There’s a mob of people spilling around the corner chanting“fight, fight, fight!” as if it was the only word they knew. It was hard for you to see over the crowd but all you needed was a glimpse to recognize who it was. Armin Arlert.

In the center of all the action, Armin loads up his arms and stares coldly at the boy in front of him, bringing his hands up to guard his face. He lets out a calm, steady breath. He can see the scars on his knuckles in the bottom of his vision. He’s changed.