Mikasa hesitated. Her first instinct was clearly to say no—but something in his tone wasn't threatening. It wasn't prying. It felt… steady. Gentle.
She nodded once, short and reluctant.
Alex crouched beside her and shifted the blanket down just enough to see the edge of the wrappings. His brow furrowed—not too dramatically, just enough. Enough to make her feel seen. Like someone actually cared how much it hurt.
"You tore through the left side, didn't you?" he murmured. "Could've been your lung."
Mikasa gave a small nod. "Was close."
His voice was softer now, threaded with quiet weight. "And still you moved fast enough to save me."
She glanced away, jaw tight.
Alex straightened, stepping back. "You're stitched up clean," he said. "But they wrapped it too tight. It'll make breathing harder."
She blinked. "…You know medical?"
He shrugged. "Basic stuff. Camp triage, old war manuals. You pick things up when no one comes to help you."
He added, almost absentmindedly, "Funny how the ones with the most strength sometimes see the least."
Mikasa looked at him sharply. Not angry. Just… uncertain.
Was that about Eren?
Alex met her eyes calmly, like he hadn't said anything dangerous at all.
"I'll stop bothering you," he said, stepping toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
Alex paused, hand on the doorframe, glancing back. She was still sitting on the cot, her scarf bunched in her lap, but her posture had shifted—tenser, like she was bracing herself.
"Thought I'd let you rest," he said, keeping his tone even. "Maybe check the corridors, see if Historia's back from her speech."
Mikasa's jaw tightened, and she pushed herself up, one hand pressing against her bandaged side. The movement was slow, deliberate, but her face stayed blank, hiding the pain. "You can't wander alone," she said, her voice flat. "Not after today."
Alex raised an eyebrow, stepping back into the room. "I'm not planning to start a fight. Just staying close."
She didn't respond, just swung her legs off the cot and stood, her boots scuffing the stone floor. Her hand gripped the edge of the cot for a moment, steadying herself, but she straightened quickly, like she refused to show weakness. "Historia's orders," she said, her eyes flicking to his. "I'm supposed to keep you safe."
Alex blinked, caught off guard. "You? Now?" He glanced at her bandages, the way her shirt clung to the wrappings. "You're barely standing, Mikasa."
"I'm fine," she said, her voice clipped, shutting down the concern. She moved to the corner of the room, where her gear was propped against the wall—twin blades in their sheaths, ODM harness tangled from the fight.
Alex stepped closer, his voice low but insistent. "You're not fine. You're stitched up and probably doped on whatever they gave you. Let someone else handle it."
Her eyes snapped to his. "There is no one else. Historia trusts me. I do this."
He held her gaze, seeing the weight behind her words—not just duty, but something heavier, like she was proving something to herself after Eren's venom.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Alright," he said, softer now. "But you're not doing it alone."
Mikasa didn't reply, just pulled the harness over her shoulders, wincing as the straps pressed against her side. She adjusted the blades, her movements precise but slower than usual, each motion a quiet defiance of her pain.
Alex watched, then moved to her side, picking up the gas canisters from the floor. "Let me carry these," he said, not asking. "They're heavy, and you don't need to tear your stitches."
She paused, her hand on a blade, and looked at him. For a moment, he thought she'd refuse, but her eyes softened—just a fraction, like she was too tired to argue. "Fine," she said, her voice low.
He nodded, slinging the canisters over his shoulder, their weight grounding him. "Where to, then? You're the bodyguard."
Her lips twitched, not a smile but close, and she straightened. "Historia's quarters," she said. "She'll be back soon. We meet her there."
Alex fell into step beside her as they left the room, the corridor's chaos swallowing them—medics rushing, soldiers barking orders, the air thick with smoke and blood.
Mikasa moved with purpose, her blades glinting at her sides, but her pace was slower, her hand brushing her bandaged side when she thought he wasn't looking.
As they walked down the corridor—Mikasa silent, focused, always scanning—Alex let the noise around them blur.
His mind wasn't on the smoke or blood or even Historia's quarters.
It was on her.
On the way she held herself like stone, even while bleeding. On the fact that despite everything—despite nearly dying—Mikasa was still dragging herself forward.
Because he asked her not to leave him alone.
She hadn't said it, hadn't even meant to show it. But Alex had seen it. Felt it. A crack in the armor. A subtle shift.
And then… there was him.
Eren.
The ghost that walked ahead of them, even when he wasn't in the hall. Even now, Alex could feel the imprint the guy left on her—like a mark burned into her skin. The way her jaw clenched when Eren's name was spoken, the way she flinched under his scorn but never pushed back.
She doesn't even realize it, Alex thought.
She's still stuck inside his orbit. Pulled by it. Shaped by it.
And it wasn't just emotional. Alex had started to see the cracks in the stories—Attack Titan. Paths. The memory stuff.
It sounded like madness the first time he overheard it, but then you listened a little deeper and realized:
They weren't just fighting battles.
They were being written into them.
By Eren.
Past, present, future—all twisting around whatever the hell he saw when he touched Historia's hand.
Alex glanced sideways at Mikasa, who was biting back a wince as they turned the corner. She wouldn't let herself show weakness—not while she thought someone might be watching.
How long has she been like this? Not choosing, just reacting?
She wasn't just manipulated.
She was trapped.
In history. In guilt. In loyalty he didn't even think she chose for herself.
And that… that was his way in.
Not by attacking Eren. Not directly. That would just make her dig in deeper.
But by showing her what choice feels like again. Little moments. Small freedoms. Letting her lean on someone who didn't command her—who didn't see her as a blade but as a person.
He gives her orders? I'll give her space.
He needs her to fight. I'll give her permission to stop.
That's how the ghost fades.
Not with fire.
With something gentler. Quieter.
With her waking up one day and realizing the person she runs to first…
…isn't Eren.