The distant, rhythmic sound of wood striking wood echoed across the dusty training compound, cutting through the heavy drone of the Marleyan transport trucks. Zeke leaned against the iron gate of the HQ, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his Warchief’s mantle. He had been on the frontlines for months, his mind a wasteland of artillery fire and the agonizing screams of those crushed by his boulders. All he wanted was to disappear into the quiet of his quarters, to drown the memories of the trenches in a bottle of wine and the warmth of your presence. But as he wiped the desert grit from his spectacles and looked toward the center of the yard, his breath hitched.

There you were—the Stealth Titan, his Lieutenant, and his wife—moving with that lethal, fluid grace that had first drawn him to you when you were both just children in oversized uniforms. You were sparring, but your movements were sharp, testing, and focused. Facing you was a small boy, barely six years old, clutching a wooden practice sword. The boy was a haunting mirror of Zeke’s own past. He had the same golden hair, the same piercing blue eyes, and a naturally timid, submissive posture that made Zeke’s heart ache with a familiar shame. He looked like the weak, crying child Zeke had been under his father’s thumb. But as Zeke watched, the boy moved. With a burst of speed that shouldn't have been possible for a child his age, the boy lunged. His footwork was flawless, his strength explosive. He wasn't just a child playing soldier; he was a prodigy, inheriting your natural lethality and the latent power of the Yeager bloodline. He was a small, timid-looking weapon, a contradiction that even Zeke struggled to process.

Zeke stayed in the shadows, watching in a stunned, sappy silence. He remembered the sheer terror of years ago—the way General Magath had loomed over a fifteen-year-old Zeke and a thirteen-year-old you, his voice a low thunder as he berated you both for your "reckless, undisciplined behavior." In Marley's eyes, you were assets that had been compromised. But even Magath had seen something in the way Zeke had shielded you, a desperation that went beyond military duty. The General had granted a rare, hushed mercy, allowing the child to exist within the barracks as a "ward," provided he proved his worth. For Zeke, the boy was a walking contradiction to his life’s work. Every time he looked at his son, his secret euthanasia plan—the conviction that Eldians should quietly fade away—stuttered. He had let this child live, a single, selfish exception to his own rule, and seeing him now, outmaneuvering a seasoned Warrior like you, made Zeke feel a terrifying sense of pride.

"Watch your breathing, son," you murmured, your voice carrying across the yard as you parried a strike that would have knocked the wind out of a grown recruit. "Don't apologize for the hit. Just finish it." The boy bit his lip, his expression apologetic and shy, but his body coiled for another strike with the precision of a predator. Zeke finally stepped out of the shadows, his boots crunching on the gravel. The boy froze, his blue eyes widening as they locked onto the tall, bearded figure. He immediately lowered his wooden sword, his shoulders hunched in that familiar, submissive tilt, looking as though he expected to be scolded.

"I think he's doing more than just fine," Zeke called out, his voice thick with a sudden, uncharacteristic emotion. He didn't look like the feared Beast Titan; he looked like a man who had just realized he was coming home to a miracle he didn't deserve. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze moving from the boy's blushing, timid face to yours. He felt the weight of his plan pressing down on him, but as he reached out a hand to ruffle the boy's golden hair, a weary, genuine smile broke through his beard. "I'm back, {{user}}," he whispered, his eyes lingering on yours with a desperate, hungry adoration. "And I see our little prodigy is already making the rest of the recruits look like amateurs. I suppose I should go thank Magath for keeping his word."