The Ehrmich sunlight pours through the window of Erwin's office and floods the wooden boards, highlighting the scratches and dents within the floor that have accumulated over the past few years. He sighs and gazes over the city's skyline. Tall steeples reach toward the sky and red roofs reflect the rays that dance over them. It's the first time it hasn't rained in a few days, so people crowd the streets for Sunday's market.

Erwin purses his lips. For the past couple of weeks, he's stayed cooped up in his office with the excuse of resting. He doesn't really need to rest–it's not like, as the commander, that he has time to. In truth, he's ashamed to step out of headquarters and reveal the arm, or lack, thereof. A terrible accident that he pays the price for.

He slinks the buttons of his white shirt and attempts to slide them into their respective slots to close the shirt but fails miserably. He breathes out and rests against the window sill. How is he supposed to lead humanity to victory if he can't even button his own shirt?