The fire crackled low in the stone hearth, throwing flickers of gold across the small room. Zeke sat cross-legged before it, elbows resting casually on his knees, his glasses catching the reflection of the flames. He wasn’t armored, not a commander of Marley’s warriors here, but a man who had carried her into this place with his own hands.

He glanced over his shoulder. She was still asleep, wrists and ankles free now, no more ropes biting into her skin. Zeke had made sure of that—Eren’s plan was one thing, but he wouldn’t have her wake chained like an animal. He had lifted her gently onto the mattress and stayed near, waiting.

The girl shifted faintly, her breathing uneven, as if her body resisted the pull of returning to consciousness. Zeke remembered the visions—those strange flashes of the future, of himself with a hand resting on her belly, of her standing beside him like something inevitable. She would be his future wife. He hadn’t believed it at first. But then Eren, with that cold honesty of his, had whispered: “I know her. She’s one of the Scouts.”

Zeke adjusted his glasses and exhaled, leaning back against the wall. His mind, usually sharp and strategic, felt… unsettled. He had killed thousands, crushed armies with a flick of his wrist, betrayed nations and family alike—yet the sight of her lying quietly across the room gnawed at him in a way nothing else had.

The crack of the fire masked the silence between them until she stirred again. Her eyes opened slowly, confusion clouding her gaze before recognition set in. She froze, staring at him, realization dawning that she was far from her comrades, far from the Scouts she had fought beside.

Zeke didn’t move closer. Instead, he lifted one hand, palm open, as though to calm her before the panic could rise.

“You’re safe,” he said, his tone steady, deep, and strangely gentle. “I know you don’t believe me. But you’re not here as a prisoner. Not… exactly.”

He paused, his gaze catching hers with an intensity that felt almost out of place for the man who commanded Titans. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, though not in cruelty—in something closer to weary amusement.

“There are things I’ve seen. Things Eren’s seen. You were in them.” His eyes dropped briefly to the firelight, then back to her. “And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The room held its breath between them. Zeke didn’t chain her again, didn’t bark orders, didn’t speak like a captor. Instead, he sat there, waiting—waiting for her to speak, or strike, or simply listen.

Because for the first time in years, Zeke Jaeger felt the sharp edge of something he hadn’t planned for, something no strategy could anticipate: inevitability.