.
.
.
(Ugh... Last pre-Marley arc. I already have most of the ideas and general concepts planned and written, but actually writing it is going to be a headache... well, let's try to make Shiganshina live up to it. Fufufu.)
.
.
.
The wind slipped through the trees, rustling the leaves in a constant murmur.
Mikasa sat on the ground, her knees pulled tight against her chest.
She wasn't crying.
Not out loud.
But her hands clenched the fabric of her clothes far too tightly.
I watched her from a few steps away.
Without approaching.
Without speaking.
Some time had passed since everything changed.
Too much.
Our parents died.
Mikasa doesn't move.
But her breathing is uneven.
Short. Forced.
I take a step.
Then another.
I stop beside her.
Not too close.
I sit down.
The ground is cold.
It doesn't matter.
Silence.
There's nothing to say.
Words don't fix this.
I move my hand.
Hesitate for a second.
Then I rest it on her head.
Clumsy.
Without technique.
Without clear intent.
Just... there.
Her body tenses slightly.
But she doesn't pull away.
Good.
I slowly slide my hand
from her hair down to her back.
I pull her closer.
Without force.
Without making her.
She yields.
Her forehead ends up resting against my chest.
I don't say anything.
There's no need.
Her breathing is still broken.
But less.
My hand stays on her back.
Moving slowly.
Up. Down.
Seconds pass.
Maybe minutes.
The wind continues.
The world continues.
Both our lives were utterly insignificant.
To my heart.
To the world.
They're worth nothing.
But at least, as a small gesture,
I can try to fix her.
"Mikasa."
Her voice is low.
"...it hurts."
I nod.
"I know."
Her hand moves.
She grips my clothes.
Not in desperation.
In need.
"Mom... Dad..."
Her voice breaks.
"Mikasa."
The word comes out quieter than expected.
"They're not coming back."
Simple.
Direct.
Cruel.
But necessary.
Her grip tightens for a second.
Then it doesn't break.
It holds.
Good.
My hand keeps moving along her back.
Up. Down.
Repetitive.
As if that alone were enough to hold everything together.
Even if it isn't.
None of this is.
People break.
And then they try to piece themselves back together.
Without knowing how.
Without knowing if it even makes sense.
Only because staying broken...
isn't an option.
I didn't break.
Not in the same way.
I was never a complete piece to begin with.
There's nothing to rebuild.
Only fragments.
Pieces that fit wherever they're needed.
Where they serve.
Where they function.
Lies.
Small ones.
Big ones.
It doesn't matter.
They all serve the same purpose:
to support something that doesn't exist.
A shape.
A role.
A person.
I move my arm slightly.
Pull her a little closer.
Not because I need to.
Because she does.
That's enough.
It isn't real.
But it works.
And that's all that matters.
To be whatever is needed.
To say whatever must be said.
Even if it isn't true.
Especially when it isn't.
My fingers tense for a moment.
It shouldn't matter.
But it does.
I discard it.
Not relevant.
Just another variable.
Another adjustment.
That's what I am.
A collection of responses.
Of reactions.
Of lies.
A monster built from them.
And even so—
my arms don't move.
I don't let her go.
Because even if all of this is false,
even if none of this belongs to me,
if I can keep her from breaking any further—
then it's enough.
For now.
—---------------------------------------
The revolution was a success.
Historia was crowned.
...
At least...
I think so.
Every step I took over these past days should have led to that.
Erwin securing military support by exploiting the unrest caused by my manipulation of the press.
The riots and deaths across the city.
The undeniable recent successes of the Scout Regiment.
And Historia's existence itself.
...
I'd like to say I was there.
That I saw the moment.
That I heard the cheers.
That I confirmed with my own eyes... that it was all worth it.
...
But I wasn't.
...
All I have—
is the smell.
Damp.
Heavy.
Persistent.
It clings to my nostrils as if it refuses to leave.
...
Darkness.
...
And the dull, constant sting in my wrists.
In my ribs.
In every place where the skin split open enough to remember.
...
216,192 seconds.
...
More than two days.
Locked up.
Motionless.
Waiting.
...
Until—
the door opens.
...
The sound is subtle.
But after so much silence...
it's deafening.
...
I can't see.
But I don't need to.
I slightly tilt my head toward the source.
...
"Took you long enough..."
Pause.
...
"Levi... Erwin... Hange."
...
Silence.
...
No one answers.
...
I understand.
...
So that's how we're playing this.
...
"I suppose... in a way, I should thank you, Kiyotaka..."
Erwin's voice breaks the stillness.
Firm. Controlled.
But there's something beneath it.
"You were given freedom to act in this situation... as long as Historia reached the throne."
Pause.
"And you delivered."
Another pause.
"Good work."
I exhale slowly.
Not out of relief. Out of habit.
"But I suppose... if I'm tied up..."
I tilt my head slightly.
The bandages brush against my skin.
"It's because not everyone agrees."
...
"Tch—"
The response comes immediately.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Levi's voice is low.
"A lot of people died because of you."
A step.
Maybe two.
I don't see it.
But I feel it.
"You could've told me. My subordinates wouldn't have died in front of me... you bastard."
There's no uncontrolled anger.
It's worse.
Frustration.
"No."
I answer without raising my voice.
"It had to look real. I had to be a traitor."
I tilt my head slightly.
"And there's no better way to do that... than giving them a real chance to kill you."
Silence.
"...Fucking bastard..."
Levi again.
Rougher now.
"Alright... alright, calm down..."
Hange's sigh cuts through the tension.
"I think this is his way of saying he trusted you to survive... right?"
Silence.
"...Yeah... I guess you could see it that way."
Levi snorts again.
But doesn't push it further.
"Do you remember what you told me... after the Female Titan incident?"
My voice lowers slightly.
"That you'd stay with me until the end. No matter what I decided."
...
Silence.
...
Long.
...
Heavy.
...
"...No."
Levi's answer is dry.
"And so..."
I tilt my head again.
...
"Erwin."
...
"Why am I tied up?"
—------------------------------------------------
...
The air was thick.
Heavy.
Blood.
Too much of it.
The kind of smell that doesn't go away.
...
I arrived late.
Again.
...
The ODM gear was still vibrating when I hit the ground.
A single burst.
Silent.
Precise.
Blood dripped faintly from my body—the price of getting here.
...
And then—
I saw it.
...
The bodies first.
Kenny.
My hands tremble for a second.
...
Destroyed.
The kind of death that fits someone like him.
No dignity.
No ceremony.
His throat collapsed into a crushed, bloody mass.
...
Further ahead—
Rod Reiss.
...
...
...
My eyes kept moving.
Searching.
...
Until I found him.
...
Kiyotaka.
He was holding her tightly.
But not gently.
As if keeping her pressed against him was the only thing preventing everything from falling apart.
She trembled against his chest.
She wasn't crying.
Wasn't screaming.
Just shaking—like someone who had already broken a long time ago.
Her fists were clenched into his shirt, knuckles white.
If she let go—
she would sink.
...
To the side—
Eren.
Hanging.
His open, trembling eyes
fixed on Kiyotaka.
...
Everything was wrong.
...
Too clean.
Too calculated.
...
It all fit.
Everything fit.
...
And that was the worst part.
...
"..."
I said nothing.
...
What are you even supposed to say in a scene like this?
I stepped forward.
Slow.
My hand rested on the hilt.
If I had needed to kill him,
I would have.
But I didn't move.
Not because I couldn't.
Because it wasn't necessary.
I understood it in that moment.
No words.
No explanations.
That bastard had already decided everything.
Including us.
Including me.
My gaze returned to Historia.
To how she clung to him.
To how her breathing fell apart against his chest.
And to how he—
didn't react.
He didn't push her away.
But he didn't feel her either.
It was like watching one object hold another.
Efficient.
Cold.
Correct.
I exhale through my nose.
Slow.
Annoyed.
Not at him.
At the situation.
At myself.
Because I understood it too quickly.
That guy is—
No.
I correct myself.
He's like Erwin.
Silence.
No.
Worse.
Much worse.
A monster.
An absolute one.
...
He just keeps moving forward.
And even so—
he's necessary.
Tch.
What a mess.
I look away for a second.
Just enough.
And even so...
she chose him.
Or worse—
she needed him.
I clench my jaw.
The conclusion is simple.
I don't like it.
But that's never mattered.
If humanity is going to survive,
it won't be because of people like me.
Not even because of Erwin.
It'll be because of someone who can do this
without breaking.
Without looking back.
Without stopping.
My eyes lock onto his again.
Yeah.
I got it.
That bastard—
is our best option.
And our worst.
But he's the only one.
And if standing by his side is what it takes—
I won't hesitate.
—-------------------------------
"You'll be released. I can guarantee that."
Erwin's voice comes after a few seconds.
"It's just taking longer than expected to convince Zackly."
He exhales heavily,
like he's repeated that line too many times already.
"We'll move you somewhere better. You'll have food. A bed. Until this is resolved."
Silence.
"Convince?"
I tilt my head slightly.
The bandages brush my skin.
"It doesn't matter."
A short pause.
"How is Historia?"
"Tch."
Levi answers before anyone else.
"Historia, my ass."
A sharp step.
"She's eating right out of your hand, isn't she?"
His tone hardens.
"That's why she's so desperate to get you released."
Silence.
"No one here is buying that love story."
I keep my head turned toward him.
I don't need to see him.
His breathing changes first.
Then his tone.
"...Grr. Fine."
Pause.
"She's better."
Another pause.
"Only Mikasa looks like she wants to kill her."
I blink.
Genuine.
"...Huh?"
The silence lasts barely a second.
"A few days ago, she was ignoring me in front of everyone."
It doesn't fit.
Not completely.
But it doesn't matter.
Not now.
I change the subject.
"How long?"
"Long enough for you to stay put."
Levi.
Dry.
"Zackly wants a demonstration."
Erwin picks up.
"Results... visible ones."
Pause.
"And control."
I understand.
It's not distrust.
It's politics.
I'm useful.
They must be planning something big.
...
Oh.
...
They want to reclaim that position.
—----------------------
"Do I really have to wear this...?"
I hold the garment in my hands.
Thick fabric.
Durable.
Designed more to represent than to protect.
The green is uniform.
Dull.
Functional.
But that's not what stands out.
The emblem.
Wings layered over each other.
Freedom.
...
Ironic.
I slide my arms into the sleeves without haste.
The fabric brushes against the open wounds.
It tugs lightly at the skin.
I don't stop.
It's not relevant.
I adjust the shoulders.
The weight is light.
Well distributed.
Practical.
I lower my gaze.
Not to the clothes.
To what's wearing them.
Dark brown hair.
Short.
Just enough to stay out of the way.
Brown eyes.
No defining traits.
Better that way.
The skin should be uniform.
It isn't.
Above the right eye.
Over the lip.
Patches lighter than the rest.
Too much.
Not scars.
Not entirely.
Regeneration.
Incomplete.
Or excessive.
It doesn't matter.
It works.
I move my right arm slightly.
The contrast is obvious.
White.
Not pale.
White.
Unnatural.
From the hand to the shoulder.
No marks.
As if it had never been damaged.
Incorrect.
The torso still keeps record.
Scars.
Layered over each other.
Some closed.
Others not.
The bandages are still damp.
The bleeding hasn't fully stopped.
I button the uniform one piece at a time.
Precise.
Unhurried.
As if every movement has to fit exactly where it belongs.
The belt crosses my torso.
I tighten it.
Firm.
Restrictive.
...
I look at my hands for a second.
There are still traces of dried blood on my knuckles.
I don't clean them.
...
It doesn't make a difference.
...
"It suits you."
The voice comes from behind.
Not firm.
Not certain.
As if she isn't fully convinced she wants to say it.
...
"You think so...?"
Pause.
"...sister..."
...
The silence stretches a second longer than necessary.
...
I turn.
Slowly.
...
Her eyes aren't fully on me.
They move.
From the floor.
To my chest.
To the bandages.
To the blood.
...
And finally—
to my face.
...
Dark.
Unstable.
Holding something that can't quite decide itself.
...
Anger.
...
And something else.
...
The hit comes without warning.
Direct.
My head snaps to the side and my balance gives out.
The ground catches me a second later.
I don't try to stop the fall.
...
There's no time to get back up.
...
The second hit comes first.
Then another.
She moves over me, straddling my waist clumsily, as if she can't fully control her own body.
Her fists fall again and again.
No technique.
No real strength.
Desperation.
...
"Idiot..."
Hit.
...
"Idiot..."
Another.
...
Her eyes are shut now.
Tightly.
Wet.
...
"Why...?"
Her voice breaks.
But she doesn't stop.
"I promised I'd protect you..."
Another hit.
Weaker.
"To Mom... to Dad..."
...
Another.
...
"And you..."
Her breathing fractures.
...
"You...!"
"YOU ALWAYS DO THIS...!"
The blow lands, but there's no weight behind it anymore.
"You always throw yourself in... always push me away..."
She stops.
The next hit doesn't come.
Her hand hangs in the air.
Trembling.
"Why...?"
Lower now.
Closer.
"Why do you leave me out...?"
...
Silence.
...
Her fingers clutch the fabric of my jacket, wrinkling it.
...
"Am I not your sister...?"
...
The question doesn't seek an answer.
...
It's reaching for something else.
...
Something she doesn't know how to name.
...
"I..."
Her voice drops.
"I tried to forget you..."
She swallows.
"Because I thought..."
Pause.
"...you hated me."
Her breathing falters.
"That... if you hated me... I could walk away too."
Another pause.
"That Eren was enough..."
...
Her hands lose strength.
She's no longer hitting.
...
They just rest on me.
...
"That all of this..."
Her eyes flick to the bandages.
The blood.
...
"...was just an excuse."
...
She looks up.
Straight into my eyes.
...
"To do the same thing again."
...
...
...
This shouldn't be happening like this.
Her hands don't strike anymore.
Now they cling.
She's trembling.
Too much.
The distance disappears.
My arms move.
They wrap around her.
I shouldn't do this.
It's not necessary.
It changes nothing.
I can feel her breathing against my chest.
Irregular.
Disordered.
I could push her away.
That would be more efficient.
I don't.
It's not relevant.
Her words are still there.
Not as sound.
As weight.
"Am I not your sister?"
Sister.
The word doesn't fit.
It never did.
For it to exist—
there has to be an origin.
Something shared.
Something real.
And there isn't.
Not for me.
This world.
These people.
All of it came after.
As if I had been inserted.
Forced into a story that was already written.
Memories that carry no weight.
Bonds that never fully settle.
Names that should matter—
and don't.
Not in the right way.
I'm not your brother.
I wasn't born here.
I didn't grow up here.
I wasn't their son.
I just filled the space.
An empty slot.
A replaceable variable.
impostor
Someone observing from the inside something that doesn't belong to them.
And even so—
she cries.
She clings.
She asks.
As if the answer could change anything.
I have no right to give it to her.
I don't deserve that.
Not the bond.
Not the trust.
None of this is mine.
Ackerman.
Another name.
Another label.
Another functional lie.
It doesn't exist.
Not in me.
So there's no doubt.
No choice.
Only one constant.
I am Ayanokoji.
That doesn't change.
No matter the world.
No matter the name.
It's always the same.
It always ends the same way.
No matter who my parents are...
when I look in the mirror, I still see that man.
It doesn't change.
I will never be part of this family.
I can take the role.
Answer to the name.
Accept the position.
But not belong.
"Mother."
"Father."
The words exist.
But they don't mean the same.
They can't.
Because mine—aren't them.
They never were.
Atsuomi.
And that woman.
The one who gave me a name just to take it away later.
The one who chose.
It wasn't a mistake.
It was a decision.
To turn me into something useful.
Something that endures.
Something that doesn't need.
Something that doesn't belong.
Silence.
This isn't mine.
It never was.
And even so—
My arms don't move.
They don't let her go.
...
To turn me into something useful.
Something that endures.
Something that doesn't need.
...
Something that doesn't belong.
...
So there's no confusion.
This—
isn't mine.
It never was.
And even so—
But—
...
If Yuki... Shiro—
...
They said...
...
Maybe—
...
No.
...
—------------------------
I can't stop trembling.
My hands are still gripping his clothes.
The smell of blood—
faint and metallic—
on my hands
is unbearable.
It's in the air.
On the ground.
On him.
...
On me.
...
I don't know when I started crying.
I just know I can't stop.
Every word I said—
I meant it.
Why?
I'm supposed to be the older one...
...
Everything hurts.
Too much.
...
And even so—
I don't want to move away.
...
His chest is firm.
Stable.
It doesn't tremble.
It doesn't break.
...
Unlike me.
...
His arms wrap around me.
...
He doesn't let go.
I try to speak.
But my voice won't come out.
It gets stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat.
A slight movement.
His hands.
Barely.
As if adjusting his grip.
...
My breathing stumbles.
And for the first time—
it tries to follow a rhythm.
...
His.
...
"...I'm sorry..."
His voice is low.
Close.
...
I don't know if it's true.
I don't care.
...
I want to believe it.
...
"I'm here..."
My grip loosens a little.
Not enough to let go.
...
I breathe.
Again.
Slower.
...
It hurts less.
...
It doesn't disappear.
But—
it's bearable.
...
I lift my head slightly.
Just enough to look at him.
...
His eyes are the same.
Deep.
Hard to read.
...
But something is different.
Something small.
...
He's smiling.
...
It's not a wide smile.
Soft.
Warm.
It exists.
...
It's not empty.
...
It's... enough.
...
And for some reason—
...
that's enough.
...
I tighten my grip on his clothes a little more.
...
I don't want to think.
I don't want to understand.
...
I just want to stay like this a little longer.
...
—------------------------------------------------------------------
Kiyotaka is like that.
Empty.
Not in a simple way.
Not like someone who's sad or tired.
...
It's... absence.
As if something was never there to begin with.
...
And even so—
he's there.
Always there.
...
That's what makes it difficult.
...
Living with him is like trying to hold onto something that doesn't respond.
It doesn't push back.
It doesn't break.
...
It doesn't give anything back.
...
But it doesn't leave either.
...
He doesn't need me.
That's obvious.
He never did.
...
And even so—
...
I do.
...
From the beginning.
...
Not because I was weak.
Not because I couldn't go on alone.
...
But because he was there.
...
Always one step ahead.
Always understanding things I could barely process.
...
Always choosing paths no one else would take.
...
And always—
alone.
...
I hated him for that.
...
More than once.
...
For how he distanced himself.
For how he made decisions without looking at me.
For how he acted like it didn't matter whether I was there or not.
...
As if no one mattered.
...
But I could never leave him.
...
Because I also saw—
the other side.
...
Small.
Almost invisible.
...
Something very few people could notice.
...
...Is it really that hard to see that emptiness is sadness?
...Does no one else see how sad his eyes are?
...His actions?
Everything about him screams it.
Except him.
...
For a reason I don't understand.
...
And that—
that was enough.
...
I didn't need more.
...
I don't need more.
...
Because with him...
everything is like this.
...
Minimal.
Reduced.
...
But when it comes from someone like him—
...
it weighs more.
...
Much more.
...
I learned to see it.
To read what he doesn't say.
To accept what he will never give.
...
And even so—
...
I want to stay.
...
Because even if he doesn't say it,
even if he doesn't understand it,
...
even if he tries to convince himself otherwise—
...
I know he sees me.
...
Not like the others.
Not how he should.
...
But he does.
...
In his own way.
Well... KIYOKASU here again...
I love you all—especially those who comment
(i-it's not like I'm happy every time I read them or anything... b-baka)
Ahhh ignore that
Enjoy the chapter, and please give me your opinions. I'm not sure if the direction I'm taking is the best...
Love you all.