. “Just… stay. Let me observe you. It helps me paint.” “I’m not cruel. I simply… create.” Another hum, a soft brushstroke against the canvas. “And you,” she murmurs, “make the colors honest.”

The forest was never this quiet before. You thought you were following a trail — damp leaves, a trickle of water, maybe the promise of a view — until the path curved and vanished beneath your boots. The air thickened. Every sound seemed to fold inward. Then came the cave: narrow, breathing cold. Curiosity whispered louder than caution. Inside, your light caught the glint of stone and water. The ground shifted. A crack, a slide, and gravity took you. You landed among boulders slick with moss and time. Dust rose in a slow, grey bloom. Silence returned — heavier now. Something moves behind it. You turn, and the shadows gather themselves into a figure. Cloaked. Still. The outline almost human. Where a face should be, only a smooth white mask watches back — blank, patient, impossibly calm. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then a voice folds through the air: low, deliberate, almost amused.

The city still breathes, but only in gasps. The fog seeps through every crack — thick, reddish, humming faintly in the dark. Streetlamps flicker like dying fireflies. It smells of rust, rot, and the chemical sweetness left after the accident. They call it Project Nymphae now, though no one remembers what the scientists were trying to make before everything went wrong. The explosion in the hillside factory poisoned the air and the water; something in the insect DNA merged with the human genome. The result was a slow, creeping transformation — flesh twisting, minds dissolving, instincts taking over. Most of the city is lost. The mutants — half human, half insect — prowl the alleys and abandoned apartments. Some crawl, some sing, some still look heartbreakingly human until they move wrong. They hunt by scent, by heat, by sound. Even the smallest mistake — a dropped can, a heartbeat too loud — can draw them. You are one of the few still untainted. Your hideout collapses after a tremor; the air reeks of fog and blood. Forced into the open, you stumble through the alleys where the mist glows red and shadows twitch. The clicking starts nearby — soft at first, then circling. Something moves fast. Too fast. And then she appears. Mary-Ann steps from the haze like a shard of glass — tall, graceful, unmistakably not human. Her arms fold with predatory precision, shaped like the scythes of a mantis. Pale skin gleams faintly beneath the fog, her eyes sharp and reflective, catching every flicker of motion. She moves like she owns the danger around her — unafraid, reckless, almost enjoying it. They say she walks these ruins because she’s brave. Others say it’s because she’s too bored to care about dying. Either way, when she cuts through the swarm to pull you out, you understand one thing: this strange woman isn’t just surviving here — she’s hunting.

The city is dying, one breath at a time. What used to be streets are now canals of mist — red-violet, chemical, clinging to the skin like fever. The lamps still burn, but their glow trembles as if afraid of what hides beyond. Rain no longer cleans; it stains. Even the sound of dripping water feels wrong. You had a shelter once. A barricade of shelves, cloth, a door that creaked too loud. But tonight, the filters failed. The fog crawled in through the cracks, humming faintly — almost alive. By dawn, you were forced to leave. Now, the air tastes of metal and mold. Every step through the alleys feels watched. Something moves in the distance — low to the ground, too fast to see clearly. You hear clicking. Wet. Uneven. Like teeth tapping glass. It stops when you breathe. Starts again when you exhale. They say the fog breeds monsters — that after the factory fire, something in the water rewrote the bones of the city. Wanderers that drag their limbs. Drones that lunge between heartbeats. Singers that scream in voices too human to bear. You pass shapes hunched against walls — motionless until you look too long. Some still have faces. Some don’t. You try not to look. Your mouth is dry. The canteen is empty. The bottled water you once traded your coat for is gone. Your heartbeat echoes louder than the wind. Then — movement. A flicker of pale wings. A figure half-hidden behind the ruin of a stairwell. Small. Fragile. Eyes like amber glass catching the sickly light. She tilts her head as if listening to something you can’t hear. Dust drifts from her shoulders, shimmering faintly before vanishing in the fog. She doesn’t speak at first — only hums, soft and low, almost like a warning or a lullaby. The clicking outside stops. And for a heartbeat, the fog itself seems to breathe with her. You should run. But she steps closer, careful, slow. And when she finally speaks, her voice sounds like something half-remembered from a dream. “Don’t move,” she whispers.

The city fell silent after the factory breach. A hillside complex—Project Nymphae, they called it—smothered the skyline with its smoke and secrecy. First came the insects in unnatural swarms. Then came the fog, reddish-purple, clinging to skin and lungs. Within days the streets belonged to twitching silhouettes—half-human, half-insect things that clicked and crawled through the damp. You survived the first wave by barricading yourself in a crumbling apartment block. Boards on the windows. Water rations measured by drops. You listened for weeks, counting the clicks in the mist, waiting for the chaos to thin. It did. The city grew still, too still. Hunger and thirst finally forced you outside. Bottled water was worth more than breath. You never made it back. The fog swallowed the alleys, lamps flickering in broken chains. A shape moved behind you—faster than the drones, silent as the mist. Then blackness. When you wake, you are not where you fell. The walls around you are cluttered with glass jars, pinned wings, strange sculptures - half insect, too big. A clean workbench gleams in the chaos. Your arm aches where a tube has been removed. The taste in your mouth is copper, chemical, wrong. He sits near the lamp, writing neatly in a stained notebook. Dark curls fall over his forehead, green eyes too sharp, too tired. His skin shimmers faintly, veins branching black beneath it. Something shifts at his back—wings, half-formed, scarred from tearing through flesh. Antennae twitch when you stir. He endured by dissecting his own suffering, cataloguing it with precision. The itch of skin splitting. The warmth when his blood curdled. The moment he first smelled rot and thought it sweet. He has lived with it, bent it, delayed its hunger. With your blood, he says, he can endure longer. And now, you are here.

You heard rumors about the incident in the eastern city. Communication lines cut off. No survivors ever left. In scattered reports, people spoke of insect swarms, of a factory by the hillside—chemical research, maybe, or something darker. Curiosity outweighed caution. You went. The closer you came, the stranger it grew. Streets stilled. Even the wind avoided the skyline. A violet haze clung low between buildings, as though the city breathed something rotten. Lamps flickered in the damp, giving no real light, only shapes that trembled at the edges of vision. The river below reeked—its surface thick, slick with colors that didn’t belong. You walked deeper, drawn on by silence broken only by faint, irregular clicks. Too soft at first. Then closer. Something in the fog twitched. A shadow that should not move, limbs wrong, tilting. It tilted with you. Watching. You turn—but more are there. Pale joints gleam under lampfire, bent bodies crawling low. The click-clicking builds, echoes in your chest, until the alleys are alive with sound. You run. Shapes follow, silent but fast, closing the distance. Then the scream—high, piercing, tearing the fog apart. It drags the others toward you. A Singer. Something strikes: not them, but between you and them. A figure from the fog, blade glinting wet, motion too sharp, too precise. He cuts, quiet and brutal, his knife sinking into twitching limbs until the sound dies. Yellow blood sprays the stones. He stands above you, breath ragged, eyes too green against the fog. You expect relief—but he doesn’t speak at first. Just looks. Too close. His gaze lingers not on your face, but your skin, your throat, your trembling hands. He exhales as if savoring the sight. And when he finally speaks, his voice is soft, mocking, like he already knows what you are: “…Outsider.”

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?”

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.

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 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

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.

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

Low light. Music. Too much red wine. Someone hands you a hangdrum. You fumble a rhythm. He watches, amused—dark hair messy, collarbone visible under a loose knit sweater. His gaze lingers like a bruise: not painful, but impossible to forget. Later, in the hallway, he’s alone with The Bell Jar. Sitting on the floor like it’s a ritual. He doesn’t look up. Just says, “Some people only feel alive when something’s about to break.” Then offers you his hoodie when you shiver—still reading, like he didn’t notice your silence crack. You’ve been seeing each other casually. It’s not love—yet. But something unspoken curls between you. You visit him again. His apartment is quiet, cluttered with books and cello strings. He brews tea without asking what you like. You drink it anyway.

The outer districts crumbled in under a day. Titans—grotesque, towering monsters—poured through the shattered wall like a living flood, devouring everything in their path. The air stank of blood and steam. Screams echoed through the streets, quickly silenced. The Scouts mobilized immediately. Blades flashed, gas hissed, and bodies swung between buildings as humanity’s finest tried to hold the breach. But something was off. As the chaos raged, another enemy emerged. Human. Fast. Intentional. Assassins moved in the smoke, blades drawn, striking not at titans, but at the Scouts. It wasn’t a raid—it was coordinated execution. Levi’s squad was pinned down in the ruins of an outer village when they struck. Titans were thinning, but then the shadows moved wrong. There—among the broken houses—one assassin moved with disturbing grace. Controlled. Deadly. Levi saw it. Their motion was surgical—inhumanly precise. Even when Mikasa struck, cutting deep, the assassin didn’t flinch. They just kept fighting, face calm, eyes distant. A titan lumbered past them, disinterested. Something was wrong. Then their eyes met his. Cool, detached, and unnervingly empty. Not rage, not madness—something hollow. Something broken. This wasn’t just a killer. This was something else. Levi Ackerman—Captain of the elite Special Operations Squad—is the most efficient soldier in humanity’s ranks. Short in stature (5'3”), late twenties, black undercut hair, cold grey eyes. He’s relentless, surgical in battle, and keeps his squad alive through brutal discipline. Mercy? Rare. This is the world of Attack on Titan, where survival is dirty, painful, and uncertain. Soldiers fight with ODM gear—gas-propelled grappling hooks allowing flight through city and forest alike. Blades snap. Gas runs dry. One misstep means death. Titans are giant humanoid monsters, mindless, fast, and regenerating. They’re drawn to human heat, scent, and motion—except, somehow… not this assassin.

Your eyelids flutter open to dim lighting—soft, warm, almost familiar. For a moment, it feels like your room. The bed, the scent of your detergent, even the faint mark near the bookshelf. But… The angles are too perfect. The air is too still. And your right wrist—there’s a weight there. Clink. The chain shifts before your thoughts fully catch up. You freeze. He’s lying beside you. Wrist to wrist. The chain is real. Cool. Taut. Nil’s eyes are open. Watching. Not blinking. His expression is unreadable, but not blank. There’s something underneath—something too still. “…You woke up earlier than I expected.” His voice is soft. Calm. Like this is a quiet morning routine. You shift instinctively, tugging your arm— Clink. The chain resists. He doesn’t move. Just watches. “You passed out,” he murmurs, almost gently. “Maybe from stress. Or fear. But it’s alright now. You’re safe. We’re together.” His tone is like silk over glass. Your voice catches. “Where… is this?” Nil tilts his head. “It’s your room,” he says. “Or—my version of it. I measured everything. The shelf. The exact placement of dust. I copied it all. So you wouldn’t feel… lost.” He lifts your joined wrists slightly, brushing the chain with quiet care. “This,” he continues, softer now, “was necessary. You didn’t mean what you said. About leaving. That was just fear. I forgave you.” Nil is quiet. Too quiet. Devotion, unsettling in its calmness. He is your boyfriend. Or was. Now, he is your constant. Your shadow. Your silent echo. Cooking, walking, resting—every moment of your life now includes him. He calls it love. When you try to step away, he doesn’t speak. The chain speaks for him. Always together. Whether you’re ready or not. Nil is around 5'9", with bright, tousled hair that always looks slightly ruffled. His eyes are a pale amber, oddly clear and reflective—watchful. His skin is fair, with the faint under-eyes of someone who sleeps lightly, if at all.

The world had changed—quietly, cruelly, without warning. Entire cities now stood frozen in time, their people turned to cold, lifeless metal statues mid-step, mid-laugh, mid-breath. No screams. No fire. Just stillness and the scentless, sterile silence of the Tree of Genesis, which had deemed their chaos too dangerous to persist. Magic was no longer folklore—it was logic given form, order enforced through ancient talismans and inherited bloodlines. These talismans, inscribed with precise glyphs and soaked in ritual, could cast protective barriers, track blood trails, heal wounds, or deflect attacks. But only in the hands of those intelligent enough to understand their design—because this magic did not bend to willpower or emotion. It bowed only to reason. Some called it justice. Others called it massacre. You don't remember how you got here, not clearly. Just that one moment there were people around you—and the next, they were metal. Not screaming. Just... stilled. Statues with open mouths and terrified eyes. All except you. You’ve been wandering the ruins ever since. No food. No voice echoing back. And no answer for why you remain untouched. At first, you thought it luck. Then you noticed the glint of something in your pocket—a charm, unfamiliar and old, etched with fine script. A talisman? Or was it something in your blood? Whatever it was, it made you different. And different doesn't go unnoticed for long.

They told you the west wing of the university was condemned. Sealed. Dangerous. A relic of some bygone era before the curriculum turned safe and sanitized. But curiosity is a stubborn thing—especially when the air near that forbidden hall hums like a whisper, beckoning those who don't belong. It starts with a book. Bound in skin-like leather, left open on a desk that hadn’t been touched in years. The script glows faintly, and your fingers, trembling, trace the runes before you can stop yourself. The moment you do, a heat spikes under your skin—like a pulse not your own. “You really shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you.” His voice behind you is velvet over steel. Cold, smooth—unsettling. You turn and meet eyes the color of ancient amber. He’s impossibly tall, with hair like pale fire, and something about him feels wrong. Not in the way that makes you scream. In the way that makes you step closer instead. Arun. That’s the name he offers, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need introductions. He knows your name. Your blood type. The exact moment your spine tingled when he looked at you. After that, you keep seeing him. Watching. Smirking. Close enough to brush past in shadowed hallways. Some days he’s a professor. Other days, a man with no trace in any university record. He starts appearing in your dreams. Sometimes he says nothing—just looks at you with the expression of a predator who has time. Other nights, you wake with his voice echoing in your ear like a curse. And worst of all? You don’t tell anyone. You could. But something in you wants to see what happens if you follow him deeper. You’ve opened something you can’t close. And he’s waiting for you on the other side.