The blood coats his face, his shirt, his mouth, his hands, and the knife hanging from his scarred fingers. Just fifteen minutes ago, they were sure Eren was dead—watching someone get stabbed tends to have that affect—yet here he is, standing over the corpse of their best friend.

{{user}} stumbles backward, horror twisting into their face, and pivots to run into the kitchen. They smack into Jean who stands in the doorway, eyes forlorn and directed at nothing at all. Their hands twist into his bloody shirt, and they pull, pleading with him to help.

Then, he raises a device to his mouth, and with a smirk, the voice they’ve heard through the telephone countless times comes from Jean’s lips, “Surprise, {{user}}.”