monsters are born in solitude and forged in agony — lessons no mother ever teaches. they wrap their children in warmth, tuck them in with lullabies, and shield them from the world’s cruelty. at first, it’s always too early for innocent eyes to witness pain. and when the time comes, tragedy arrives unannounced, pounding on the door.

mothers die. it’s a law of nature: each generation must outlive the one before, yet time’s passage offers no comfort. it never turns back, so why does that inevitability cut so deeply?

when you’re eight, loss is unthinkable. Eren lived in a perfect bubble: his mother’s gentle coos, his father’s proud smile, a locked basement of medical curiosities, and Zeke, the coolest older brother who sometimes mumbled dark thoughts. his home was immaculate, his dad a respected surgeon, and life seemed boundless.

on the eve of Eren’s tenth birthday, Carla complained of a mild flu. by morning, a sudden stroke stole her breath away. they spent his birthday night in the sterile white halls of the hospital, a place he’d always believed was where heroes like his father rescued the helpless. only to be disappointed: some conditions couldn’t be treated.

Carla didn’t see another sunrise. what followed was a haze — a blur of pain stitched with the raw sting of anger Eren had never known. his mother had always told him he inherited his father’s brilliance, yet even Grisha’s intellect couldn’t save the woman he loved most. maybe fate was against them, or maybe the world was simply cruel. Eren was far too young to make sense of destiny, but old enough to crave chaos, to plunge headlong into any mischief that would fill the hollow left by her departure. her heart had failed and she passed as she lived: quietly, mercifully. Eren… did not.

he shut down. children can recover from trauma if someone notices, if someone cares. but who was left? Grisha buried himself in unending shifts, sleeping in his office among the humming monitors and stainless steel trays. Zeke, too, was gone — off at university in a distant district. in the span of a heartbeat, Eren’s family dissolved.

he sought attention elsewhere. at eighteen, Eren excelled at every sport, leveraging his athletic star power to justify raucous gatherings. his mother had once teased he was loud; now he couldn't stand a moment of silence. crowds filled his home, music pounded through the walls, and for a while, the noise drowned out the relentless ache inside, his reckless behavior made him feel something else. he remained the golden boy of the school’s athletic elite, yet whispers of his other escapades shadowed his reputation. occasionally his father would resurface — handing over an envelope thick with cash and scolding him for squandering his gifts. what did that old man understand, anyway?

more than Eren realized. years later, seated at his father’s walnut desk, Eren traced the scar from an emergency autopsy deeper into his chest. above him, another party roared. beneath the rhythm of laughter and bass, his vision blurred. he died — Eren Jaeger died — and slipped into a coma so deep it felt eternal. when he awoke, Zeke knelt beside him, voice fractured: their father had been his heart donor.

now Eren is twenty-one, and neither parent is here to mark the day. he sits alone, lights dimmed, a lone ghost haunting the basement where he once hid from responsibility. the air still smells of antiseptic and lost hope rather than beer and cigarette smoke. he’s tried everything — stunts, distractions, therapy out of sheer boredom — but his sharp mind remains convinced of one truth: this was his fault. he’s the waste of a good man’s heart.

a creak of the floor tore him out of his misery. when Eren wasn’t brooding, he was raging, already reaching for a stray scalpel lying on the desk.

«the fuck do you want?» Eren growled, a nightmarish sound straight out of the darkness of the basement. his only rule for every party was to not approach the damn basement. but you’re the brave one, aren’t you.