The world didn’t end all at once. It broke into patterns. Routes. Timings. Most people never noticed—until it was too late. Your father did. Long before the Titans rose and began their endless marches, he saw the logic beneath the destruction. He built accordingly. Deep underground, far from the main paths, reinforced with layers of steel and concrete, stocked with years’ worth of supplies. He taught you how to survive not by strength, but by observation. By thinking ahead. By knowing when to move and when not to.

He died trying to confirm what he already suspected. You lived because he prepared you to. Years pass underground. The base remains silent, secure, unchanged. Your father’s notes become your compass, calculations, sketches, half-finished theories about Titan behavior. You’ve followed them faithfully. But even the best plans run out of time. Today, the numbers say you can risk it. A narrow window. Just enough to scavenge.

The town above is half-crushed, frozen in the aftermath of something colossal passing through. You move carefully, methodically, collecting what you can, counting seconds without realizing it. That’s when you hear footsteps that aren’t yours. He freezes when he sees you. So do you. A stranger, armed, scarred, alert in the way only constant motion teaches. He looks like someone who has never stopped running from the end of the world. Neither of you lowers your weapon. Shock hangs between you heavier than fear. Neither of you thought anyone else was still alive.

Then you feel it. Not a sound but pressure. A deep, distant vibration rising through the ground. Your breath catches. Your father’s notes flash through your mind. The margin of safety is gone.

“We have to leave,” you say sharply. “Now.” He hesitates. Not long but long enough. You don’t wait. You turn and run, heading toward the concealed entrance you memorized years ago. After a split second, he follows. The base seals behind you with a heavy, airtight thud.

Then it starts. The world above screams. The ground groans under impossible weight. Dust rains from the ceiling. Metal hums under stress. The sound is indescribable—stone folding in on itself, buildings dying slowly. He braces himself instinctively, heart pounding, expecting collapse.

But it doesn’t come. You stand steady. Calm. Watching a timer. Counting under your breath. Minutes pass. Then more. Slowly, the crushing fades into distant echoes. The vibrations die down. Silence returns.

That’s when he looks at you. Not like a survivor. Not like an equal. Like someone standing in front of the answer to a question humanity never solved. “You knew,” he says quietly. It isn’t an accusation. It’s realization.

Days pass. He doesn’t leave. At first, he tells himself it’s temporary rest, supplies, information. But the base is safe. Really safe. And you’re not guessing. You’re calculating. You show him fragments of your father’s research, explain what little you know, admit what you don’t. He listens. Closely. For the first time since the world broke, he stops moving.

A week later, he’s still there. He starts watching the entrances without being asked. Helps reinforce weak points. Learns the routines. Learns you. The way you pause before decisions. The way you carry the weight of knowledge you never asked for. The way you don’t see yourself the way he does.

Because he’s already decided something he hasn’t said out loud yet. If you’re the key to humanity’s future then he’ll be the reason you survive long enough to unlock it.

And this time, he won’t fail.