Chapter Text
You stand bent at the waist, hands braced against your knees as you try to catch your breath. Morning drills have finally ended, but they’ve wrung every last drop of energy out of your legs. Sweat clings to your spine beneath your uniform, cooling too fast in the sharp wind slicing across the open field. It whistles past your ears and bites through the damp fabric, leaving your back cold and tense.
Dirt is smeared across your knees, packed onto your boots, ground into the creases of your fingers. You watch it for a while—silent, unmoving, familiar.
“You planning on marrying that dirt, Prism?”
Ymir’s voice cuts through the moment, dry and loud enough to carry. “’Cause you’ve been staring at it like it owes you something.”
You snort through your nose but don’t look over. “It’s nicer than some of the people I’ve met here.”
“Aw, c’mon. Not everyone here has a stick up their ass. Most do. But not all.”
Before you can respond, you hear Krista’s soft, steady steps jogging up behind you. She’s glowing with post-run warmth, cheeks flushed, blond hair loose from her braid in places.
“You did good,” she says, panting lightly. “That last stretch was brutal.”
You shrug, brushing the dirt off your thighs. “I’ve been through worse.”
“She always says that,” Ymir chimes in, draping an arm lazily over Krista’s shoulders. “Pretty sure she once said it after biting into bread with a rock baked in it.”
“It tasted gray,” you reply without missing a beat.
Ymir groans, throwing her head back like you just personally wounded her. “Oh no, not this again—‘it tasted like storm clouds and disappointment’—you’re lucky you’re hot when you say weird shit.”
Krista bursts into laughter, her shoulder bumping yours gently. It’s a small thing. But you feel it anyway. The quiet kind of affection that settles into your chest like a second heartbeat.
You let yourself smile. Just a little. Just enough to prove you still can.
Behind you, someone shouts for cadets to regroup. The easy moment dissolves. You wipe your hands on your uniform and fall into step between your girls. Krista to your left, Ymir to your right, always close but never too close. The weight in your chest doesn’t lift—not fully—but it shifts. Lightens just enough to carry.
You don’t look back. But you feel eyes on you anyway.
The day started early.
You remember the cold first, how it clung to your fingers. The sun had barely cracked the horizon, still dragging itself out of the clouds, and already the field buzzed with bodies. Dozens of kids your age, lined up in stiff rows, boots uneven, shoulders crooked. Some looked nervous. A few were shaking. Others smiled like they actually wanted to be here.
You stood still. Quiet. Hands flat against your thighs, shoulders squared. You weren’t excited. You weren’t scared. You just were. Existing in the space between.
A shout snapped down the line like a whip. One of the officers—tall, sharp voice, eyes that didn’t blink—stormed past each recruit, barking orders.
“Straighten up!”
“Name and district!”
“You call that posture, cadet?”
A few of the smaller ones flinched. One girl near the front tried to offer him ‘half’ a potato.
You weren’t one for humor in serious situations, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You kept your eyes ahead, trying not to catch the attention of the man yelling at a kid with brunette hair.
Then you felt it. That prickling sense behind your ear—someone watching.
You glanced sideways just enough to catch a shape near the back. Broad shoulders. Blonde hair cropped close. He was taller than most, quiet like you. Staring.
He didn’t look away right away. Not embarrassed. Not smug. Just…observing. His eyes held yours for a second too long.
Then he turned his head.
You didn’t think much of it. People stare sometimes. It didn’t mean anything.
But as the day went on, it kept happening.
During warm-ups. During gear checks. During lunch. You’d feel it again, that quiet pressure—like someone was trying to memorize you from the inside out.
You never caught him doing it twice in the same way. He didn’t stare openly. Just enough. A flicker here. A second longer there.
Once or twice, you looked back. Let your gaze pass over his like it meant nothing.
Because at the time, it didn’t.
You’ve finally caught your breath when the formation call rings out again.
The cadence of morning drills lingers in your legs, burned into your muscles like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet. Around you, cadets fall into their usual staggered lines—too loose to impress, too tight to rebel. Some whisper complaints under their breath, muttering about the sprint laps or the shitty terrain. Others laugh, joking about who nearly passed out.
You stand between Ymir and Krista. Ymir’s elbow bumps yours. On purpose, probably.
Ymir leans in just enough for her voice to carry. “If I collapse, just step over me. Tell them I died doing what I hated.”
“Running in a straight line?” you mutter.
“Exactly.”
Before Krista can scold either of you, the buzz dies.
A higher-ranking officer steps out from the main building, his boots heavy on the gravel. Broad shoulders. Sharp bark of a voice. The kind of presence that makes people shut up before he even opens his mouth. You think it might be Shadis, or someone cut from the same cloth—grizzled and carved from stone.
“You’ve got one month,” he says, voice like steel dragged across concrete. “One month until graduation. That means one month to get your shit together.”
A few cadets shift on their feet.
“You’ve all had time to consider your options, but now it’s real. The Garrison. The Military Police. The Scout Regiment. Make your decision. Live with it. That’ll be all.”
He turns and walks off without another word.
The silence he leaves behind hums like a taut wire.
Someone in the front exhales hard. A few cadets start whispering again, but it’s a different tone now—serious, nervous, buzzing under the skin. You see a few faces light up at the thought of the Military Police, their dreams of cushy interior posts practically written across their foreheads. Others look sick.
You don’t say anything. But you feel it in your chest—that small, steady pull. You’ve known your answer since before the training started. Even if you’ve never said it out loud.
“The Military Police are a bunch of cowards,” Ymir mutters under her breath.
Krista sighs softly. “They’re just trying to survive, Ymir.”
“So am I. I’m just not doing it from a silk-lined bunk in the interior.”
A voice from behind you cuts in, sharp and careless. “Good luck surviving in the Scouts. Might as well dig your own grave.”
You don’t even turn around. “At least I’ll get a good view on the way down.”
Ymir chokes on a laugh. Krista covers her smile, eyes flicking between the two of you like she’s trying to hold a thread together.
“Dismissed. Mess hall,” the officer calls out, almost as an afterthought.
Cadets peel off in uneven clumps, the mood heavier now. You follow behind Ymir and Krista, listening to their easy back-and-forth. It’s familiar, grounding. But there’s still something twisting at the edges of your mind. One more month, and all of this—routine, banter, even the smell of dirt and boiled potatoes—becomes memory.
You’re so lost in your thoughts, you don’t notice the blond guy a few paces ahead glance back at you.
Just a flicker. Like he’s checking you’re still there.
The mess hall is loud, hot, and smells like starch-flavored regret.
Boiled meat, overcooked vegetables, and something vaguely like bread are all dumped onto trays with the same care one might give to shoveling slop into a trough. Trays clank. Benches scrape. Voices pile on top of each other in one long, chaotic hum.
You settle into your usual spot with Krista and Ymir. Jean’s already mid-rant across the table, waving a spoon around like a pointer. Sasha’s beside him, eating like the food might disappear if she looks away. Connie leans back too far on the bench and nearly tips over before catching himself with a curse.
“It’s not about being scared,” Jean is saying, for probably the third time tonight. “It’s about being smart. Why would I risk getting eaten alive when I could be in the interior with a bed and real food?”
Ymir snorts, stabbing at her questionable stew. “Spoken like a true coward.”
“It’s not cowardice,” Jean argues, puffing up. “It’s logic. Basic survival instinct.”
“You’re right,” Ymir drawls. “You’d make a fantastic decorative piece in the Military Police. Maybe they’ll let you hold a spear for show.”
Krista hides a smile behind her cup. Connie, surprisingly, backs Jean. “I mean… he’s not wrong. Most people who join the Scouts don’t make it past their first mission.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Connie,” Sasha says, mouth full. “Really inspiring.”
You listen, chin propped on your hand, picking at the mystery meat on your tray.
Teal.
The chatter rolls over you like background noise. You’re not tuned out, just… watching. Letting it all play out like a comedy you’ve seen too many times.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Sasha says eventually. “The Garrison sounds easier. But I don’t want to be stuck somewhere boring for the rest of my life.”
Ymir arches a brow. “So you want to die with flavor?”
Sasha pauses. “Kinda.”
Krista turns to you, eyes curious. “What about you?” She calls your name. “You haven’t said.”
The table quiets a bit—just enough for the question to land properly. You lift your gaze, slow and steady.
“I already know,” you say simply.
Ymir leans back with a smirk. “She’s not the type to play it safe.”
Jean raises an eyebrow. “So what, you want to die?”
You jab your fork into the meat. “Don’t we all a little bit?”
Connie snorts. Krista shakes her head with a faint smile. Jean groans. “You’re all insane.”
“Maybe,” you reply. “But we’ll look better on the memorial wall.”
Ymir grins. “Speak for yourself. I plan on living just long enough to haunt people.”
You let the conversation drift again, tuning into the noise just enough to feel grounded. It’s familiar, chaotic, strangely comforting. For all its sharp edges, it feels like something close to belonging.
Your eyes skim the room absently—and that’s when you catch it.
Across the mess hall, between two crowded tables, you spot him again. Blond. Tall. Quiet. His gaze is already turning away by the time you notice, like it hadn’t meant anything.
You don’t react. Not outwardly. But a small thread pulls tight in your stomach. The kind that warns you—not of danger, not yet—but of something beginning. Something that might grow teeth.
The barracks are still.
The kind of still that only comes after exhaustion has gutted a room full of bodies. Soft breathing hums in waves. A few coughs here and there. Someone shifts, a bunk creaks, then silence again. Moonlight spills through the high windows, silvering the floor in long, uneven patches.
You lie awake, eyes on the ceiling, counting the wooden planks above you like they might offer some kind of clarity.
Annie sleeps below you, arms folded tight, one leg dangling off the edge like she’s ready to kick someone mid-dream. She doesn’t snore. She doesn’t fidget. She just exists like a coiled spring.
You envy that.
Your body’s tired—bones heavy, feet sore—but your mind hums like a wasp trap. Training. Graduation. Which branch. What comes next. The weight of everything closing in.
You climb down from the bunk slowly, your movements careful, deliberate. The floor is cold under your soles. You pull on your jacket, then your boots, tying the laces with fingers that know this routine too well. This isn’t the first time you’ve slipped out. Won’t be the last.
Outside, the night is quiet in a different way. The kind that doesn’t press on your chest.
The sky is clear, and the moon hangs high. The wind’s gone still, leaving the training grounds drenched in moonlight and shadow. You walk without aim, just enough distance between you and the walls to breathe right.
You round the edge of a building and nearly walk straight into him.
Reiner.
He’s standing with his back to the wall, half-sunk in shadow. Hands in his pockets. Posture loose but not idle. He looks up when you stop.
You both freeze—not tense, just surprised. There’s no sharp inhale. No barked greeting. Just a pause in the stillness.
You consider walking past. You should. But you don’t.
Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s that he’s the only other person awake right now, and something about that feels honest.
His voice comes first, low and rough from disuse. “Can’t sleep?”
You glance up at him, barely. “Didn’t try.”
Reiner shifts his weight. His eyes flick toward the sky like he might find the right thing to say written in the stars. “Drills are worse when you think too much after.”
You huff a breath, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That your excuse?”
He actually smiles. Just a little. Barely there.
The silence stretches again. But it’s not uncomfortable. Not really.
You look out toward the field. The moon throws long shadows across the dirt, turning everything familiar into something strange. Softer, somehow.
You turn to leave.
But before you go, you glance at him sideways.
“You’ve got a staring problem,” you say, like you’re talking about the weather.
Reiner blinks. “What?”
“Back on orientation day,” you add, already walking. “And after. You keep looking. Might want to work on that.”
You don’t look back, but you know he’s watching.
You can feel it.