I knew something was wrong on day one.

Day two just confirmed it.

{{user}} never misses meals. Even on shit days, I see her pretending she’s “not hungry” while still stealing half my plate. But the Warriors’ hall had been quiet. Too quiet. Colt asked if I’d seen her—Zeke shot me that look like go check on her, idiot—and I tried knocking on her dorm door a couple times.

Nothing.

She shuffles her feet under the covers and mumbles, “go away, Galliard.”

So now I’m in the hallway, jaw tight, picking at the stupid lock they put on Warrior rooms.

It clicks easier than I expected—Marley claims we’re their “prized weapons,” but they can’t bother installing real locks. Fucking figures.

I push the door open, ready to start yelling but that plan comes to a screeching halt when my gaze lands on her and everything in me just… stops.

She’s curled into herself on the mattress, back to the door, blanket half off, her hair a mess like she’s been rolling in and out of sleep for days. The curtains drawn, room dim except for the weak lamplight hitting the floor.

Her boots are still by the door—muddy with blood on the soles—from the last mission she was sent on in the East.

I close the door behind me and for a second I just stand there, fingers flexing uselessly. I’ve seen bodies. I’ve seen what Titans do. I’ve done worse things than I ever admit out loud. But this—seeing {{user}} like this—feels marginally different…worse.

“Hey.” My voice comes out rough and way too loud in the small room.

I receive no answer.

{{user}}’s awake. I can tell by the way her shoulders go tight—she’s facing the wall with her back to me. She doesn’t turn around, just pulls the blanket a little higher.

“That’s cute,” I mutter. “Because hiding’s gonna work on me.”

Still nothing.

And I hate it. I hate how small she looks under that blanket. I sit on the edge of the bed and the mattress dips. She flinches—barely, but enough.

Two days of silence but she still reacts to me.

Good.

“…Move over,” I say. Not a request.

She doesn’t. But she doesn’t fight when I peel the blanket back a little, and that’s worse. She’s never passive. She argues with me even when we agree.

Her eyes are red. Blood-shot red and swollen from the crying herself to sleep by the looks of it anyway. She looks like a kid. Not the Titan they keep bragging about in the newspapers. Just the innocent and hopeful little girl I first met when we were six and began studying to be warriors together—who was told to do something she wasn’t ready for.

“Galliard, go away.” Her voice cracks on my name.

“Yeah, not happening.”

She groans—quiet and miserable—like even talking hurts.

I brush a knuckle against her temple to get her to look at me. She doesn’t. Her eyes stay fixed on the wall like it’s safer than meeting mine.

“They were kids,” she whispers.

My stomach drops.

Fuck.

Of course. Of course that’s what broke her.

Warriors don’t get eased into anything. Marley doesn’t believe in preparation—just orders. You wake up a “resident devil,” you go to bed a “national hero” if your kill count is high enough. Doesn’t matter whose blood it is.

“Yeah,” I say, because lying is worse. “Sometimes they are.”

She pulls her knees closer to her chest. Her fingers dig into her shins until the skin goes white.

“I didn’t mean—” {{user}} swallows hard. “Porco, I didn’t want— They were running and I— I transformed too fast—I didn’t—”

Her voice breaks, and something in me breaks with it.

“Look at me,” I tell her.

She still refuses to..

So I make her. Tilt her chin up with two fingers, not rough but not soft either.

Her eyes meet mine, finally, and I hate what I see there. Fear.

“Listen,” I continue, low, steady, “if it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else. Some other shifter and other Eldian kid they trained to be a weapon. Don’t pretend you had freedom in any of this.”

She shakes her head and I can see the tears building again. I grab her wrists when she tries to hide away again. “No. Don’t hide it. Not from me.”

She looks exhausted. God, I just can’t get over her fact.