31 - Only Exits
Fran Gark
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Chapter XXXI: Only Exits
Rain hammered against Anja's face like cold needles, each drop mixing with the blood that seeped from her torn palms. Somewhere along the road she'd broken into an empty toll-house and stolen a pair of boots and rough linen tunic—the quickest way to hide the shredded remnants of her clothes without losing time.
Her left hand was still a swollen mess—thumb bent, two fingers shattered. She seized a brief lull in the horse's stride to press the bones back into place, gritting her teeth at the grinding sensation. The makeshift splint she'd fashioned from torn cloth was already soaked through with rain and blood.
Every jolt of the horse's movement sent fresh agony shooting up her arms, but she couldn't slow. Through the storm's gray veil, Stohess's walls loomed like mountains. Steady wall‑lamps shimmered in roadside puddles—soft amber halos that mirrored the city's quiet vigilance.
The storm tasted wrong. Not just rain and mud, but a copper‑sweet film across her tongue—the same flavor that had filled her mouth in the forest when the thing that wore her brother's face and promised salvation. Even now, she felt it watching through the downpour, patient as rot.
Her mount slipped, hooves skidding on the mud. For a heartbeat she seemed to watch herself from above: a broken thing clinging to a terrified animal, racing toward a city that would spare her no mercy. No good choices—only exits. The thought arrived in a voice that might have been hers, or something else's.
Lightning split the sky, bleaching Stohess's walls for one brilliant second. In that flash she caught a purple flare arcing above the ramparts. Something was happening. Something big.
"Annie," she whispered through split, swollen lips. The name was prayer and promise at once. Was she too late? Whatever they had done to her friend—whatever Annie had done to others—none of it mattered now. She had to find her. She would, even if it meant feeding what was left of herself to the thing that lurked in her mind.
The horse surged forward, and Anja let the vow carry her toward the city's waiting chaos.
One hour earlier…
Annie watched Jean pace the small room, his notebook clutched in one hand as he scribbled down everything they'd seen at the warehouse. His movements were sharp, agitated—controlled desperation. They'd gathered in the room she shared with Hitch, though Annie had been packing her few belongings all morning, slipping them into her rucksack whenever Hitch wasn't looking.
The others hadn't noticed yet, too focused on the evidence they had haphazardly spread across the small table between them.
"We need someone who can help us," Jean said, his voice tight. "Commander Pyxis, maybe. Or someone in the Scouts, anyone who can actually do something." His fingers traced the edges of the shipping manifests, as if touching them might reveal where Marco had gone. "We don't know what happened to any of them—Marco, Dennis, Boris. They could be—"
"They could be what? Alive?" Annie interrupted, her voice flat. She knew exactly what happened to people who disappeared into facilities like that warehouse. The drainage tables, the crematorium... They hadn't found bodies because the entire operation was designed to ensure no bodies remained to find. "They're dead, and if we get involved, we'll end up like them."
"You—" Jean's face flushed, but he swallowed the retort. "You don't know that! You think we aren't in danger already? Think again, anyone could be next unless we do something."
"I agree with Jean, looking the other way won't fix anything. But I think we have more options..." Marlo said, producing a folded document. "I did some digging after we left. The warehouse—it's not just some MP facility. Turns out it's owned by the royal government directly, leased to the Military Police, listed as a 'storage facility' with an added clause for 'discretionary special logistics operations.'" He looked up at them. "This place... it goes all the way to the top. Which is exactly why we need to follow proper channels. I'm willing to bet Commander Dawk has no clue what is going down there. If we document everything, file reports through the correct chain of command—"
"Like Brandt did?" Annie's question hung in the air like a blade. She moved to her bed, straightening her sheets while sliding another folded shirt into her bag. The papers hidden in her jacket seemed to burn against her ribs—Brandt's investigation notes, what was left of them, the ones that had gotten so many people killed.
Jean's hands clenched around his notebook. "We are already neck deep in this shit... I don't care what you say, Marco is out there somewhere, and every second we waste—"
A sharp knock interrupted him. The door swung open to reveal a rain-soaked Hitch, who'd gone to check on their duty assignments.
Her usually tousled brown hair was flattened by the rain, clinging to her face in limp strands.
"Prisoner transfer arrives within the hour," she announced. "All hands to defensive positions, we have to gear up. Commander's orders."
The others began gathering their evidence, preparing to leave, but Hitch blocked Annie's path.
"We need to talk," Hitch said quietly, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something else. "Alone."
After the others filed out, Hitch closed the door and leaned against it.
"What?"
"Planning to disappear again?" Hitch nodded toward the bed, where the outline of Annie's bag was barely visible.
Annie let the silence stretch for a moment before answering. "I'm taking a few days off." She moved toward the door, but Hitch didn't budge.
"I'm not stupid, Annie. You've been acting weirder than usual. Even before the masquerade. Now the warehouse, this prisoner transfer, you packing your things—something's happening. Something you know about."
Annie kept her expression neutral. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me." Hitch's voice dropped lower. "Look, I'm not Jean or Marlo. I'm not going to charge off trying to save everyone. I value my life too much for that. But I can't rest easy if my roommate is keeping secrets that could get me killed."
For a moment, Annie considered telling her. Warning her to run, to get as far from Stohess as possible. But that would raise questions she couldn't answer. Instead, she moved past Hitch toward the door.
"There's nothing to tell," Annie said. "We should get ready."
Hitch caught her arm. "Annie, you owe me that much—"
"Let go." There was something in Annie's tone that made Hitch's hand drop immediately. "Whatever you think is happening, whatever you think I know—forget it. Keep your head down during the transfer. Don't ask questions. Don't investigate anything. Just... lay low."
She left Hitch standing there. In her pocket, her fingers found the cold metal of her ring. She slid it on without hesitation. Time was running out, and she had already decided—it had become too dangerous for her.
No good choices left, only exits.
Annie stood at her assigned position on the district's main thoroughfare, the repaired inner pocket of her jacket pressing against her ribs with each breath. The distant bell of the district clock tower tolled once—fifteen minutes until the transfer ended. She would leave then. Fifteen minutes that suddenly felt like a lifetime.
The alley she was assigned to watch opened a few paces behind her post—a narrow lane between tidy stone town-houses, flagstones slick with moisture yet otherwise undisturbed, feeding straight into the thoroughfare. Half-torn posters lauding the "Hero of Trost" clung to the nearest wall, drizzle streaking Anja's printed likeness into a ghostly smear.
Beyond the mouth of the lane, the cobblestones gleamed like dark mirrors. Nearby, Military Police officers adjusted their gear with awkward movements—no blades, only rifles and ODM. The authorization had come down barely an hour ago, outside normal protocol. Were they expecting trouble?
Movement registered in Annie's peripheral vision. She glanced upward. Hitch stood on the opposite rooftop, rifle cradled loosely, her gaze sweeping the street. Their eyes met. Hitch held it a heartbeat too long before turning away. Was that suspicion? Warning? Or just Hitch being Hitch? Annie's hands wanted to tremble. She clamped them tighter on her rifle.
A shout from the gate cracked through the damp air; Hitch pivoted east to cover the call, a wide stone chimney blocking her view of the alley mouth.
The convoy rumbled past. Through a gap in the middle wagon's canvas she glimpsed the prisoner—broad‑shouldered, head bowed, features lost to shadow. A prisoner from the Scouts transferred under this security? It had to be Eren. No one else warranted such measures.
"Annie."
Her whole body went rigid. She turned slowly, mechanically, to find a hooded figure in the alley. The hood fell: Armin, rain dripping from his cloak, stood half‑lit by a lamp.
"Good to see you," he said—brief smile, almost sad.
"I'm on duty." The words came out steady. Good; her voice still worked.
"This can't wait." He stepped closer, and Annie's mind registered a dozen details at once—the way his cloak fell suggested full gear beneath, how the alley's far exit was partially blocked, the careful distance he maintained. "That prisoner in the wagon—it's a decoy. One of our people volunteered to buy us time."
The words hit her in waves. Decoy. Of course.
"The Military Police plan to execute Eren without trial," Armin went on, voice low and urgent. "They're planning to move him to a black site. We're getting him out, but we need someone inside the MPs—someone who knows patrol routes and blind spots. Someone they won't suspect."
Exactly the kind of plan the Scouts would hatch: bold, desperate, logical. But why tell her? Why now? Her chest felt too tight, like her ribs were closing in.
No. She didn't want any of this. She wasn't going after him again; she'd made her choice already.
"Not my problem. Find someone else." She started to turn back toward the street.
"Please, Annie. Anja said you would help."
She stopped mid-step, the words hitting her like a physical blow.
For half a heartbeat Annie forgot to breathe. Anja—alive. Relief flooded so hard her knees threatened to fold.
"She's with us," Armin pressed, eyes glinting. "Said you were the only MP we could trust. She told us you'd understand."
Something warm bloomed in Annie's chest—Anja trusting her, even after everything. Needing her. The thoughts jostled, clashed—hope and doubt, rising all at once, but a cold, sharp dread pierced her gut, whispering that something was terribly wrong.
"Where is she?" The question came out raw, desperate. She couldn't help it.
"Waiting at the underground passage near the old chapel." Armin gestured south. "She wanted to come herself, but her injuries from the expedition slow her. We couldn't risk it. You know how stubborn she is."
Annie's mind went absolutely still.
Injuries. Slow her. Couldn't risk it.
No.
The word rang through her skull like a bell. No, no, no. She did know how stubborn Anja was. Stubborn enough to show up with broken bones. Stubborn enough to crawl if she couldn't walk. If Anja were really there, really part of this, she would have come. Would have looked Annie in the eye. Would have asked for this herself, even if they had to carry her.
Relief curdled into lead. Either Anja wasn't with them—or she couldn't choose to be.
"Her injuries," Annie heard herself say. "From the expedition."
"Yeah, she's still healing, but she's managing." Armin's words flowed smoothly, just a touch lighter than before. "You know Anja—she pretends it's nothing, but traveling is difficult for her right now."
Each syllable drove the spike deeper. He knew. Wherever Anja was, Armin knew she wasn't here.
Trap. This was a trap.
"I just need five minutes." The words came out calm, controlled. Inside, Annie was screaming. "To grab something from my quarters. Papers, credentials. We'll need them for the checkpoints."
Armin didn't argue. A pause—calculation flickered behind those ocean‑blue eyes. Then he nodded.
"Makes sense. Remember, the old chapel's passage. We'll wait ten minutes, no more."
"Understood."
Annie turned and walked away. Steady steps. Normal pace. Don't run. Don't let him see. Ten steps. Fifteen. Around the corner.
A faint metallic click drifted from the rooftop behind her—too light for a rifle bolt, too deliberate for rain—and vanished into the hiss of drizzle.
Then she ran.
Her mask shattered the moment she was out of sight. Panic flooded her system hot, electric. Her cover was blown.
Annie's feet pounded against wet stone. Her ODM gear shifted with each stride, rifle clanking against gas canisters in a rhythm that broadcast her guilt. She couldn't use it now—she'd give herself away.
Everything she'd built here, every careful lie—gone. They knew. How much did they know? How long had they known?
And Anja—
What had they done to her? Where was she? Was she even—
No. Don't think about that now. Run.
A sob tried to claw its way up her throat. She swallowed it down, forced her legs to pump harder. The barracks were three blocks away. Her bag, then the gates. She could make it. She had to make it.
The rain had picked up again, turning the world into a blur of gray shapes and refracted light. Streets deserted—the MPs were all on decoy duty. Idiot. She should have seen it sooner. The absence of people sent alarm bells screaming through her skull.
A puddle splashed behind her—too heavy for raindrops. She didn't look back.
The barracks loomed ahead. Annie forced herself to slow at the entrance, nodding casually to the gate guard hunched over his reports.
"Forgot something in my room," she said, words sliding out smooth despite her hammering heart. "Back in five."
He waved her through without a glance. Annie took the stairs two at a time, wet boots squeaking against worn boards, rifle bumping her hip. Second floor. Third. Her hallway stretched ahead, absurdly empty—
Click—scrape. Roof tiles shifting? Or something else?
She reached her door. One hand gripped the knob.
The covered wagon rolled to a stop in the courtyard, wheels grinding against wet cobblestones with a finality that made Jean's shoulders tense. He stood with the other MPs, rifle held at the ready.
The Scout Regiment soldiers who'd accompanied the transport dismounted with practiced ease. Three of them—one tall and blond, with the bearing of someone used to being obeyed; a shorter man whose sharp gaze scanned the courtyard like a blade, favoring one leg slightly as he landed; and a third who remained close by the transport. All three stood still, hands visible, following protocol to the letter.
So why did everything feel wrong?
"Open it," Commander Dawk ordered, voice clipped.
Jean stepped forward with another MP. The canvas tarp was heavy with rain. As they peeled it back the prisoner sat hunched in chains, head bowed low.
Jean's eyes followed the figure's frame: the shoulders, the posture, the hair—
Something didn't line up.
He blinked, heart skipping.
The prisoner looked up. Not Eren. Not even close. The resemblance vanished under scrutiny. Whoever this was, it wasn't him.
His breath caught, but before he could speak, a commotion burst at the courtyard entrance. A soldier sprinted in, nearly slipping on the slick stones.
"Commander! Emergency report!"
Annie's door hung half ajar when the whisper reached her— steel cable retracting somewhere in the building's depths. ODM gear spooling up. The sound was soft, almost lost in the rain's percussion, but unmistakable.
"Annie."
The voice came from the far end of the hallway. She turned slowly, to find Mikasa standing there, fully geared, her red scarf dark with rain. Water dripped from her cloak in silent beads, each drop impossibly loud in the hush. Her palms cupped the hilts of her blades, dark eyes fixed on Annie.
"Mikasa." Annie kept her tone light, easing half a step back toward her room. "I was just heading to the old chapel. Something wrong?"
Mikasa's expression didn't change. No pretense, no games. "Come with us. No one has to get hurt."
Annie's free hand slid to the sling, two fingers resting on the buckle as if merely steadying her rifle. Behind Mikasa, she caught movement—more shapes materializing from the stairwell.
"No one has to get hurt, huh?" The words scraped out flat, controlled, cracking beneath. "Funny, coming from you."
"The Scouts—they're chasing someone through the streets! Multiple units in pursuit! They're attacking us!"
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Rifles lifted, fingers tensed. The MPs bristled, confused and on edge. The three Scouts didn't move—but Jean noticed the short one's eyes flicking between barrels, calculating odds.
"Send reinforcements," Commander Dawk snapped. "Secure the district immediately!"
He wheeled on the tall Scout, fury mounting. "Erwin, what in the hell is going on?!"
"Nile," the man answered—measured, unshaken, his voice cutting cleanly. "Send those reinforcements with blades. They'll need anti-titan steel."
Mikasa's eyes flicked past her shoulder—more behind, they'd cut off her retreat.
Click. Annie's thumb eased back the rifle's hammer, the sound soft but surgical—
"We know about the expedition," a Scout called. "About what you did. About Anja—"
Stock snapped to shoulder, muzzle leveled, trigger pulled. The shot tore into the wall beside them, exploding brick and wood in a burst of splinters and smoke.
Time contracted—rain hissed against the roof, her heartbeat thundered, and every muscle in Annie's body answered an unspoken order to survive.
Move.
Annie's heel kicked her door wide as she dove backward into the room. No time to think. Bag—bed—grabbed. She twisted toward the window.
Breach open, spent shell out, fresh round in—reflex.
Mikasa burst through the doorway like a storm given form, blades whistling through air where Annie's head had been a heartbeat before. She brought her rifle up crosswise, catching the strike, metal rang against metal. The force drove her back, boots sliding on wet floorboards.
"Where is she?" Annie snarled, the words tearing from her throat before she could stop them. "What did you do to her?"
Mikasa's expression hardened further, if that was possible. "Surrender and find out."
"There are no titans in Wall Sina!" Commander Dawk's voice cracked like a whip, rising above the rain. "Your men are rampaging through the city—and you're talking about titan blades?!"
"Not yet," Smith replied, tone neutral as stone. "But that's about to change. We're here to capture one."
Jean's head swam. A titan? So far inside the walls? Impossible.
"Enough!" The Commander's voice cracked like a whip. "I don't know what delusion you're operating under, but this ends now. Secure the prisoner. Detain these three!"
The MPs surged forward, rifles raised.
The short Scout stepped slightly ahead, voice low and cold. "Lower your weapons. Before you do something you'll regret."
A few MPs faltered—hesitating, uncertain—but none stood down.
Smith's voice followed, quiet but ironclad. "We're wasting time. You'll have bigger problems than us very soon."
Jean's thoughts were still tangled—until the MP beside him hissed, "Hey. Snap out of it. The prisoner—"
He blinked. His voice came out strangled, but firm enough to cut through the rain. "Commander — Sir—the prisoner isn't Eren Jaeger."
All eyes turned to him. Silence.
Commander Dawk's gaze flicked to the prisoner, realization dawning—and then the sky above the distant rooftops flashed violet. A purple flare arced upward, hanging in the rain like a wound in the gray clouds.
Smith's expression never changed, but something in his eyes suggested this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. "As I said, Nile. Bigger problems."
Annie pivoted, using Mikasa's momentum against her, and slammed the rifle butt into her ribs. Mikasa grunted but no collapse, one blade sweeping low. Annie jumped back, felt the window glass against her spine. No room left to retreat.
The other Scouts were crowding the doorway now. In seconds, they'd overwhelm her through sheer numbers.
Annie made her choice.
She spun and dove through a burst of glass and rain.
For a moment, she was flying—three stories of empty air, rain slashing at her face, the ground rushing up with fatal promise. Her fingers found the ODM triggers by instinct, cables firing toward the building across the street. The anchors bit into brick and her fall became a swing, arc carrying her in a wide curve as glass shards glittered in her wake.
Behind her, Mikasa followed without hesitation.
Mikasa moved through the air as if physics were optional. Annie's hands worked frantically—breach open, cartridge out, new round in, breach closed—all while swinging through the air. She fired backward one-handed, more to force Mikasa to dodge than with any hope of hitting. The shot went wide, striking a chimney in a spray of red dust.
She angled toward the southern gates—Scouts were already there, herding her like wolves. Every time she adjusted course, they were there, forcing her back.
They were steering her toward the market square.
Reload. Swing. Dodge. Reload.
Her movements became mechanical, muscle memory taking over as her mind raced. It was simple but slow—one shot, reload, one shot, reload. Each time she had to break her momentum, giving Mikasa precious inches.
"Annie, stop!" Armin's voice carried from her left—urgent, pleading.
She almost laughed at that. It had already ended badly. The moment they'd used Anja's name as bait, the moment they'd revealed they knew—it had all ended.
Her left cable didn't retract properly, gear grinding. The malfunction cost her precious speed. Mikasa's blade passed so close Annie felt it part the air beside her ear.
Annie landed hard on the market square's cobblestones, rolling to absorb the impact. Her hands were already working—breach, cartridge, close—last round. When she came up, they were all surrounding her. Scouts dropping from buildings like spiders, forming a closing circle.
Her finger hovered over the trigger, too many targets, nowhere to aim that would matter.
She steadied herself, assessing. Empty space in every direction. Too far to reach any building before they'd cut her down.
Eren touched down behind Mikasa. Of course. They'd brought him here too.
"Annie, it's over!" Armin stepped forward, hands spread peacefully. "I know you don't want this. Out there, in the forest—you didn't kill us, it does't have to end that way. We're not your enemy."
Her eyes flicked down to her ring. The rifle didn't waver.
"I thought I could keep going. Even for a little while. Be who they needed me to be… and still be something else."
"Told myself it didn't matter. That if I stayed in control, I—"
She blinked hard. Rain or tears—it didn't matter now.
"But she got caught in the middle."
A breath.
"Because of me."
Her voice flattened.
"You were always the enemy. I just wanted to pretend you weren't."
Another pause—longer now.
"I failed to be a warrior. I failed her, too."
Eren stepped forward, his voice raw.
"Then why didn't you stop?!"
His fists clenched, rain running down his arms. He wasn't just shouting—he was pleading.
"You let her fight for you. Why did you let her throw everything away?"
He met her eyes. For just a second, there was grief behind the rage.
"Did you really even care at all?!"
Annie's hands trembled. Not much. But enough. The rifle stayed up. Barely.
"She's still alive," Armin said, voice low.
Her eyes snapped to him.
"For now."
He took a slow, measured step forward, hands raised higher.
"She told me who you were. She thought she could reach you. That none of this had to happen. That no one else had to die."
His voice dropped further.
"She believed in you, Annie."
A pause—then the final thrust.
"I want to believe her too. Was she wrong?"
Mikasa said nothing. She didn't need to. Her stare was a judgment—and a sentence.
Annie's lips parted, but no words came out. She looked at Armin—then past him. Her jaw clenched. Her rifle dipped an inch.
"Believed…"
A whisper. Then sharper:
"You don't know anything. None of you do."
A breath. Shaking.
"You're all the same."
"Talk about saving lives—but you take the ones who try. You break them until they can't even speak."
"This world doesn't want peace. It just wants killers in the right uniform."
"She thought I was different. That I could be different."
A pause. Her breath caught.
"She was wrong."
"I'm done pretending."
She stared directly at Armin.
"You wanted a monster."
And to all of them—
"You'll get one."
Her finger moved to the trigger. Mikasa shifted instantly, placing herself between Annie and Eren. Armin raised his hands higher, real alarm in his eyes now.
She saw the moment Armin realized what was about to happen. Someone moved behind her—trying to grab her while she was distracted. The rifle fired, the shot going wide as hands seized her arms.
Too late.
Annie's hand moved in a blur, her ring's hidden blade slicing deep into her thumb. Blood welled instantly. Thunder cracked overhead, but it wasn't from the storm.
Lightning split the world in half.
The transformation hit like a bomb, golden light erupting from Annie's position. The Scout who'd grabbed her—along with three others too close to escape—were instantly vaporized by the explosive force. The closest survivors were blown backward like leaves, cobblestones cracking in a spiderweb pattern beneath the point of impact. Steam billowed up in a massive column, and through it, something huge began to take shape.
When the steam cleared, the Female Titan stood in the market square, fourteen meters of corded muscle and focused intent. Rain sluiced off her form in sheets as she looked down at the scattered Scouts—some motionless, others struggling to rise, a few simply gone.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Eren's roar answered hers, and the battle for Stohess began in earnest.
The gates of Stohess loomed before Anja like the mouth of hell. Guards scattered in every direction, their shouts of "Titans! There are titans inside!" cutting through the storm. She didn't slow the horse, didn't hesitate. The animal's sides heaved with exhaustion, foam flying from its mouth, but she drove it forward into the chaos.
People flooded the streets—civilians fleeing in blind panic, Military Police struggling against the human tide. Near the gate, a young MP, probably around her age, stood frozen in place. Her brown, wavy hair clung in wet strands to her face, rain streaming down as hands grabbed at her uniform, shouting demands. The girl didn't respond, didn't even blink. Just stared into distance.
Anja barely registered her before a woman stumbled directly into her path, arms full of belongings. She yanked the reins hard left—hooves skidded on wet stone. They barely missed the woman, but the motion sent fresh agony lancing through her broken fingers.
Above the screaming crowd, she saw them.
Two titans locked in combat, their massive forms demolishing buildings with each exchange. Eren's titan—she recognized the burning green eyes, the wild dark hair—threw a punch that Annie's Female Titan deflected, the impact sending debris raining down on fleeing civilians. Annie moved with grace, every motion calculated, while Eren fought like a rabid animal.
Her heart clenched.
The horse finally collapsed near an old chapel, its legs giving out completely. Anja rolled off its back, landing hard on cobblestones awash with rain and worse. Her broken fingers screamed protest as she pushed herself up, scanning the chaos.
There—a Scout's body crushed beneath fallen masonry, gear intact. The sight hit her like a physical blow. Another life snuffed out in an instant. Just like in the forest. Just like in Trost. The dead woman's eyes stared at nothing, rain pooling in their sockets. Her cloak was torn but salvageable, the Wings of Freedom still visible beneath the mud and blood.
Anja's hands shook as she worked. She couldn't think about who this woman might have been. Couldn't afford to. The cloak settled heavy on her shoulders as she buckled the ODM gear around herself. The weight felt wrong on her body, but it would have to do.
Her grip was slipping—fingers raw and trembling. She tore a strip of cloth from the inside hem of the cloak, fastened it around each hand and handle in a quick loop. Crude, but enough to hold.
She fired her anchors and launched into the air.
Rage. Pure, crystalline rage that burned away everything else.
Annie moved on instinct, a life of training taking over. Eren came at her again, all fury and no technique, telegraphing his moves like a child. She ducked the wild swing, snapped a hardened elbow up beneath his chin—bone splintered, teeth flew, his titan's jaw dangling loose. Before the steam even billowed she slid inside his guard and drove her knee into his ribs with a crack that echoed off the surrounding buildings. He went down, destroying a bakery beneath his weight.
Scouts were everywhere. Cables shot past her head, blades flashing. One managed to score a hit on her shoulder before she could harden the skin, steam hissing from the wound as it began to heal. Another went for her ankles. Like gnats, individually harmless but collectively threatening to bring her down through sheer numbers.
She grabbed one out of the air—didn't look at their face, couldn't afford to—and flung them into a building. The wet crunch told her they wouldn't be getting up. One less problem.
Eren was already rising, his titan's jaw hanging from her last strike, steam pouring from the damage. He didn't know when to quit.
She could fight him, but not forever—every heartbeat here narrowed her odds.
BOOM.
She barely had time to register the sound as something pierced her ankles—cables, but different from standard ODM. The same type they'd used in the forest. A frantic Scout with glasses was shouting orders, more cables shooting out to secure her limbs.
Annie snarled, reaching down to tear at the restraints. Eren took the opening, slamming into her with his full weight. They went down together, crushing buildings and anyone too slow to escape. His broken jaw couldn't bite, but he used his body to pin her, hands scrabbling for her nape.
She bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but more cables kept coming. She tried to crystal-coat her nape, but her hardening was stretched thin from her elbow strike—too slow.
Through the chaos, she spotted a figure approaching at incredible speed—red scarf streaming behind her like a banner. Mikasa, angling for the killing strike.
This was it. Trapped and executed like an animal while—
A figure in a Scout cloak intercepted Mikasa mid-flight, blades meeting with a sound like breaking bells.
The impact jarred through Anja's entire body, but she'd done it, barely managed to block Mikasa— In the same motion, she twisted, her second blade slashing through the tendons of Eren's titan fingers. The grip loosened just enough for Annie to wrench free, her titan rolling away from Eren's grasp.
Anja landed hard on a rooftop, legs nearly buckling. Mikasa touched down across from her, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Rain washed the steaming blood from Anja's cloak, the Wings of Freedom on its back a mockery of everything she'd just done.
"Mikasa, we don't have to fight, please..." Anja said, lowering her blades despite how her broken fingers screamed.
Mikasa's expression was carved from stone. "Why would I listen to you?"
There was no point arguing. No point explaining. Anja adjusted her grip on the blades, trying to compensate for her injuries.
Please. I don't want to hurt her. Don't make me hurt—
Mikasa moved.
The first exchange nearly ended it. A blade whistled past Anja's throat by millimeters, only a desperate backward lunge saving her. The second strike came before she could fully recover, forcing a parry with hands that could barely hold steel.
They had done this a hundred times in training—wooden swords, bruises instead of blood. Even then Mikasa had been faster and stronger, and Anja too stubborn to yield.
"You're not walking away from this," Mikasa said, her blades moving faster than Anja could follow. "Not after what you've done."
Steel met flesh.
Three fingers spun away from Anja's right hand like red petals.
Always making the same mistakes... I never stood a chance against her.
The pain was so absolute it circled back around to numbness. Anja stared at her mutilated hand—her thumb and an already-broken index remained, still twisted; the other three were simply gone, blood pulsing with every heartbeat.
Mikasa took a step forward, blades raised. "This ends here."
Anja didn't move.
She didn't even flinch.
For a heartbeat, she accepted it.
Behind them, a massive crash. Eren's titan had fallen, steam rising from its still form. Mikasa's head turned—concern flickering across her features.
The Female Titan loomed, climbing to her feet.
Anja took her chance. Her right hand barely functioned, each twitch sending shocks up her arm—the opening was there. She fired an anchor into Annie's shoulder; the recoil nearly tore the grip from her broken fingers. Her body lurched forward—off-balance, half-falling, vision tunneling.
Mikasa turned too late. Anja slammed into her midair with raw momentum, both boots striking Mikasa's chest more by accident than aim. The impact sent them spinning—Mikasa thrown back to the rooftop, Anja dragged in a jagged arc toward the titan. Her anchor line jerked tight—pain flared—but she didn't stop.
She hit Annie's shoulder hard, boots skidding against steaming flesh, and climbed.
Rain fell in sheets. Smoke curled from ruptured buildings. But for a single breath, the world narrowed.
Annie's titan turned her head slightly—just enough to see her. Through the boiling steam and the howl of the wind, their eyes met.
No hesitation.
She turned, broke into a sprint for the wall, every step scattering debris and screaming bodies. Anja clung tight, her good left hand tangled in coarse golden strands, the other pressing against her ribs to stanch the blood.
Mikasa recovered quickly, giving chase. Her anchors fired with deadly precision, closing the distance in a blink. Annie was almost to the wall, hands reaching for purchase to climb, when Mikasa would overtake them.
Anja twisted herself around, heart pounding, and fumbled for the trigger. Her hand spasmed—but she managed it.
Her blade snapped down, catching one of Mikasa's cables. Steel parted with a shriek. The severed line recoiled violently, and Mikasa was sent veering off-course, forced to land on a distant rooftop out of reach.
Their eyes met across the gap—cold fury on Mikasa's face—she could not catch up now.
Annie's titan fingers punched into the stone, dragging them up the wall in lurching bursts. Below, the sounds of shouting, collapsing masonry, and distant gunfire bled together into chaos.
She'd reached Annie. The relief came sharp and breathless—but it soured just as quickly.
Behind them, Stohess bore the cost: a trail of destruction and death carved through one of humanity's safest refuges.
/
/
/
Note: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this one.
Rain hammered against Anja's face like cold needles, each drop mixing with the blood that seeped from her torn palms. Somewhere along the road she'd broken into an empty toll-house and stolen a pair of boots and rough linen tunic—the quickest way to hide the shredded remnants of her clothes without losing time.
Her left hand was still a swollen mess—thumb bent, two fingers shattered. She seized a brief lull in the horse's stride to press the bones back into place, gritting her teeth at the grinding sensation. The makeshift splint she'd fashioned from torn cloth was already soaked through with rain and blood.
Every jolt of the horse's movement sent fresh agony shooting up her arms, but she couldn't slow. Through the storm's gray veil, Stohess's walls loomed like mountains. Steady wall‑lamps shimmered in roadside puddles—soft amber halos that mirrored the city's quiet vigilance.
The storm tasted wrong. Not just rain and mud, but a copper‑sweet film across her tongue—the same flavor that had filled her mouth in the forest when the thing that wore her brother's face and promised salvation. Even now, she felt it watching through the downpour, patient as rot.
Her mount slipped, hooves skidding on the mud. For a heartbeat she seemed to watch herself from above: a broken thing clinging to a terrified animal, racing toward a city that would spare her no mercy. No good choices—only exits. The thought arrived in a voice that might have been hers, or something else's.
Lightning split the sky, bleaching Stohess's walls for one brilliant second. In that flash she caught a purple flare arcing above the ramparts. Something was happening. Something big.
"Annie," she whispered through split, swollen lips. The name was prayer and promise at once. Was she too late? Whatever they had done to her friend—whatever Annie had done to others—none of it mattered now. She had to find her. She would, even if it meant feeding what was left of herself to the thing that lurked in her mind.
The horse surged forward, and Anja let the vow carry her toward the city's waiting chaos.
One hour earlier…
Annie watched Jean pace the small room, his notebook clutched in one hand as he scribbled down everything they'd seen at the warehouse. His movements were sharp, agitated—controlled desperation. They'd gathered in the room she shared with Hitch, though Annie had been packing her few belongings all morning, slipping them into her rucksack whenever Hitch wasn't looking.
The others hadn't noticed yet, too focused on the evidence they had haphazardly spread across the small table between them.
"We need someone who can help us," Jean said, his voice tight. "Commander Pyxis, maybe. Or someone in the Scouts, anyone who can actually do something." His fingers traced the edges of the shipping manifests, as if touching them might reveal where Marco had gone. "We don't know what happened to any of them—Marco, Dennis, Boris. They could be—"
"They could be what? Alive?" Annie interrupted, her voice flat. She knew exactly what happened to people who disappeared into facilities like that warehouse. The drainage tables, the crematorium... They hadn't found bodies because the entire operation was designed to ensure no bodies remained to find. "They're dead, and if we get involved, we'll end up like them."
"You—" Jean's face flushed, but he swallowed the retort. "You don't know that! You think we aren't in danger already? Think again, anyone could be next unless we do something."
"I agree with Jean, looking the other way won't fix anything. But I think we have more options..." Marlo said, producing a folded document. "I did some digging after we left. The warehouse—it's not just some MP facility. Turns out it's owned by the royal government directly, leased to the Military Police, listed as a 'storage facility' with an added clause for 'discretionary special logistics operations.'" He looked up at them. "This place... it goes all the way to the top. Which is exactly why we need to follow proper channels. I'm willing to bet Commander Dawk has no clue what is going down there. If we document everything, file reports through the correct chain of command—"
"Like Brandt did?" Annie's question hung in the air like a blade. She moved to her bed, straightening her sheets while sliding another folded shirt into her bag. The papers hidden in her jacket seemed to burn against her ribs—Brandt's investigation notes, what was left of them, the ones that had gotten so many people killed.
Jean's hands clenched around his notebook. "We are already neck deep in this shit... I don't care what you say, Marco is out there somewhere, and every second we waste—"
A sharp knock interrupted him. The door swung open to reveal a rain-soaked Hitch, who'd gone to check on their duty assignments.
Her usually tousled brown hair was flattened by the rain, clinging to her face in limp strands.
"Prisoner transfer arrives within the hour," she announced. "All hands to defensive positions, we have to gear up. Commander's orders."
The others began gathering their evidence, preparing to leave, but Hitch blocked Annie's path.
"We need to talk," Hitch said quietly, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something else. "Alone."
After the others filed out, Hitch closed the door and leaned against it.
"What?"
"Planning to disappear again?" Hitch nodded toward the bed, where the outline of Annie's bag was barely visible.
Annie let the silence stretch for a moment before answering. "I'm taking a few days off." She moved toward the door, but Hitch didn't budge.
"I'm not stupid, Annie. You've been acting weirder than usual. Even before the masquerade. Now the warehouse, this prisoner transfer, you packing your things—something's happening. Something you know about."
Annie kept her expression neutral. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't lie to me." Hitch's voice dropped lower. "Look, I'm not Jean or Marlo. I'm not going to charge off trying to save everyone. I value my life too much for that. But I can't rest easy if my roommate is keeping secrets that could get me killed."
For a moment, Annie considered telling her. Warning her to run, to get as far from Stohess as possible. But that would raise questions she couldn't answer. Instead, she moved past Hitch toward the door.
"There's nothing to tell," Annie said. "We should get ready."
Hitch caught her arm. "Annie, you owe me that much—"
"Let go." There was something in Annie's tone that made Hitch's hand drop immediately. "Whatever you think is happening, whatever you think I know—forget it. Keep your head down during the transfer. Don't ask questions. Don't investigate anything. Just... lay low."
She left Hitch standing there. In her pocket, her fingers found the cold metal of her ring. She slid it on without hesitation. Time was running out, and she had already decided—it had become too dangerous for her.
No good choices left, only exits.
Annie stood at her assigned position on the district's main thoroughfare, the repaired inner pocket of her jacket pressing against her ribs with each breath. The distant bell of the district clock tower tolled once—fifteen minutes until the transfer ended. She would leave then. Fifteen minutes that suddenly felt like a lifetime.
The alley she was assigned to watch opened a few paces behind her post—a narrow lane between tidy stone town-houses, flagstones slick with moisture yet otherwise undisturbed, feeding straight into the thoroughfare. Half-torn posters lauding the "Hero of Trost" clung to the nearest wall, drizzle streaking Anja's printed likeness into a ghostly smear.
Beyond the mouth of the lane, the cobblestones gleamed like dark mirrors. Nearby, Military Police officers adjusted their gear with awkward movements—no blades, only rifles and ODM. The authorization had come down barely an hour ago, outside normal protocol. Were they expecting trouble?
Movement registered in Annie's peripheral vision. She glanced upward. Hitch stood on the opposite rooftop, rifle cradled loosely, her gaze sweeping the street. Their eyes met. Hitch held it a heartbeat too long before turning away. Was that suspicion? Warning? Or just Hitch being Hitch? Annie's hands wanted to tremble. She clamped them tighter on her rifle.
A shout from the gate cracked through the damp air; Hitch pivoted east to cover the call, a wide stone chimney blocking her view of the alley mouth.
The convoy rumbled past. Through a gap in the middle wagon's canvas she glimpsed the prisoner—broad‑shouldered, head bowed, features lost to shadow. A prisoner from the Scouts transferred under this security? It had to be Eren. No one else warranted such measures.
"Annie."
Her whole body went rigid. She turned slowly, mechanically, to find a hooded figure in the alley. The hood fell: Armin, rain dripping from his cloak, stood half‑lit by a lamp.
"Good to see you," he said—brief smile, almost sad.
"I'm on duty." The words came out steady. Good; her voice still worked.
"This can't wait." He stepped closer, and Annie's mind registered a dozen details at once—the way his cloak fell suggested full gear beneath, how the alley's far exit was partially blocked, the careful distance he maintained. "That prisoner in the wagon—it's a decoy. One of our people volunteered to buy us time."
The words hit her in waves. Decoy. Of course.
"The Military Police plan to execute Eren without trial," Armin went on, voice low and urgent. "They're planning to move him to a black site. We're getting him out, but we need someone inside the MPs—someone who knows patrol routes and blind spots. Someone they won't suspect."
Exactly the kind of plan the Scouts would hatch: bold, desperate, logical. But why tell her? Why now? Her chest felt too tight, like her ribs were closing in.
No. She didn't want any of this. She wasn't going after him again; she'd made her choice already.
"Not my problem. Find someone else." She started to turn back toward the street.
"Please, Annie. Anja said you would help."
She stopped mid-step, the words hitting her like a physical blow.
For half a heartbeat Annie forgot to breathe. Anja—alive. Relief flooded so hard her knees threatened to fold.
"She's with us," Armin pressed, eyes glinting. "Said you were the only MP we could trust. She told us you'd understand."
Something warm bloomed in Annie's chest—Anja trusting her, even after everything. Needing her. The thoughts jostled, clashed—hope and doubt, rising all at once, but a cold, sharp dread pierced her gut, whispering that something was terribly wrong.
"Where is she?" The question came out raw, desperate. She couldn't help it.
"Waiting at the underground passage near the old chapel." Armin gestured south. "She wanted to come herself, but her injuries from the expedition slow her. We couldn't risk it. You know how stubborn she is."
Annie's mind went absolutely still.
Injuries. Slow her. Couldn't risk it.
No.
The word rang through her skull like a bell. No, no, no. She did know how stubborn Anja was. Stubborn enough to show up with broken bones. Stubborn enough to crawl if she couldn't walk. If Anja were really there, really part of this, she would have come. Would have looked Annie in the eye. Would have asked for this herself, even if they had to carry her.
Relief curdled into lead. Either Anja wasn't with them—or she couldn't choose to be.
"Her injuries," Annie heard herself say. "From the expedition."
"Yeah, she's still healing, but she's managing." Armin's words flowed smoothly, just a touch lighter than before. "You know Anja—she pretends it's nothing, but traveling is difficult for her right now."
Each syllable drove the spike deeper. He knew. Wherever Anja was, Armin knew she wasn't here.
Trap. This was a trap.
"I just need five minutes." The words came out calm, controlled. Inside, Annie was screaming. "To grab something from my quarters. Papers, credentials. We'll need them for the checkpoints."
Armin didn't argue. A pause—calculation flickered behind those ocean‑blue eyes. Then he nodded.
"Makes sense. Remember, the old chapel's passage. We'll wait ten minutes, no more."
"Understood."
Annie turned and walked away. Steady steps. Normal pace. Don't run. Don't let him see. Ten steps. Fifteen. Around the corner.
A faint metallic click drifted from the rooftop behind her—too light for a rifle bolt, too deliberate for rain—and vanished into the hiss of drizzle.
Then she ran.
Her mask shattered the moment she was out of sight. Panic flooded her system hot, electric. Her cover was blown.
Annie's feet pounded against wet stone. Her ODM gear shifted with each stride, rifle clanking against gas canisters in a rhythm that broadcast her guilt. She couldn't use it now—she'd give herself away.
Everything she'd built here, every careful lie—gone. They knew. How much did they know? How long had they known?
And Anja—
What had they done to her? Where was she? Was she even—
No. Don't think about that now. Run.
A sob tried to claw its way up her throat. She swallowed it down, forced her legs to pump harder. The barracks were three blocks away. Her bag, then the gates. She could make it. She had to make it.
The rain had picked up again, turning the world into a blur of gray shapes and refracted light. Streets deserted—the MPs were all on decoy duty. Idiot. She should have seen it sooner. The absence of people sent alarm bells screaming through her skull.
A puddle splashed behind her—too heavy for raindrops. She didn't look back.
The barracks loomed ahead. Annie forced herself to slow at the entrance, nodding casually to the gate guard hunched over his reports.
"Forgot something in my room," she said, words sliding out smooth despite her hammering heart. "Back in five."
He waved her through without a glance. Annie took the stairs two at a time, wet boots squeaking against worn boards, rifle bumping her hip. Second floor. Third. Her hallway stretched ahead, absurdly empty—
Click—scrape. Roof tiles shifting? Or something else?
She reached her door. One hand gripped the knob.
The covered wagon rolled to a stop in the courtyard, wheels grinding against wet cobblestones with a finality that made Jean's shoulders tense. He stood with the other MPs, rifle held at the ready.
The Scout Regiment soldiers who'd accompanied the transport dismounted with practiced ease. Three of them—one tall and blond, with the bearing of someone used to being obeyed; a shorter man whose sharp gaze scanned the courtyard like a blade, favoring one leg slightly as he landed; and a third who remained close by the transport. All three stood still, hands visible, following protocol to the letter.
So why did everything feel wrong?
"Open it," Commander Dawk ordered, voice clipped.
Jean stepped forward with another MP. The canvas tarp was heavy with rain. As they peeled it back the prisoner sat hunched in chains, head bowed low.
Jean's eyes followed the figure's frame: the shoulders, the posture, the hair—
Something didn't line up.
He blinked, heart skipping.
The prisoner looked up. Not Eren. Not even close. The resemblance vanished under scrutiny. Whoever this was, it wasn't him.
His breath caught, but before he could speak, a commotion burst at the courtyard entrance. A soldier sprinted in, nearly slipping on the slick stones.
"Commander! Emergency report!"
Annie's door hung half ajar when the whisper reached her— steel cable retracting somewhere in the building's depths. ODM gear spooling up. The sound was soft, almost lost in the rain's percussion, but unmistakable.
"Annie."
The voice came from the far end of the hallway. She turned slowly, to find Mikasa standing there, fully geared, her red scarf dark with rain. Water dripped from her cloak in silent beads, each drop impossibly loud in the hush. Her palms cupped the hilts of her blades, dark eyes fixed on Annie.
"Mikasa." Annie kept her tone light, easing half a step back toward her room. "I was just heading to the old chapel. Something wrong?"
Mikasa's expression didn't change. No pretense, no games. "Come with us. No one has to get hurt."
Annie's free hand slid to the sling, two fingers resting on the buckle as if merely steadying her rifle. Behind Mikasa, she caught movement—more shapes materializing from the stairwell.
"No one has to get hurt, huh?" The words scraped out flat, controlled, cracking beneath. "Funny, coming from you."
"The Scouts—they're chasing someone through the streets! Multiple units in pursuit! They're attacking us!"
The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Rifles lifted, fingers tensed. The MPs bristled, confused and on edge. The three Scouts didn't move—but Jean noticed the short one's eyes flicking between barrels, calculating odds.
"Send reinforcements," Commander Dawk snapped. "Secure the district immediately!"
He wheeled on the tall Scout, fury mounting. "Erwin, what in the hell is going on?!"
"Nile," the man answered—measured, unshaken, his voice cutting cleanly. "Send those reinforcements with blades. They'll need anti-titan steel."
Mikasa's eyes flicked past her shoulder—more behind, they'd cut off her retreat.
Click. Annie's thumb eased back the rifle's hammer, the sound soft but surgical—
"We know about the expedition," a Scout called. "About what you did. About Anja—"
Stock snapped to shoulder, muzzle leveled, trigger pulled. The shot tore into the wall beside them, exploding brick and wood in a burst of splinters and smoke.
Time contracted—rain hissed against the roof, her heartbeat thundered, and every muscle in Annie's body answered an unspoken order to survive.
Move.
Annie's heel kicked her door wide as she dove backward into the room. No time to think. Bag—bed—grabbed. She twisted toward the window.
Breach open, spent shell out, fresh round in—reflex.
Mikasa burst through the doorway like a storm given form, blades whistling through air where Annie's head had been a heartbeat before. She brought her rifle up crosswise, catching the strike, metal rang against metal. The force drove her back, boots sliding on wet floorboards.
"Where is she?" Annie snarled, the words tearing from her throat before she could stop them. "What did you do to her?"
Mikasa's expression hardened further, if that was possible. "Surrender and find out."
"There are no titans in Wall Sina!" Commander Dawk's voice cracked like a whip, rising above the rain. "Your men are rampaging through the city—and you're talking about titan blades?!"
"Not yet," Smith replied, tone neutral as stone. "But that's about to change. We're here to capture one."
Jean's head swam. A titan? So far inside the walls? Impossible.
"Enough!" The Commander's voice cracked like a whip. "I don't know what delusion you're operating under, but this ends now. Secure the prisoner. Detain these three!"
The MPs surged forward, rifles raised.
The short Scout stepped slightly ahead, voice low and cold. "Lower your weapons. Before you do something you'll regret."
A few MPs faltered—hesitating, uncertain—but none stood down.
Smith's voice followed, quiet but ironclad. "We're wasting time. You'll have bigger problems than us very soon."
Jean's thoughts were still tangled—until the MP beside him hissed, "Hey. Snap out of it. The prisoner—"
He blinked. His voice came out strangled, but firm enough to cut through the rain. "Commander — Sir—the prisoner isn't Eren Jaeger."
All eyes turned to him. Silence.
Commander Dawk's gaze flicked to the prisoner, realization dawning—and then the sky above the distant rooftops flashed violet. A purple flare arced upward, hanging in the rain like a wound in the gray clouds.
Smith's expression never changed, but something in his eyes suggested this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. "As I said, Nile. Bigger problems."
Annie pivoted, using Mikasa's momentum against her, and slammed the rifle butt into her ribs. Mikasa grunted but no collapse, one blade sweeping low. Annie jumped back, felt the window glass against her spine. No room left to retreat.
The other Scouts were crowding the doorway now. In seconds, they'd overwhelm her through sheer numbers.
Annie made her choice.
She spun and dove through a burst of glass and rain.
For a moment, she was flying—three stories of empty air, rain slashing at her face, the ground rushing up with fatal promise. Her fingers found the ODM triggers by instinct, cables firing toward the building across the street. The anchors bit into brick and her fall became a swing, arc carrying her in a wide curve as glass shards glittered in her wake.
Behind her, Mikasa followed without hesitation.
Mikasa moved through the air as if physics were optional. Annie's hands worked frantically—breach open, cartridge out, new round in, breach closed—all while swinging through the air. She fired backward one-handed, more to force Mikasa to dodge than with any hope of hitting. The shot went wide, striking a chimney in a spray of red dust.
She angled toward the southern gates—Scouts were already there, herding her like wolves. Every time she adjusted course, they were there, forcing her back.
They were steering her toward the market square.
Reload. Swing. Dodge. Reload.
Her movements became mechanical, muscle memory taking over as her mind raced. It was simple but slow—one shot, reload, one shot, reload. Each time she had to break her momentum, giving Mikasa precious inches.
"Annie, stop!" Armin's voice carried from her left—urgent, pleading.
She almost laughed at that. It had already ended badly. The moment they'd used Anja's name as bait, the moment they'd revealed they knew—it had all ended.
Her left cable didn't retract properly, gear grinding. The malfunction cost her precious speed. Mikasa's blade passed so close Annie felt it part the air beside her ear.
Annie landed hard on the market square's cobblestones, rolling to absorb the impact. Her hands were already working—breach, cartridge, close—last round. When she came up, they were all surrounding her. Scouts dropping from buildings like spiders, forming a closing circle.
Her finger hovered over the trigger, too many targets, nowhere to aim that would matter.
She steadied herself, assessing. Empty space in every direction. Too far to reach any building before they'd cut her down.
Eren touched down behind Mikasa. Of course. They'd brought him here too.
"Annie, it's over!" Armin stepped forward, hands spread peacefully. "I know you don't want this. Out there, in the forest—you didn't kill us, it does't have to end that way. We're not your enemy."
Her eyes flicked down to her ring. The rifle didn't waver.
"I thought I could keep going. Even for a little while. Be who they needed me to be… and still be something else."
"Told myself it didn't matter. That if I stayed in control, I—"
She blinked hard. Rain or tears—it didn't matter now.
"But she got caught in the middle."
A breath.
"Because of me."
Her voice flattened.
"You were always the enemy. I just wanted to pretend you weren't."
Another pause—longer now.
"I failed to be a warrior. I failed her, too."
Eren stepped forward, his voice raw.
"Then why didn't you stop?!"
His fists clenched, rain running down his arms. He wasn't just shouting—he was pleading.
"You let her fight for you. Why did you let her throw everything away?"
He met her eyes. For just a second, there was grief behind the rage.
"Did you really even care at all?!"
Annie's hands trembled. Not much. But enough. The rifle stayed up. Barely.
"She's still alive," Armin said, voice low.
Her eyes snapped to him.
"For now."
He took a slow, measured step forward, hands raised higher.
"She told me who you were. She thought she could reach you. That none of this had to happen. That no one else had to die."
His voice dropped further.
"She believed in you, Annie."
A pause—then the final thrust.
"I want to believe her too. Was she wrong?"
Mikasa said nothing. She didn't need to. Her stare was a judgment—and a sentence.
Annie's lips parted, but no words came out. She looked at Armin—then past him. Her jaw clenched. Her rifle dipped an inch.
"Believed…"
A whisper. Then sharper:
"You don't know anything. None of you do."
A breath. Shaking.
"You're all the same."
"Talk about saving lives—but you take the ones who try. You break them until they can't even speak."
"This world doesn't want peace. It just wants killers in the right uniform."
"She thought I was different. That I could be different."
A pause. Her breath caught.
"She was wrong."
"I'm done pretending."
She stared directly at Armin.
"You wanted a monster."
And to all of them—
"You'll get one."
Her finger moved to the trigger. Mikasa shifted instantly, placing herself between Annie and Eren. Armin raised his hands higher, real alarm in his eyes now.
She saw the moment Armin realized what was about to happen. Someone moved behind her—trying to grab her while she was distracted. The rifle fired, the shot going wide as hands seized her arms.
Too late.
Annie's hand moved in a blur, her ring's hidden blade slicing deep into her thumb. Blood welled instantly. Thunder cracked overhead, but it wasn't from the storm.
Lightning split the world in half.
The transformation hit like a bomb, golden light erupting from Annie's position. The Scout who'd grabbed her—along with three others too close to escape—were instantly vaporized by the explosive force. The closest survivors were blown backward like leaves, cobblestones cracking in a spiderweb pattern beneath the point of impact. Steam billowed up in a massive column, and through it, something huge began to take shape.
When the steam cleared, the Female Titan stood in the market square, fourteen meters of corded muscle and focused intent. Rain sluiced off her form in sheets as she looked down at the scattered Scouts—some motionless, others struggling to rise, a few simply gone.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Eren's roar answered hers, and the battle for Stohess began in earnest.
The gates of Stohess loomed before Anja like the mouth of hell. Guards scattered in every direction, their shouts of "Titans! There are titans inside!" cutting through the storm. She didn't slow the horse, didn't hesitate. The animal's sides heaved with exhaustion, foam flying from its mouth, but she drove it forward into the chaos.
People flooded the streets—civilians fleeing in blind panic, Military Police struggling against the human tide. Near the gate, a young MP, probably around her age, stood frozen in place. Her brown, wavy hair clung in wet strands to her face, rain streaming down as hands grabbed at her uniform, shouting demands. The girl didn't respond, didn't even blink. Just stared into distance.
Anja barely registered her before a woman stumbled directly into her path, arms full of belongings. She yanked the reins hard left—hooves skidded on wet stone. They barely missed the woman, but the motion sent fresh agony lancing through her broken fingers.
Above the screaming crowd, she saw them.
Two titans locked in combat, their massive forms demolishing buildings with each exchange. Eren's titan—she recognized the burning green eyes, the wild dark hair—threw a punch that Annie's Female Titan deflected, the impact sending debris raining down on fleeing civilians. Annie moved with grace, every motion calculated, while Eren fought like a rabid animal.
Her heart clenched.
The horse finally collapsed near an old chapel, its legs giving out completely. Anja rolled off its back, landing hard on cobblestones awash with rain and worse. Her broken fingers screamed protest as she pushed herself up, scanning the chaos.
There—a Scout's body crushed beneath fallen masonry, gear intact. The sight hit her like a physical blow. Another life snuffed out in an instant. Just like in the forest. Just like in Trost. The dead woman's eyes stared at nothing, rain pooling in their sockets. Her cloak was torn but salvageable, the Wings of Freedom still visible beneath the mud and blood.
Anja's hands shook as she worked. She couldn't think about who this woman might have been. Couldn't afford to. The cloak settled heavy on her shoulders as she buckled the ODM gear around herself. The weight felt wrong on her body, but it would have to do.
Her grip was slipping—fingers raw and trembling. She tore a strip of cloth from the inside hem of the cloak, fastened it around each hand and handle in a quick loop. Crude, but enough to hold.
She fired her anchors and launched into the air.
Rage. Pure, crystalline rage that burned away everything else.
Annie moved on instinct, a life of training taking over. Eren came at her again, all fury and no technique, telegraphing his moves like a child. She ducked the wild swing, snapped a hardened elbow up beneath his chin—bone splintered, teeth flew, his titan's jaw dangling loose. Before the steam even billowed she slid inside his guard and drove her knee into his ribs with a crack that echoed off the surrounding buildings. He went down, destroying a bakery beneath his weight.
Scouts were everywhere. Cables shot past her head, blades flashing. One managed to score a hit on her shoulder before she could harden the skin, steam hissing from the wound as it began to heal. Another went for her ankles. Like gnats, individually harmless but collectively threatening to bring her down through sheer numbers.
She grabbed one out of the air—didn't look at their face, couldn't afford to—and flung them into a building. The wet crunch told her they wouldn't be getting up. One less problem.
Eren was already rising, his titan's jaw hanging from her last strike, steam pouring from the damage. He didn't know when to quit.
She could fight him, but not forever—every heartbeat here narrowed her odds.
BOOM.
She barely had time to register the sound as something pierced her ankles—cables, but different from standard ODM. The same type they'd used in the forest. A frantic Scout with glasses was shouting orders, more cables shooting out to secure her limbs.
Annie snarled, reaching down to tear at the restraints. Eren took the opening, slamming into her with his full weight. They went down together, crushing buildings and anyone too slow to escape. His broken jaw couldn't bite, but he used his body to pin her, hands scrabbling for her nape.
She bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but more cables kept coming. She tried to crystal-coat her nape, but her hardening was stretched thin from her elbow strike—too slow.
Through the chaos, she spotted a figure approaching at incredible speed—red scarf streaming behind her like a banner. Mikasa, angling for the killing strike.
This was it. Trapped and executed like an animal while—
A figure in a Scout cloak intercepted Mikasa mid-flight, blades meeting with a sound like breaking bells.
The impact jarred through Anja's entire body, but she'd done it, barely managed to block Mikasa— In the same motion, she twisted, her second blade slashing through the tendons of Eren's titan fingers. The grip loosened just enough for Annie to wrench free, her titan rolling away from Eren's grasp.
Anja landed hard on a rooftop, legs nearly buckling. Mikasa touched down across from her, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Rain washed the steaming blood from Anja's cloak, the Wings of Freedom on its back a mockery of everything she'd just done.
"Mikasa, we don't have to fight, please..." Anja said, lowering her blades despite how her broken fingers screamed.
Mikasa's expression was carved from stone. "Why would I listen to you?"
There was no point arguing. No point explaining. Anja adjusted her grip on the blades, trying to compensate for her injuries.
Please. I don't want to hurt her. Don't make me hurt—
Mikasa moved.
The first exchange nearly ended it. A blade whistled past Anja's throat by millimeters, only a desperate backward lunge saving her. The second strike came before she could fully recover, forcing a parry with hands that could barely hold steel.
They had done this a hundred times in training—wooden swords, bruises instead of blood. Even then Mikasa had been faster and stronger, and Anja too stubborn to yield.
"You're not walking away from this," Mikasa said, her blades moving faster than Anja could follow. "Not after what you've done."
Steel met flesh.
Three fingers spun away from Anja's right hand like red petals.
Always making the same mistakes... I never stood a chance against her.
The pain was so absolute it circled back around to numbness. Anja stared at her mutilated hand—her thumb and an already-broken index remained, still twisted; the other three were simply gone, blood pulsing with every heartbeat.
Mikasa took a step forward, blades raised. "This ends here."
Anja didn't move.
She didn't even flinch.
For a heartbeat, she accepted it.
Behind them, a massive crash. Eren's titan had fallen, steam rising from its still form. Mikasa's head turned—concern flickering across her features.
The Female Titan loomed, climbing to her feet.
Anja took her chance. Her right hand barely functioned, each twitch sending shocks up her arm—the opening was there. She fired an anchor into Annie's shoulder; the recoil nearly tore the grip from her broken fingers. Her body lurched forward—off-balance, half-falling, vision tunneling.
Mikasa turned too late. Anja slammed into her midair with raw momentum, both boots striking Mikasa's chest more by accident than aim. The impact sent them spinning—Mikasa thrown back to the rooftop, Anja dragged in a jagged arc toward the titan. Her anchor line jerked tight—pain flared—but she didn't stop.
She hit Annie's shoulder hard, boots skidding against steaming flesh, and climbed.
Rain fell in sheets. Smoke curled from ruptured buildings. But for a single breath, the world narrowed.
Annie's titan turned her head slightly—just enough to see her. Through the boiling steam and the howl of the wind, their eyes met.
No hesitation.
She turned, broke into a sprint for the wall, every step scattering debris and screaming bodies. Anja clung tight, her good left hand tangled in coarse golden strands, the other pressing against her ribs to stanch the blood.
Mikasa recovered quickly, giving chase. Her anchors fired with deadly precision, closing the distance in a blink. Annie was almost to the wall, hands reaching for purchase to climb, when Mikasa would overtake them.
Anja twisted herself around, heart pounding, and fumbled for the trigger. Her hand spasmed—but she managed it.
Her blade snapped down, catching one of Mikasa's cables. Steel parted with a shriek. The severed line recoiled violently, and Mikasa was sent veering off-course, forced to land on a distant rooftop out of reach.
Their eyes met across the gap—cold fury on Mikasa's face—she could not catch up now.
Annie's titan fingers punched into the stone, dragging them up the wall in lurching bursts. Below, the sounds of shouting, collapsing masonry, and distant gunfire bled together into chaos.
She'd reached Annie. The relief came sharp and breathless—but it soured just as quickly.
Behind them, Stohess bore the cost: a trail of destruction and death carved through one of humanity's safest refuges.
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Note: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this one.