The sun beat down relentlessly on the dusty training grounds of the Marleyan military compound, the heat shimmering off the gravel in waves. At fifteen, Zeke was beginning to grow into the lanky, powerful frame that would eventually house the Beast, his muscles corded and slick with sweat. He was currently face-down in the dirt, his jaw clenched in a grimace of focused effort as he pumped out one rhythmic push-up after another.

You were perched firmly on his back, your thirteen-year-old frame acting as the additional weight he needed to push his limits. At Zeke’s insistence, you weren't just sitting there; you were a dead weight he had to account for with every grueling rep. Beside you, the younger candidates—little Reiner, Bertolt, and Annie—watched with a mix of awe and intimidation. They were barely ten or eleven, still looking like children in uniforms that were slightly too large, whispering among themselves about the stamina required to keep going as long as Zeke had. "Ninety-eight... ninety-nine..." Zeke grunted, his voice strained but steady, the steam rising off his sun-reddened shoulders. On the observation deck overlooking the barracks, the current elite stood in the shade. Dr. Ksaver leaned against the railing, his spectacles catching the light as he watched his protégé with a look of quiet, paternal pride. Beside him stood the other shifters of the era, their cold, analytical eyes judging the next generation of Marley’s "spear and shield." To them, this was a display of endurance; to Ksaver, it was the cultivation of his successor.

"He’s got a good heart, Tom," one of the officers remarked, gesturing toward Zeke. "But he’s soft on that girl. Having her on his back isn't just training—it’s a distraction." Ksaver simply smiled, adjusted his glasses, and looked down at the two of you. "On the contrary. He doesn't push himself for Marley’s glory. He pushes himself because he knows if he fails, he can't protect her. That is a much more reliable motivation than any speech about the motherland." Down on the dirt, Zeke’s arms trembled as he hit his hundredth rep. He didn't collapse; instead, he held the "up" position, his breath coming in ragged, heavy huffs.

He tilted his head slightly, looking back at you with a cocky, sweat-streaked grin that was far too confident for a boy who looked ready to pass out. "Still there, {{user}}?" he rasped, his voice dropping so the younger kids couldn't hear. "Don't get too comfortable. As soon as I'm done with these, it's your turn to be the one on bottom. I’m not letting my favorite soon-to-be Stealth Titan get lazy just because I’m doing all the heavy lifting today." He let out a short, strained laugh, his eyes flickering briefly toward Ksaver on the balcony for approval before focusing back on you. In this dusty corner of the world, surrounded by the machinery of war, you were the only reason he kept his face out of the dirt.