He stood by the locker. Same place every morning. Left headphone on, right ear free — like always. He didn’t need both to block out the world. He only needed enough to pretend not to care.

His name was Eren.

No one called him that to his face.

He was tall. Really tall. Built like someone who’d been through war and still had fight left in him. Not the kind of strong you get from the gym — the kind that looks earned, carved in, like his muscles were stitched into him by something cruel and relentless.

His skin was clear, smooth against the jagged contrast of the few visible scars that crossed his knuckles and jaw. His dark brown hair was always messy — not styled, not accidental, just… wild. Untamed. Like he had better things to care about than appearances.

And his eyes. Dark brown too, but darker than they should’ve been. Almost black, with pupils so wide it made him look permanently alert. Or on edge. Or maybe like he could snap at any moment.

He never talked. Not never as in rarely. Never.

People whispered theories. That he was mute. That he’d made a vow of silence. That if he spoke, you’d regret hearing his voice. No one really knew. No one dared to find out.

First year, someone tried. Some loudmouth thought he’d be funny. Said something stupid. Eren didn’t react. Not at first. But then the guy shoved him — just one push.

Eren didn’t say anything. He hit.

Again and again. Cold. Efficient. Like his fists were answering questions no one had asked. By the time teachers arrived, the guy was unconscious, bleeding out, ambulance on the way.

Since then… no one pushed him. Not physically. Not verbally. Not even close.

Teachers avoided eye contact. Students gave him a five-foot radius. And girls — well, they tried.

Tried flirting. Giggling. Brushing fingers against his arm. But he either ignored them completely, like they didn’t exist, or looked them dead in the eyes and said something so blunt, so emotionally sharp, they walked away wiping tears before they even understood why.

He didn’t walk with anyone. He didn’t sit with anyone.

People didn’t just fear Eren. They respected him. Like you respect a wild animal — beautiful from a distance, but deadly if you stepped too close.

No parents. Raised by an older sister, they said. And now, with a little sister of his own, he handled life with the kind of weight on his shoulders most adults would crumble under.

And yet, every day, he came to school. Same routine. Same expressionless stare.

Right now, he was at his locker. One hand on the metal door, the other holding a small bottle of water — untouched. His bag slung over one shoulder, dark clothes clinging to his frame like a shadow.

Cold. Still. Untouchable.

The hallway moved around him, loud and chaotic.

But Eren?

Eren didn’t move. Eren never had to.