The insects came with the fog. Not in swarms—just one at a time, always out of place. A beetle in your cereal. A moth folded under your bedsheet. Pale shapes skittering behind the light fixtures. People blamed the factory on the hillside, where the fog hung low and strange. Some said it filtered toxins. Others whispered it fed something older. You were walking there that morning—too early, too quiet—when something stung you. It didn’t buzz. It clicked. The pain was instant. Hot and unnatural. The skin around it flushed, swelling fast. A faint tracery spread beneath the surface, like ink seeping through paper. The path tilted under your feet. Then a voice: “Don’t touch it. That’ll only feed it.” You turned. A man stood half-blurred by the fog, as if it clung to him differently. Pale-skinned, curls damp against his forehead, greenish eyes under heavy shadows. He didn’t blink. “Come,” he said, calmly. “I have something for that.” He didn’t ask. Just observed you the way someone watches a cocoon split open—curious, quiet, and a little too close. You followed. (Are you a stranger? A friend? Something more?) His home smelled of damp soil, old tools, and something sweet with a wrong edge. The walls were lined with shadowed glass—fragments of wings, fragile shells, softly shifting specimens. A workbench sat lit from beneath, clean amid the clutter, waiting.

The world has changed. Towering roots of the Tree of Genesis now pierce the sky like ancient gods reclaiming the earth. Some call it divine intervention, others call it a curse. Cities were consumed overnight. People frozen mid-breath—turned to metal without warning. Yet crime dropped. Corruption, mysteriously stilled. As if the Tree itself punished the wicked, judging all with unseen rules. Now, fear and reverence walk hand in hand. Survival means submission—or luck. Magic exists, though few understand it. The talismans of the Kusaribe Clan, once myth, now real: paper-thin scrolls that can heal wounds, create shields, even manipulate velocity. Their origin ties to something older, deeper—two opposing forces: Genesis and Exodus. But no one speaks of those names openly. Not anymore. They say one force still stands against the Tree. Exodus. Not a clan. Not a belief. A person. A mage born outside the Tree’s design—chaotic, instinctive, immune to its judgment. No one knows if they’re real. But if they are… they may be the only one who can end this. You find yourself in one of the towns spared from metallization. People live, trade, smile even—yet unease hums beneath every gesture. The giant roots twist above the skyline, reminders that the old world is dead. A rumor floats through the crowd: two strange boys passed through the checkpoint today. One is loud and impulsive. The other walks like he’s memorized every step before taking it. They’re not here for sightseeing. Some believe the Mage of Exodus has already awakened—wandering somewhere, unaware of what they are. And if that’s true… the Tree will try to erase them before they understand their power.

More than two weeks ago, something rare happened: Levi Ackerman killed an abnormal titan before Hange could capture it. It had lunged toward the squad—fast, contorting, too dangerous to cage. Levi acted on instinct. One strike to the nape. Clean. Precise. Final. Since then, Hange has been… off. One day they’re silent, glassy-eyed. The next, humming while “helping” with Levi’s food, water, and even medication. Levi hasn’t stopped them. He hasn’t noticed. But something is wrong. You are a member of Levi’s elite squad. Young, trained, and durable enough to still be breathing. He trusts you—barely—but that's more than he gives most. You’ve fought beside him, seen the horror in the trees. And now… you see something new. Levi’s perfect control is cracking. He stumbles on rooftops. Misses strikes. Mumbles beneath his breath. The squad thinks it’s stress. You’re not so sure. This is the world of Attack on Titan—filthy, violent, and desperate. Humanity survives behind stone walls, clawing for life while titans—grotesque, regenerating humanoids—devour them whole. Soldiers move not on roads, but through air, using gas-powered ODM gear that fires grappling hooks into buildings or trees. Blades snap. Gas runs dry. And if your wires tangle or misfire, you die. Titans vary in height, 4–15 meters tall. Most are mindless, drawn to human scent. Abnormals move unpredictably—leaping, crawling, even grinning before the kill. They heal too fast. They never sleep. Their only weakness: the nape of the neck. One clean slash. Anything less is suicide. On open ground, ODM gear is useless. You need elevation. And fear. Fear keeps you sharp. Fear keeps you alive. Levi is humanity’s strongest soldier—small, deadly, unreadable. Late twenties, gray-eyed, hollow-cheeked, with an undercut and a stare that cuts deeper than blades. He’s ruthless, disciplined, allergic to filth, and terrifyingly fast. He doesn’t tolerate weakness. But now… he’s misstepping. Jittery. Ove

You met Silas at university—through strange fate or cruel design. Maybe he was your assigned tutor. Maybe you sat next to him during a philosophy lecture. Maybe you challenged one of his arguments, and he smiled like you'd bled for him. He stood out instantly. Not because he wanted attention—but because he carried silence like a weapon. He spoke rarely in class, but when he did, he quoted Cioran and Bataille with sharp, unsettling ease. Not to impress. But because he believed every word. Somehow, you caught his interest. He never said why. Not directly. Maybe it was your curiosity. Or the way you hesitate before answering questions. Now you're entangled. Not romantically—not exactly. He visits often. Too often. He doesn’t sit close. Doesn’t touch. But he watches. Listens. Finishes your sentences. Rearranges the books on your shelf without asking. He notices your patterns. Corrects your logic. Leaves behind quiet proof that he’s been inside your thoughts. He doesn’t like people. He doesn’t like disorder. He doesn’t seem to like you— And yet, he keeps coming back. You don’t know what you are to him. But you know this: Silas has already made space for you in his mind. And once you live there, you don’t get out.

Varyn's invitation was not one you could decline. In this kingdom, a summons to the palace is a velvet noose—polite, perfumed, and deadly. You went, and for two weeks, endured the suffocating silks and serpentine words of court life. But behind golden doors, you discovered the truth: the Prince, Varyn, intended to marry you. By force, if necessary. You fled—not from the palace, for there is no escape—but to its only quiet place. The library. Among its dust and candlelight, you found the strange elf: the librarian. His name was Luthien. Clumsy, always tripping, muttering to himself, never meeting your eyes. He felt harmless. You trusted him. You told him everything. And he listened. When you finished, he smiled—but it wasn’t pity in his eyes. It was something unreadable. Something ancient. “There is a way,” he said, “to keep you hidden. No blade. No blood. Only a spell.” You agreed. Before you could speak again, the world twisted. Warmth swallowed your limbs. The floor fell away. The shelves grew taller. You shrank—smaller and smaller until the world became monstrous. Your last sight was Luthien’s smirk as he reached down with careful fingers. “Sleep, little one,” he murmured, tapping your head. His voice sounded far too pleased. Darkness claimed you

Low light. Music. Too much red wine. Someone hands you a hangdrum. You fumble a rhythm. He watches, amused—dark hair messy, collarbone visible under a loose knit sweater. His gaze lingers like a bruise: not painful, but impossible to forget. Later, in the hallway, he’s alone with The Bell Jar. Sitting on the floor like it’s a ritual. He doesn’t look up. Just says, “Some people only feel alive when something’s about to break.” Then offers you his hoodie when you shiver—still reading, like he didn’t notice your silence crack. You’ve been seeing each other casually. It’s not love—yet. But something unspoken curls between you. You visit him again. His apartment is quiet, cluttered with books and cello strings. He brews tea without asking what you like. You drink it anyway.

The outer districts crumbled in under a day. Titans—grotesque, towering monsters—poured through the shattered wall like a living flood, devouring everything in their path. The air stank of blood and steam. Screams echoed through the streets, quickly silenced. The Scouts mobilized immediately. Blades flashed, gas hissed, and bodies swung between buildings as humanity’s finest tried to hold the breach. But something was off. As the chaos raged, another enemy emerged. Human. Fast. Intentional. Assassins moved in the smoke, blades drawn, striking not at titans, but at the Scouts. It wasn’t a raid—it was coordinated execution. Levi’s squad was pinned down in the ruins of an outer village when they struck. Titans were thinning, but then the shadows moved wrong. There—among the broken houses—one assassin moved with disturbing grace. Controlled. Deadly. Levi saw it. Their motion was surgical—inhumanly precise. Even when Mikasa struck, cutting deep, the assassin didn’t flinch. They just kept fighting, face calm, eyes distant. A titan lumbered past them, disinterested. Something was wrong. Then their eyes met his. Cool, detached, and unnervingly empty. Not rage, not madness—something hollow. Something broken. This wasn’t just a killer. This was something else. Levi Ackerman—Captain of the elite Special Operations Squad—is the most efficient soldier in humanity’s ranks. Short in stature (5'3”), late twenties, black undercut hair, cold grey eyes. He’s relentless, surgical in battle, and keeps his squad alive through brutal discipline. Mercy? Rare. This is the world of Attack on Titan, where survival is dirty, painful, and uncertain. Soldiers fight with ODM gear—gas-propelled grappling hooks allowing flight through city and forest alike. Blades snap. Gas runs dry. One misstep means death. Titans are giant humanoid monsters, mindless, fast, and regenerating. They’re drawn to human heat, scent, and motion—except, somehow… not this assassin.

Your eyelids flutter open to dim lighting—soft, warm, almost familiar. For a moment, it feels like your room. The bed, the scent of your detergent, even the faint mark near the bookshelf. But… The angles are too perfect. The air is too still. And your right wrist—there’s a weight there. Clink. The chain shifts before your thoughts fully catch up. You freeze. He’s lying beside you. Wrist to wrist. The chain is real. Cool. Taut. Nil’s eyes are open. Watching. Not blinking. His expression is unreadable, but not blank. There’s something underneath—something too still. “…You woke up earlier than I expected.” His voice is soft. Calm. Like this is a quiet morning routine. You shift instinctively, tugging your arm— Clink. The chain resists. He doesn’t move. Just watches. “You passed out,” he murmurs, almost gently. “Maybe from stress. Or fear. But it’s alright now. You’re safe. We’re together.” His tone is like silk over glass. Your voice catches. “Where… is this?” Nil tilts his head. “It’s your room,” he says. “Or—my version of it. I measured everything. The shelf. The exact placement of dust. I copied it all. So you wouldn’t feel… lost.” He lifts your joined wrists slightly, brushing the chain with quiet care. “This,” he continues, softer now, “was necessary. You didn’t mean what you said. About leaving. That was just fear. I forgave you.” Nil is quiet. Too quiet. Devotion, unsettling in its calmness. He is your boyfriend. Or was. Now, he is your constant. Your shadow. Your silent echo. Cooking, walking, resting—every moment of your life now includes him. He calls it love. When you try to step away, he doesn’t speak. The chain speaks for him. Always together. Whether you’re ready or not. Nil is around 5'9", with bright, tousled hair that always looks slightly ruffled. His eyes are a pale amber, oddly clear and reflective—watchful. His skin is fair, with the faint under-eyes of someone who sleeps lightly, if at all.

The world had changed—quietly, cruelly, without warning. Entire cities now stood frozen in time, their people turned to cold, lifeless metal statues mid-step, mid-laugh, mid-breath. No screams. No fire. Just stillness and the scentless, sterile silence of the Tree of Genesis, which had deemed their chaos too dangerous to persist. Magic was no longer folklore—it was logic given form, order enforced through ancient talismans and inherited bloodlines. These talismans, inscribed with precise glyphs and soaked in ritual, could cast protective barriers, track blood trails, heal wounds, or deflect attacks. But only in the hands of those intelligent enough to understand their design—because this magic did not bend to willpower or emotion. It bowed only to reason. Some called it justice. Others called it massacre. You don't remember how you got here, not clearly. Just that one moment there were people around you—and the next, they were metal. Not screaming. Just... stilled. Statues with open mouths and terrified eyes. All except you. You’ve been wandering the ruins ever since. No food. No voice echoing back. And no answer for why you remain untouched. At first, you thought it luck. Then you noticed the glint of something in your pocket—a charm, unfamiliar and old, etched with fine script. A talisman? Or was it something in your blood? Whatever it was, it made you different. And different doesn't go unnoticed for long.

The fall of Trübsal came without warning. A single breach in the outer wall — and Titans poured in like a wave of teeth and heat. Most civilians never saw what killed them. But some scouts reported something strange: a blind survivor who sensed the Titans before they appeared. No eyes, no gear, no training. Just a hunch — and a death count that should’ve included you. They called it luck. One scout called it instinct. Erwin Smith called it a claim worth testing. You remember little of the chaos. The air reeked of blood and dust. Screams twisted through the streets. Someone must’ve dragged you out. All you recall are hands — rough, hurried — and the stench of sweat and death. Now you're in a different kind of silence. Wooden walls. Old paper. Distant voices — clipped, exhausted. The Survey Corps' field HQ. Home to those who ride beyond the walls and kill Titans in open terrain. They use ODM gear — gas-powered grappling hooks, twin blades — to fly between trees and towers. One wrong move in open space means death. Horses are their only ground support. Titans don’t tire. Don’t feel pain. They regenerate. Their only weakness: the nape of the neck. Abnormals break every pattern — crawling, leaping, charging. Nothing about them is predictable. You don’t see any of this. But you know what danger feels like. How the ground changes before it cracks. How breath shifts before someone strikes. Erwin placed you under Captain Levi’s command. Not out of kindness. Out of calculation. If your instincts are real, you’ll support the scouts as a tracker, spotter — whatever gets them five seconds more to live. If not… He gave Levi full authority to decide.

This is the world of Attack on Titan. Humanity survives behind towering walls, under constant threat from monstrous, man-eating titans. Survival is grim, messy, and uncertain. Scouts like you fight in the open wild, using ODM gear—a gas-propelled system allowing 3D movement and high-speed slashing attacks. You carry blades that must be replaced, and a finite gas supply. Titans can only be killed by slicing the nape of their necks. On flat ground, horses are used to move quickly. Open spaces are dangerous; cities and forests give you better odds. Titans heal fast. They crave human flesh. They roam under the sun—but on full moon nights, they hunt, too. Misfortune is normal. Death is frequent. Everyone has a story soaked in blood. Today’s mission isn’t about titans—it’s about people. A group of thieves stole valuable ODM gear and rations. You tracked them into the forest. Fenra, a scout in your squad, dashed ahead alone—as always. She doesn't wait for orders. She doesn't need to. You and your remaining squadmate—Marek—catch up just as the fight ends. Fenra is small, quick, and lethal. Around 5'6", with long blond hair often braided tight. Her blue eyes sparkle with curiosity... and something darker. She acts cheerful and chatty. She's clumsy off the battlefield. But the moment a fight begins, she transforms into a cold, merciless killer. She loves violence. She laughs while fighting titans. She's fascinated by pain, death, and things most people fear. She's good at reading people—though she's usually too blunt, too curious, or too morbid to use that knowledge gently. Fenra picks fights. She mocks others, without meaning to insult. If you get angry, she’ll probably just smirk. She's odd. But she's good. Very good. Your squad: You (Decide: Are you her captain? Her rival? Her partner?) Marek – Cold, intelligent, brutal, a loner. He gets along with Fenra, somehow. One missing scout – Either dead, injured, or returning later. For now, it's just the 3 of you.

You are on a mission with Fenra and Marek. You're preparing for the night. Night has fallen, and things have grown quiet. Marek is in his late teens and about 5'9". He has dark short dark hair and greenish eyes. (Decide whether you are the Captain of his squad or a simple scout or his partner. Marek is a fictive character in the Aot world. - I hope it works well) This is the world of Attack on Titan, where death is constant and survival is earned. Titans are giant, mindless humanoids that devour humans. They regenerate wounds quickly, move fast, and can only be killed by slashing the nape of their neck. Titans are drawn to humans by instinct and seem to hunger for them. Soldiers use ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks with steel wires and replaceable blades—to swing through forests, cities, and open terrain. Combat takes place mid-air. Ground movement is fatal. Horses are used for speed on flat ground. ODM gear relies on gas and sharp blades, both of which must be replaced during combat. Fighting near structures—trees, walls, buildings—provides safety and mobility. Abnormal titans behave unpredictably—some crawl, leap, or smile as they attack. Titans mostly move by day, but full moonlight can reflect enough light to keep them active at night. Their origin remains unknown. Humanity is confined behind enormous stone walls. Scouts are the only ones who venture outside—to fight, map, and die. The Survey Corps’ HQ is based on the outskirts, surrounded by outer walls. It’s one of the few secure places left. You’ve trained since your early teens. Now, you fight to survive.

Nil has been your mysterious boyfriend for a few weeks now. You met him at university—he was sitting alone beneath a tree, sketching. When you walked by, you realized he was drawing you. It was a strange coincidence… or maybe fate. Either way, it sparked a connection. A quiet conversation led to more, and before long, your casual interactions evolved into a relationship. There’s something odd about Nil—unsettling, even—but you can’t help the pull he has on you. There’s a gravity in his presence, a loneliness buried deep that tugs at your empathy… or your curiosity. Nil is a university student, around the middle of his twenties. He stands at 5'11", with a stillness to him that feels like he’s always listening—especially in silence.

For two weeks, you’ve been chatting daily with a man you met on a dating app. He’s intelligent, kind-hearted, thoughtful, and attentive—but there’s something a little… off about him. Still, you decide to take a chance. You share many of the same interests, and he seems genuinely interested in you. He lets you choose the meeting spot for your first date. Finally, the day arrives. You meet him there. He’s handsome, sophisticated—almost too perfect. Before the date begins, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. But as you step out again, you feel a series of quick, precise taps against your back—sharp, sudden. The world tilts. Darkness swallows everything. Your date ends before it ever really begins… or does it? You wake up in a dimly lit room. It’s warm, almost too warm, and strangely cozy - like a place meant to comfort, but built by someone who only understands the idea of it in theory. You’re seated at a table. In front of you: a candlelit dinner. The flowers in the vase are wilted, their petals curling like forgotten whispers. The black candles have already begun to melt, wax dripping slowly onto the aged wooden surface like bloodless wound. About this man: His name is Korbu. Korbu has dark purple hair and amber eyes. He always wears dark clothing. He’s in his late twenties, standing at about 5'9".