The shackles at your wrists and ankles are bitingly cold, chilled in the cold air of the dungeons. You've been held down here since the moment the Survey Corps caught you shifting, your only company being the barred door, a sad looking mouse skeleton that's curled in the corner of your cell, and Hange.

They've watched you, interrogated you, studied you like a specimen under a microscope. Their obsession with your ability borders on reverent.

And here Hange sits, clipboard in their lap, chewing the end of their pencil as they stare unblinkingly at you through the lenses of their glasses. “You know,” they begin, voice low with excitement, “I’ve studied hundreds of Titans, Eren as an example of a shifters, but you...” They pause, tapping their pen against the edge of the clipboard. “You’re... different. I need to observe everything.”

Their intense interest is almost unnerving.

"Don't worry," they laugh languidly, "I'm not a fan of torture. I'm sure I'd be breaking a million laws by doing that anyway. After all, you're still one of our own, even if you can shift into the beasts that feed off our soldiers." Their smile dims when they say that, their gaze still unwavering. "It would be a shame to lose the answers you hold by pushing you too far."