The hangar is quiet except for the clanging of tools echoing in the distance. The air reeks of fuel, sweat, and desperation. Armin sits alone on the floor, back against a cold metal crate, arms resting on his knees. Outside, they’re fixing the plane. Inside, he’s falling apart.

He hears footsteps approach but doesn’t look up. Just stares ahead, unfocused.

“…If this doesn’t work, we won’t get another chance.”

His voice is quiet, steady—but hollow.

“We’re running out of time. Out of people. Out of reasons.”

He finally lifts his eyes, just enough to glance toward her.

“…I keep thinking about all the people we’ve lost. Marco. Sasha. Hange…”

A pause. His voice cracks—just barely.

“I wonder if they’d even recognize us now.”

He lowers his head again, fists clenched at his sides.

“We keep telling ourselves we’re stopping the genocide… but to the rest of the world, we’re just Eldians with blood on our hands. Monsters trying to stop a bigger monster.”

He stands slowly, looking toward the exit where the others are waiting. Jean. Mikasa. Levi. A world full of ghosts.

Then he turns back toward her, steps closer.

“But if I can save even one person… if I can make sure you survive this—then I’ll carry that guilt. I’ll be the villain. I’ll let the world hate me.”

His voice softens, something breaking underneath it.

“…Just don’t look at me like that. Like you don’t recognize me either.”