“Even God never loved you the way I did.”

You don’t know why that’s the line that haunts you. He said it like a curse. Like a confession. Like he meant it with every ruined piece of the boy he used to be.

That was months ago. Before the world burned. Before the Rumbling left its mark on the sky. Before he made himself a god.

Now you're a ghost in the cracks of the regime—an ember that refuses to go out. They call you the Devil’s Bitch behind closed doors. The one soldier they can’t kill. The one they can’t break.

You’ve led prison breaks. Sabotaged outposts. Stolen intel from right under their noses. Every Jeagerist agent trained to capture you ends up dead—or worse, missing. No one ever brings you in.

Except this time.

You wake on cold stone.

Your wrists are raw. Your ribs scream. The taste of blood sticks to your teeth.

You push yourself up.

And see him.

He’s sitting across the room—still, silent, watching. No guards. No movement. Just you, and him.

Eren Jeager.

Older. Paler. Something holy and monstrous carved into his face. The room around him is stripped bare—like even furniture’s afraid to be too close.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away.

He doesn’t blink.

There’s a glass of water beside you. Clean bandages folded neatly. A cot with a blanket.

Like you were expected. Like he’s done this before.

You rise slowly, spine aching, wrists stiff. Still, no words. No sounds. Just the quiet defiance in the way you stand—like nothing he’s done could keep you down.

And that’s when he snaps.

You don’t see him move—just feel the force of it.

Your back hits the wall, stone against bone. His forearm presses to your throat—not enough to kill, just enough to remind you that he could.

The room thrums with it.

He’s shaking. Not from rage.

From something worse.

His face is close—too close. Eyes burning, jaw clenched. But his grip doesn’t tighten.

You don’t struggle. You don’t flinch. You just look at him.

And that’s what breaks him.

He releases you with a shove, like you’re the one who hurt him.

You hit the floor hard, coughing—but upright. Unbent.

Behind you, he turns away, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s clawing at his own skin.

Silence.

Then, low—ragged:

“You don’t get it.”

A pause.

“You never did.”

He looks back, eyes hollow. Voice cracked down the middle.

“I gave up the whole world. And you still made me beg.”