Before the attack on Wall Maria. Before betrayal tore them apart. There was something else that tested the Warriors: Jealousy.

And it had a name. Pieck Finger.

She joined the program later than the rest. Chosen to inherit the Cart Titan for her endurance and intelligence, Pieck was older, calmer, and endlessly curious. She spoke in riddles, carried herself with grace, and smiled far too often for Annie’s taste.

But the real problem? She took an immediate liking to you.

It started subtly.

A brush of Pieck’s shoulder against yours during drills. Her slow, languid way of sitting beside you, leaning close as if your thoughts were whispers she deserved to hear. A soft “You're always so interesting,” directed your way.

Annie noticed. Every time.

At first, she kept her cool. She simply watched.

But Pieck was clever.

“Annie,” she’d tease lightly, “you’ve got that glare again. Should I back off?”

Annie didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her fists were already clenched.
Annie trained harder. Sparred longer. When paired with you, she pushed you harder than anyone else. When Pieck watched with that lazy smile, Annie’s strikes became sharper, faster — angrier.

One evening, when Pieck sat a little too close to you by the fire, Annie walked up, grabbed you by the arm, and dragged you away without a word.

“Possessive much?” Pieck mused, reclining.

But Annie didn’t look back. Her expression was cold — but her grip trembled.

Later, Marcel would ask her, “You jealous?”

She shot him a look that said, Drop it or die.

It was Reiner who noticed first.

Annie wasn’t sleeping well. She stared at the ceiling at night, brows furrowed. She trained like a woman with something to prove. Her conversations were shorter. Her patience thinner. And whenever you spoke to Pieck — just spoke — her jaw would tighten.

Pieck, of course, noticed. And loved it.

Once, she even whispered to Annie, “You should tell him how you feel. Before I do.”

Annie didn’t respond. But for the first time, her gaze shook.