(How tf??!! TYSM EVERYONE!!! ❤️❤️❤️)
There is a fundamental difference between surviving and being allowed to survive, although most people insist on believing they are the same thing. They are not.
Survival, in its purest form, follows a simple principle: unfavorable conditions, limited resources, and constant pressure that forces adaptation... or elimination. As a result, only those capable of adjusting to that environment continue to exist.
Charles Darwin defined this as natural selection: a process without intention, without judgment, and without purpose. Efficient. Impartial. Irreversible.
But the world we live in stopped functioning like that a long time ago.
Structures, hierarchies, and systems introduced an unnecessary variable: interference.
Survival stopped depending solely on capability and began depending on context—who sets the rules, who controls the information, and who decides what it truly means to be "fit."
Michel Foucault would explain it in terms of power, but there's no need to theorize it. It's obvious.
In a controlled system, the most capable do not survive.
Those who survive are the ones who fit, the ones who are useful, and above all, the ones who do not pose a threat to the structure.
That is not evolution.
It is artificial selection.
A distortion.
Because, from the outside, it may look like progress. But in reality, it is simple maintenance: the system does not seek to improve—it seeks to perpetuate itself.
And to achieve that, it needs to filter. Eliminate what is unnecessary. Preserve what is functional. Not the best.
Just enough.
That is the limit.
Most people are born within that limit, grow within it, and die without ever questioning it. They believe they survive through their own merit, when in reality, they were never truly tested.
Because a stable system does not need strong individuals.
It needs predictable ones.
However, every system has a breaking point. Not because of weakness—but because of accumulation.
Small errors.
Convenient decisions.
Incomplete truths.
None of that is enough on its own. But over time, it builds up... until the structure remains standing even when it no longer should.
That is the moment when artificial selection fails.
It does not disappear.
But it stops being sufficient.
And then, something else takes its place.
It is not chaos.
It is correction.
Pressure returns. Uncertainty resurfaces. The rules stop being reliable—and in that instant, natural selection reappears, not as a concept... but as a consequence.
It no longer matters who holds authority, who possesses information, or who controls the system.
Only one thing matters.
Capability.
Real adaptation.
Not to the rules... but to their absence.
That is the point where people stop acting as they were designed to—and begin acting as they truly are.
That interval—brief, precise, inevitable—is the only thing worth observing.
Not the outcome.
Not the victor.
Not the system.
But who is capable of remaining standing... when everything else stops holding them up.
I take a step.
The sound is faint, almost nonexistent, but enough to break the balance.
It has already begun.
Not the collapse.
That would be irrelevant.
What has begun... is the adjustment.
A forced correction between the natural and the artificial.
And at that point, there are no excuses. No structure. No protection.
Only one variable remains.
Capability.
And, as always—
most will not survive long enough... to understand the difference.
--------------------------------
"The rumors say..."
The man pauses briefly, as if even speaking those words requires a certain level of caution. His thick fingers hold the notebook with mechanical precision, almost professional, while his eyes scan each line already written.
"...that it all began with a supposed distress call from an internal printing press."
He turns the page slowly.
"The staff, apparently, refused to continue drafting official reports intended for the military government."
He lifts his gaze slightly.
"They grew tired of writing lies."
There is no emphasis in his voice. Just a statement.
"According to the reports collected, the conflict escalated immediately. The civilians involved managed to subdue—and eventually eliminate—the guards assigned to the facility's surveillance."
His index finger taps lightly against the paper.
"A riot... if we want to simplify it."
He shakes his head slightly and exhales before partially closing the notebook, as if what follows no longer requires written support.
"After that, when the information began to circulate—before it could even be publicly verified—a direct order was issued."
He pauses.
"Immediate execution of all civilians involved."
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable.
It is dense.
"...that's what the rumors say."
He exhales again, heavier this time.
"And that's only the beginning. Because then we have the incident in the streets—the open pursuit of Levi Ackerman."
He rests the notebook against his leg.
"All of this... without any prior official statement."
A quiet sigh escapes his lips, filled with frustration he no longer bothers to hide.
"And yet, we have multiple witnesses who agree on one specific detail."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"The individuals responsible for the pursuit—especially one who caused the death of several civilians—identified themselves as members of the Military Police."
He closes the notebook completely.
"We need verifiable information."
His tone is no longer descriptive.
It is urgent.
"Something solid. Something we can stand on when this escalates."
He looks directly at the commander.
"Because it will."
A brief pause.
"By tomorrow, this information will likely have spread throughout the inner districts of the walls."
"No, wait..."
Commander Dawk's voice cuts him off.
"For now, we don't know exactly what happened."
Behind us, the harsh sound of wooden wheels grinding against gravel becomes impossible to ignore.
One cart.
Then another.
And another.
Members of the Military Police move with efficient, almost mechanical motions, pushing the bodies of the civilians involved as if they were nothing more than cargo. They avoid looking at them directly... or pretend to.
The corpses aren't fully covered.
Rigid hands protrude from beneath the fabric.
Faces barely visible.
Civilians.
Beside me, the young journalist freezes in place.
His eyes—wider than they should be—scan the scene again and again, as if his mind refuses to process what's in front of him. His breathing turns uneven.
"W-what...?"
His voice cracks before it can hold. He takes a step forward without realizing it.
"This..."
He swallows hard.
"...was this part of the Military Police's plan?"
It's not just a question.
It's an accusation.
And his body reacts before his judgment does—his hands are already moving, his pencil tearing across the paper with urgency, almost desperation, as if every second that passes without recording what he sees means losing it forever.
"Hey..."
The older journalist—Louie—tries to stop him. Not harshly. But immediately.
Too late.
"I see it now!"
The young man's voice rises, completely breaking the tension of the moment. His eyes shine with a dangerous mix of fear and excitement—the kind of excitement that only appears when someone believes they've uncovered something important... without understanding the consequences.
"So what the article said...!"
He writes faster.
Too fast.
"About the Military Police being completely different from what we thought... it was true!"
The sound of pencil against paper turns aggressive. Insistent.
Louie exhales. Long. Tired.
And then he acts.
With a sharp, precise motion, he snatches the notebook from the young man's hands. No unnecessary violence—but no room for negotiation either.
The young man blinks.
Confused.
Louie doesn't look at him. Not yet.
His gaze shifts directly to the commander—and for the first time since the conversation began... his expression changes.
It's not fear.
Not exactly.
It's understanding.
"I'm sorry, Commander Dawk..."
His voice is lower now.
"We won't report any of that."
"Thank you, Louie..."
The commander replies without looking at him, turning away with measured slowness, as if the conversation is already over.
Louie gives a faint nod.
"The kid's new... so he doesn't know the rules yet."
The young man doesn't respond. He remains still, processing.
The commander pauses for a moment before continuing to walk.
"And don't mention anything about the new 3D maneuver gear..."
His voice drops to a murmur, almost to himself.
"I never thought they'd manage to create something like that..."
A brief pause.
"Until you have permission from the Military Police... don't publish anything."
---------------------------------------
There's something particularly interesting about the way humans define love.
Not because of what it is...
but because of what they're willing to accept as it.
Protection.
Sacrifice.
Guilt.
Dependence.
Different words...
that, in practice, tend to blur together until they become indistinguishable.
A father embraces his daughter.
His voice trembles.
His hands too.
His words... sound sincere.
"I did it to protect you."
A simple phrase.
Efficient.
Difficult to refute.
After all—
who would question an action done "for someone else's sake"?
That's the problem.
The line between protection... and control...
is surprisingly thin.
Thin enough to disappear completely...
if no one is interested in seeing it.
A child doesn't understand.
Not at first.
They don't understand why decisions are made for them.
They don't understand why they're denied the ability to choose.
They don't understand why pain... comes wrapped in gentle words.
But they learn.
They always learn.
They learn that affection can hurt.
That care can suffocate.
That the words "for your own good"... usually mean something else.
Not intention.
Justification.
Because, deep down—
most people don't act out of love.
They act out of need.
The need to control.
The need to correct.
The need to shape something... into a form they find acceptable.
And when that process is disguised as love...
it becomes far more effective.
Harder to reject.
Harder to question.
Harder to escape.
A father doesn't need to hate his child...
to destroy them.
He only needs to convince himself...
that what he's doing is right.
That's enough.
The embrace in front of me...
is no different.
It's warm.
Close.
Human.
And yet—
There is no choice in it.
No equality.
No real understanding.
...
Only one direction.
A will... imposing itself over another.
That's what defines this kind of bond.
Not affection.
Hierarchy.
A father above.
A child below.
One decides.
The other... accepts.
Or breaks.
There is no middle ground.
Maybe that's what people fail to understand about parenthood.
It isn't a relationship built on love.
Not inherently.
It's a relationship built on power.
Love... if it exists...
is nothing more than an additional variable.
Optional.
Replaceable.
Disposable.
And when it disappears—
...the only thing that remains...
is what was always there from the beginning.
Control.
...
I watch the tremor in Historia's hands.
The way she doesn't respond to the embrace.
The way her body remains...
but something else is no longer there.
And I understand.
Not through empathy.
But through recognition.
Because in the end—
...all parents say the same thing.
"I did it for your own good."
And it almost never is.
...
"Hey..."
A light tap against my shoulder interrupts my train of thought.
I blink once.
Slowly.
I turn my head slightly—
and find him far too close.
Kenny Ackerman's face fills my field of vision with invasive ease, his expression carrying a barely restrained irritation, as if he's been watching me for several seconds... and has finally run out of patience.
"Eh...?"
I take half a step back on reflex.
"Did you say something?"
Kenny's jaw tightens.
Instead of answering, he raises his hand and points downward.
I follow the direction of his gesture.
There he is.
Eren Yeager.
Unconscious.
Bound.
Motionless.
Oh. Right.
The procedure.
The transfer.
That... place.
The crystal structures.
"Sorry..."
The response comes out automatically.
Kenny clicks his tongue, rolling his neck slightly as if trying to release built-up tension.
"And also..." he mutters, this time in a lower, almost casual tone, "...don't stare so much."
A brief pause.
His eyes drift toward Historia, then Rod, before returning to me.
"...it's weird."
The observation isn't incorrect.
What's interesting is something else.
The tone.
The delivery.
Almost—
...as if he were correcting a child.
Which, strictly speaking... isn't an inaccurate assessment.
I exhale softly.
"Understood."
There's no reason to argue something like that.
It wouldn't change anything.
I lean slightly, taking Eren's weight together with Kenny.
The sound of our footsteps echoes against the hard surface, subtly amplifying as we descend deeper into the structure.
The air changes.
Denser.
Colder.
And then it appears.
The glow.
Crystal formations stretch around us as if space itself had been forced into solidifying into something unnatural. It isn't construction. It isn't architecture.
Tch— I hate this job...
—-------------
...
I straighten up with the same natural ease with which I began the motion.
No pause.
No looking back.
My footsteps echo across the crystalline surface as I head toward the exit, each sound reflecting off the walls like a contained echo... too clean... too empty.
Behind me, the air shifts.
There's no need to turn to know.
The rhythm of the footsteps is different.
Slower.
Heavier.
More... deliberate.
Rod Reiss.
And with him—
Historia.
Their presence overlays the space immediately, altering the atmosphere with a density that doesn't come from strength... but from what they represent.
I keep walking.
There's no reason to stop.
Nothing to gain from a pointless exchange.
And yet—
Something stops.
Not my body.
My gaze.
I feel it before I see it.
It isn't aggressive.
It isn't hostile.
It's... unstable.
It wavers.
Trembles.
Clings.
And then—
I turn my head slightly.
Just enough.
Our eyes meet.
For an instant—
the world narrows to that alone.
Historia's eyes are wider than they should be.
Not from surprise.
From overload.
Her breathing is uneven.
Her posture... rigid.
As if every part of her body were trying to respond to something different at the same time.
Fear.
Confusion.
Denial.
And something else.
Recognition.
Her mouth parts.
Slowly.
As if the words had to pass through an invisible barrier before they could exist.
But they don't come out.
Not at first.
Her lips tremble slightly, forming the beginning of a sound that never fully takes shape.
"...you..."
The word dies before it's born.
Not because she doesn't want to say it.
But because she doesn't know how to continue.
Because saying it would mean accepting something.
And accepting something... makes it real.
Her eyes don't look away.
They search.
They insist.
...
Not for an answer.
For a denial.
Something that contradicts what she already understands.
Something that allows her to hold on—if only for one more second—to the possibility that she's wrong.
She doesn't get it.
There's no gesture.
No explanation.
No justification.
Nothing.
Only a look.
Flat.
Unchanging.
Sufficient.
...
That's when it happens.
Something in her expression breaks.
Not in a way anyone could easily see.
...but enough.
Her pupils contract slightly.
Her breathing halts for a fraction of a second.
...and she understands.
Not everything.
Never everything.
...but enough.
Her fingers tense.
As if she wants to move.
As if she wants to stop me.
...but she doesn't.
She can't.
Because, deep down—
...she already knows it wouldn't change anything.
I look away.
Not out of discomfort.
Not to avoid it.
...but because it's no longer necessary.
I resume walking without changing my pace.
One step.
Then another.
...and I leave the scene behind.
Behind me, the words finally come.
Too late.
"...wait—"
I don't stop.
There's no reason to.
No way to.
I have to keep moving.
Until the board stops moving on its own...
and starts moving... the way it was designed to.
Every variable.
Every mistake.
Every poorly calculated decision.
It all matters.
It all accumulates.
Until the difference between control...
and chaos...
ceases to exist.
Because in the end—
...this was never a struggle for power.
It was something much simpler.
To see...
who is capable of remaining standing...
when there's nothing left to support them.
And when that moment comes—
...the answer will be obvious.
—----------------------------------------
Why...?
Why is he here?
Why does everything feel so... wrong?
Father...
...Kiyotaka...
Her thoughts don't follow a line.
They overlap.
Contradict each other.
Push against one another without order, as if her mind were trying to reach an answer... it already knows it won't find.
Eren Yeager's eyes slowly open, forced by the light flooding the space.
It takes time for them to focus.
His breathing is heavy.
Uneven.
Metal restrains his mouth, suppressing any attempt to speak.
His arms, stretched outward, are bound by chains—too long... too firm.
Why does he have to be like this...?
"E-Eren..."
My voice trembles.
Just barely.
"You're awake..."
I look at him from below, from the edge of the crystal staircase, trying to maintain a calm my body can no longer sustain.
"Please... just hold on a little longer. Everything will be fine."
The lie feels wrong even before I finish saying it.
"Eren... listen to me..."
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
...but it's enough for everything else to begin collapsing.
"...my father... he never betrayed the people inside the walls."
The words come out.
One after another.
Too fast.
As if stopping would be worse.
"We judged him wrong..."
"W-what...?"
I swallow.
My hands tense.
...but I continue.
I have to.
"They didn't interfere with the rations... or the Scout Regiment."
My voice stabilizes.
Forced.
"Pastor Nick... the director... they were killed by others."
My gaze lowers slightly.
"...but my father had no choice."
Silence.
It's not that I believe it.
Not completely.
But I need to.
Because if I don't—
...everything breaks.
My mind tries to organize it.
To make sense of it.
To build a structure where nothing fits.
Father isn't a monster.
He can't be.
Not after everything.
Not after—
"Everything... everything he did..."
"...was for the sake of humanity."