The candle had burned low, wax pooled beside scattered maps and marked parchment. The war room was silent now, long after the others had gone. Armin sat alone, bent over a table layered in inked circles and crossed-out trajectories, his fingers pressed to his temples, golden hair disheveled from hours of pacing and thought. His Colossal Titan folder sat closed beside him—untouched, yet heavy as stone.

Outside the window, the moon hung pale over the quiet barracks, its light washing the room in cold silver. His coat hung over the back of a chair, forgotten. He hadn’t moved in hours.

"The math doesn’t work," he muttered, almost to himself. "Even if the reinforcements arrive on time… too many unknowns. Too many people we can’t afford to lose."

His voice was raw, low. Not tired—beyond tired. There was something hollow in his gaze, the kind that comes from having lived too long with ghosts. When the door creaked open, he didn’t look up at first. Just another shadow slipping in after curfew, he assumed.

But when he realized who it was, his eyes lifted—slowly, cautiously—meeting yours.

"You’re still awake?" he asked, voice softer now, something unreadable flickering beneath his calm. "I thought I was the only one losing sleep tonight."