The Titans are gone. The sky is clear. The walls have been reduced to stone and silence. But it doesn’t feel like winning, not when Nanaba still sleeps with a blade within reach.

The uniform doesn’t fit right anymore, too stiff in the shoulders, too clean. Nanaba tugs at the collar with a grimace, the crisp fabric brushing against the thin scar just under her throat. The medal case sits unopened on the bed beside her, dark velvet and brass freshly polished for the press, for the politicians who never saw the inside of a Titan’s maw.

She doesn’t look at it properly- can't look at it- but she pins it to her chest with deft fingers. It glints under the flickering candlelight—red and gold and utterly meaningless.

“Heroic conduct,” she mutters. “For holding the line. They don't even know what a front line looks like.” Her voice is flat, almost distant.

“Lynne won't get one, neither will Gelgar. All because they didn't make it back and we did.” Nanaba's hand clenches into a fist and in one abrupt swipe, her knuckles meet the wall beside the mirror with an angry crack. “Chest candy won’t bring them back.”