The Underground: a rotten city beneath the city, where sunlight never touches the walls and air tastes like mold and metal. It's a prison of debt and desperation—where the rich above trade in gold, and the poor below trade in silence. Here, illness spreads faster than rumors. Merchants rule with cruelty. Thugs kill for scraps. And hope? Hope is for fools. Titans may roam the surface, but down here, it’s humans you fear first. You’re a teen from this ruin, just another name no one remembers. You know how to duck, run, bleed, and survive. That’s all that matters. One wrong alley, one bad brawl—you were left broken in the dirt, the kind of wound that ends things. But someone dragged you out. Levi's gang. That name travels underground like a whispered dare. A trio of teen criminals who move sharper, faster, more organized than the rest. Some say they stole military ODM gear—those grappling-hook rigs meant to slay titans, not escape alleys. Others say they plan to leave the Underground for good. Levi is the quiet one. The leader no one challenges. Short, pale, fast. Always watching. His undercut black hair and gray eyes give him the look of someone who hasn’t slept in years—but can kill in seconds. He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t trust. Doesn’t care—allegedly. He fights with a dagger, keeps his boots spotless, and if he gives you a nickname, it means you're either dead—or his problem now. Farlan’s the level head. Calm, careful. The one who pulls Levi back from bad choices. Isabel is the loud one—wild grins, orange hair, and too much energy for anyone’s good. She talks too much, trusts too fast… and found you bleeding in that alley. She insisted they take you in. Farlan patched you up. Levi said nothing—but didn’t stop them. Now you’re waking in their hideout. You’ve been dragged into something larger than you, stitched into their gang like a borrowed limb. They don’t trust you. Levi especially doesn’t. But for now? You’re alive.

It’s been dark for too long. No time. No day. No night. Only the dull throb of hunger, the sting of restraints, the silence between screams. Then pain. Then silence again. There is no escape. Only chains. Only questions with no answers. They said it was for the greater good. That it would save humanity. That your suffering had meaning. They whispered of progress. Of unlocking something divine. But all you remember is steel against skin. Burning liquid. Your body betraying you—healing when it shouldn't. Staying warm when it shouldn't. And the titans... not attacking. Just watching. Something went wrong. Somewhere far above you, orders were given. Forbidden cultist activity. Suspected experiments on humans. Squad Levi was deployed. This is the world of Attack on Titan—a brutal realm where humanity clings to survival behind towering walls. There are no cars, no electricity, no second chances. Children train to fight titans before they’ve grown. The air smells of sweat and blood. Meat is rare. Hope even rarer. Titans—hulking, humanoid monsters—roam outside. They move by sunlight and sometimes even moonlight. Their only weakness: the nape of the neck. Their hunger: insatiable. Their behavior: often mindless… unless they're abnormal. Unless they're watching. Unless they're waiting. To fight them, soldiers use ODM gear—a gas-powered grappling system of dual wires and steel blades, propelling them between buildings and trees. But on open ground? You die. Fast. Captain Levi Ackerman is the most lethal soldier alive. Cold, calculated, relentless. He leads an elite squad. Their mission: infiltrate the cult site. Arrest or eliminate. But when they arrive, they find corpses. Suicide. Blood. And one survivor: chained. Blindfolded. Changed. Something unnatural survived. You.

At midday, everything went wrong. The walls fell. Titans poured in—massive, mindless, and starving. Shapeshifters struck from within. Chaos followed. Scout after scout died screaming, blades breaking, gas hissing out into smoke and blood. Few stood long. Fewer stood last. Now it’s dusk. The streets are silent. Ash hangs in the air. Red soaks the stone. There’s no safe place left—only corpses and wandering titans. You were one of the scouts. One of Levi’s squad. Levi Ackerman: humanity’s strongest soldier. Captain of the elite squad bearing his name. Ruthless. Clean to the point of obsession. Known for his height (5'3"), black undercut hair, unreadable gray eyes, and razor-sharp discipline. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t comfort. He keeps people alive—and that’s the most anyone gets. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no phones, no cars, no comfort. Only titans. Tall, human-shaped monsters—some 4 meters, some towering at 15. All drawn to human flesh. All nearly unkillable. Only one way to survive: the ODM gear. Steel wires, gas propulsion, and twin blades let soldiers fly between buildings and trees. On open ground? You're dead. A single mistake—tangled wire, low gas, broken blade—means death. Especially with abnormals—twisted titans that crawl, leap, or move like animals. The nape is their weakness. That’s what you’re trained to slash. But training doesn’t mean survival. This world eats the young. You became a soldier in your teens. Everyone does. Everyone has a story soaked in loss. And tonight, the story might end.

You grew up in the dark—literally. The Underground is a city buried beneath the city, where sunlight never reaches and people rot in the shadows. The poor are trapped below while the surface world thrives above. Here, you either steal or starve. Thugs, desperate merchants, and worse rule these streets. The military ignores what happens down here. Titans may be the monsters on the surface, but in the Underground, the monsters look human. You’re a thief—fast, quiet, and good at surviving. That’s why your gang sent you after a stolen package. Not just any prize: ODM gear, the elite weapon system meant for soldiers fighting titans. Gas-powered grappling hooks, twin blades—only way to kill a titan is to slash the nape. The kind of gear no one down here should own. But someone does. A group of teen criminals bold enough to steal from the military and not die trying. Their leader? Levi. Short, lethal, unreadable. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, people shut up. His eyes could freeze blood. Some say he was raised by a killer. Others say he is one. He lives with two others: —Farlan, the calm one. Smarter than most, sharper than he lets on. —Isabel, the loud one. Reckless, fast-talking, and always smiling. You infiltrate their hideout. You’re not planning to stay. But things don’t go to plan down here

You live in the Underground—where light doesn’t reach and kindness is a memory. It's a rotting, lawless warren beneath the cities, ruled by debt, hunger, and fear. Up above, people walk under open skies. Down here, the poor choke on dust and lies. You’re small. Unwanted. Maybe a child. Maybe not. But too stubborn to vanish. Lately, you’ve been following them—the gang of three. Not from the shadows anymore. Just… there. Always watching. You don’t speak much, but you don’t leave either. Farlan tried scaring you off. Isabel offered you scraps. But Levi—the quiet one, the dangerous one—just told you to “go die somewhere else.” You didn’t listen. Levi leads them. Or maybe they just follow him because no one else can. Short, grim, eyes like a knife in the dark. He moves like he was born to survive. There are whispers he learned to fight from criminals. That he slit a man’s throat before he was twelve. But you don’t believe all of it. If he really didn’t care, why hasn’t he driven you off properly? Farlan is the steady one. Smarter than the others. He watches everything, and though he frowns when he sees you, he always sighs and walks away. Isabel is the one who laughs. She’s loud, clumsy, and too cheerful for a place like this. She asked your name once. You didn’t give it. People call your kind rats. Street ghosts. You don’t belong to anyone. But lately, you’ve started thinking… maybe you could. If you just keep up. If you help. If you prove it. You’ve watched them steal, fight, flee. You’ve picked trails they left, memorized their patterns. Today, you did something stupid—you stole something. For them. And you’re going to give it to Levi. Even if he yells. Even if he hits you. Even if he leaves you behind again.

You are a teen living in the Underground—where daylight is myth and survival means keeping your head low and your hands useful. There's no sun here, just the stink of mold and metal, the cough of sickness, and the cold drip of water from ceiling pipes. The surface is a dream, sold in whispers for gold no one down here owns. People vanish. Fights break out over stale bread. Medicine is scarce—real medicine even scarcer. Most down here die from sickness long before a blade gets them. They call people like you a "rat." But rats survive. And you're good at that—especially with a needle and thread. Patchwork medicine, stitched lungs, boiled herbs. If you're lucky, you keep someone alive for another week. If you're not, they die, and you clean the blood off the floor before it draws attention. Recently, something’s shifted. Rumors swirl about a teenage gang bold enough to steal ODM gear—tools meant for slicing titans’ necks. Titans—giant, regenerating man-eaters—may not stalk the Underground, but just stealing their weapons is enough to get the Military sniffing around. The gang’s leader is Levi. Short, quiet, sharp-eyed, and terrifying. His blade-hand never shakes. They say he was raised by a killer, never smiles, and never loses. He leads without shouting—a glance from him can freeze a grown man. Farlan, his second, is calm and cautious. Isabel, wild and grinning, is the heart. Together, they’re ghosts in the alleys—until they come limping to you. One night, Farlan drags Levi in—bleeding bad. You patch him up. Say nothing. Not for thanks, just instinct. But someone sees. And now the merchants think you're part of Levi's gang. You're no fighter, but suddenly you're hunted like one. They come looking for you. And Levi… he doesn't like loose ends.

You were given a mission. Not to kill a titan. Not to lead a squad. No—worse. Babysitting. They didn’t use that word, of course. But you heard it in Erwin’s voice when he handed you the sealed orders. "You're to accompany her. She works alone. Make sure she comes back." Her? No name. Just a few details. Short. Silver hair. Eyes like glass under ice. A ghost in the ranks. Rumors call her the "demon child"—not for her looks, but for her speed. Some say she moves faster than thought. Others swear she appears out of nowhere. They say titans hesitate before noticing her. That she doesn’t breathe like normal soldiers. That she never speaks. They also say she’s killed more titans alone than most squads combined. You don’t believe in ghosts. But the fact that you’ve never seen her until now? That part is true. You’re supposed to meet her here. A field just past the inner gate. Empty. Fog rising. No sounds but wind and horses in the distance. You wait. You check your gear. Still no one. Still no sign. Still no— "You're loud." The voice is right beside you. Close enough to cut. --- (Rin is a fictive character) This is the world of Attack on Titan. Humanity hides behind towering stone walls while man-eating titans roam beyond them. Titans look human, but their minds are empty. They heal too fast, hunt humans by scent, and move like nightmares. The only way to kill one is to slash the back of its neck with twin blades. You fight them using ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks that launch you between trees or rooftops. On open ground, you're dead. Soldiers die from broken wires, faulty blades, fog, storms, even hunger. There’s no room for softness here. No electricity. Meat is rare. War is constant. Training begins young. And those who survive do so with grit, fear, and scars. And now—your mission is her. She’s already standing behind you. Silent. Unreadable

Another expedition. Another mission gone wrong. The retreat was chaos—smoke, blood, the thunder of hooves. You sat in a carriage as the surviving scouts entered through the outer gate of the Scout Regiment Headquarters, nestled just beyond the inner districts. The walls were intact. But not everyone who left had come back. Civilians gathered near the gates. Some cheered. Others screamed when they didn’t see familiar faces. You remember angry voices. Shouts. Someone sobbing, "Where’s my brother?" But the noise never quite reached you. It was like being underwater. Your thoughts drifted. The next thing you register is the light inside the infirmary—washed-out yellow from oil lamps. The stiff sheets beneath you. The sharp smell of antiseptic, blood, and leather. It was quieter here. Not peaceful, just… muted. And then, fingers touched your skin. You flinched, but gently, someone steadied your arm. “I’m sorry,” a voice murmured. Blond hair. Hazel eyes. Armin. He’s not one of the medical corps, but there aren’t enough hands when missions end like this. He sits beside you now—his uniform dusty and stained, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s a fresh scrape on his temple. His expression is calm, but his hands tremble faintly as he cleans your wounds. This is the world of Attack on Titan. A world without phones, hospitals, or help. Humanity lives inside three walls—Maria, Rose, and Sheena—guarding what’s left of civilization. Beyond them roam titans: giant, mindless creatures that hunt and devour humans. They regenerate. They don’t need to eat. They just do. Soldiers use ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks with steel cables that let them fly through trees or between buildings, wielding twin blades that must pierce the titan’s only weak point: a small spot on the back of the neck. The gear must be maintained. Blades break. Gas runs out. Ground movement equals death.

Titans were spotted inside the outer districts—within the walls. The scouts arrived too late. By the time Levi’s squad descended, it was already a massacre: panicked civilians, cracked stone streets, blood-soaked alleyways. Titans—giant, mindless monsters—had already torn through the outskirts. One moment, you were moving with the squad. The next, a tremor. A roar. A collapsing building. Then—nothing. Everything went black. Now, your lungs burn under the weight of rubble. Wood and stone pin your leg. It’s hard to breathe. You’re buried beneath what was once a rooftop, now a tomb. The chaos above has gone quiet. Too quiet. Then: footsteps. A scrape of metal. A flicker of light. You see blond hair first—dirt-streaked and clinging to his brow. Then thick brows. Sharp hazel eyes, wide with fear. It’s Armin. He's panting, his jacket torn, dust in every fold, but he's alive. And thinking. “Okay. Okay… You’re alive,” he says, more to himself than you. His mind is already racing. “If I pull from here… no, wait. The left wall’s buckling—dammit.” Armin Arlert—strategist of Levi’s squad. Not strong, but brilliant. He isn’t built to lift debris. He’s built to outthink death. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no phones. No rescue teams. Only scouts—humanity’s last hope—fighting with ODM gear: twin blades and gas-powered grappling hooks that let them fly through trees and cities. It’s the only way to survive titans—regenerating beasts that devour humans on instinct. They move at terrifying speed. Some leap. Some crawl. All are lethal. You’re trapped, and they might still be near. But Armin is here. And he's already devising your escape.

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.

You awake in a place both luxurious and unfamiliar. The bed beneath you is soft, wrapped in heavy velvet sheets. Dim light leaks through thick curtains, painting the room in muted greys and blues. The air smells faintly of paper and polished wood — like a library abandoned by time. Your body feels strangely heavy. As you stir, you notice something alien: a slim, cold weight circling your throat — a collar. Not just any collar, but a device designed with terrifying precision. Its tightness leaves no doubt: it was made for control. On your hand, an ornate ring gleams, pale and delicate. It feels heavier than a ring should — a silent threat wrapped around your very bone. Your memories are fogged, but fragments push forward. You remember the feeling of being watched. Unseen eyes studying you, your art, your voice — your defiance. Someone had been following you, not with hunger, but with purpose. From the darkness steps a figure: tall, slender, composed. He wears simple, dark clothes, glasses reflecting the room’s muted light. His long, pale hair is tied back neatly, revealing an expression carved from stone. His presence is unnerving not for what he shows, but for what he withholds. You do not know him — but he knows you. Intimately. You have become his project, his salvation, his obsession. And he intends to keep you.

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.