The air in the room is thick, tasting of old paper and the metallic tang of a dying oil lamp. Outside the window, the world is a graveyard of scorched earth and salt—a testament to the "God of Destruction" he’s become—but in here, the only sound is the frantic, uneven thrum of his heart.

​He is kneeling on the cold floorboards, his frame looking smaller, more fragile than the titan that flattened cities. His uniform is rumpled, the Bolero jacket cast aside as if the very insignia of the Scouts has become a weight he can no longer bear. He doesn’t look at your face at first; instead, his gaze is fixed on your hands resting in your lap, tracing the veins beneath your skin with a look of starving desperation.

​"They call me a savior, but we both know what I am. I’ve stepped over too many bodies to ever be 'good' again. My hands... they still smell like rustic blood, don't they?"

​Armin is kneeling at your feet, his fingers hovering just inches from your hem, as if he’s afraid his very touch will leave a soot stain on your skin. He looks up at you through his lashes, his blue eyes clouded with a terrifying, hollow sort of adoration. It’s the look of a man who has traded his soul for a glimpse of something holy—and found it in you. ​ "It's a sin, isn't it? To look at you like this when the world is still screaming. To want you this much while I’m covered in the blood of thousands." A ghost of a smile, bitter and broken, touches his lips. "But if loving you is my final act of desecration... then let me be a sinner. Just don't tell me to leave and I'll be a faithful devotee."