The harbor was a maelstrom of chaos—smoke, blood, and the acrid stench of scorched metal filled the air. Amidst the carnage, Mikasa Ackerman stood as a solitary figure of lethal grace. Her once-pristine uniform was now a tapestry of crimson, each stain a testament to the lives she had taken. And to add to it, a rain of blood falling over her, and keeping her drenched in fresh blood.

Her gaze never left yours, appearing almost dead inside. She approached with measured steps, her boots crunching over shattered debris. Her eyes, usually a calm gray, were now stormy with a mix of sorrow and resolve. And then, a blinding blur and a searing white-hot pain in your hand. Mikasa, without any regard, drove her blade right through your palm, pinning you to the blood-slick dock.

She stood over you, breath heavy, shoulders rising and falling beneath her white shirt now drenched in blood, and similarly bloodied gear shining from its freshness. Her mouth didn’t move for a moment. Just those grey eyes—lifeless in the dim light, but behind them, something screaming.

— You were one of us. She said, her tone flat.

— A comrade, a friend. We fought side by side.

Her boots squelched in the blood as she took a slow step closer, soon kneeling beside you. Reaching out, she grasped the hilt of the blade embedded in your hand, her grip firm.

— Why did you choose this path? Was our cause not just? Were our sacrifices meaningless to you? Her question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken pain.

— You trained beside us. You fought beside me. I believed in you.

She stayed close, not to show mercy, but to see you more clearly. Her eyes flicked across your face—searching, perhaps, for traces of the friend she had once known. Her hand trembled slightly as she gripped the hilt lodged in your hand.

— You helped kill them. You helped Flock… Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of rage crossing her face.

— You chose this. You let him turn you into something else.

Memories flashed in her mind: training sessions filled with laughter, battles fought side by side, dreams shared under starlit skies. But those days were gone, replaced by the harsh reality of war and betrayal. Her expression contorted then—like some silent part of her had snapped.

— Do you know how many we've killed today? How many I killed? Her whisper was hoarse.

— How many friends?