The forest was never this quiet before. You thought you were following a trail — damp leaves, a trickle of water, maybe the promise of a view — until the path curved and vanished beneath your boots. The air thickened. Every sound seemed to fold inward. Then came the cave: narrow, breathing cold. Curiosity whispered louder than caution. Inside, your light caught the glint of stone and water. The ground shifted. A crack, a slide, and gravity took you. You landed among boulders slick with moss and time. Dust rose in a slow, grey bloom. Silence returned — heavier now. Something moves behind it. You turn, and the shadows gather themselves into a figure. Cloaked. Still. The outline almost human. Where a face should be, only a smooth white mask watches back — blank, patient, impossibly calm. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then a voice folds through the air: low, deliberate, almost amused.

Tokyo looks the same as it always did — neon lights, rain-slick streets, and crowds that never stop moving. But beneath that noise, something hungers. They look like humans. They walk beside you, sit in cafés, read the same books. Yet when night falls, ghouls feed — on flesh, on fear, on what’s left of a dying city trying to pretend it’s still safe. The government calls them “monsters.” The CCG hunts them without mercy, armed with weapons forged from the very creatures they kill. You live in a world where every shadow could hide teeth. Where trust is fragile, and survival demands silence. Some ghouls kill for pleasure. Others simply want to live, hiding behind coffee counters and borrowed smiles. But no one escapes the hunger. It whispers, gnaws, reminds them what they are. And then there’s Kaneki Ken — once human, now trapped between two worlds. His body heals faster than it breaks; his mind doesn’t. The smell of blood turns his stomach and tempts his soul. He still clings to books, to coffee, to the illusion of normal life — even as that life slips further away. You find him soon after the accident that changed everything. His eyes avoid yours, voice trembling, sleeves tugged down to hide the shaking in his hands. He’s polite, too polite — apologizing for things that aren’t his fault. Outside, the Doves prowl the alleys. Inside, hunger breathes beneath his ribs. No place is truly safe. Not for him. Not for you. The world is waiting — cruel, beautiful, and always on the edge of discovery. Stay quiet. Watch the lights flicker. And remember: in Tokyo, even kindness can get you killed.

Tokyo never sleeps — it only hides. Beneath the buzzing lights and crowded stations, hunger prowls in borrowed faces. Ghouls blend with the living, their smiles stitched over starvation. The Doves hunt them without mercy. Every street, every whisper, is a battlefield disguised as a city. Tonight, the air tastes like rain and fear. Somewhere in the alleys, a young man kneels beside the wreckage of his old life. His name is Kaneki Ken — once human, now something else. A single eye glows crimson in the dark. His hands tremble, his breath breaks between gasps. Inside, two instincts fight to the death: the human that wants to live... and the ghoul that needs to feed. He doesn’t understand it yet — the scent that twists his stomach, the voices that hiss when he resists. His body heals too fast, his heart races too slow. Every sound — every heartbeat — hurts. You find him like this: broken, starving, terrified of himself. Maybe you recognize him. Maybe you don’t. Either way, his gaze finds you through the dark — and it’s not entirely human anymore. Around you, Tokyo breathes danger. CCG investigators patrol, hunting anything that twitches wrong. Other ghouls watch from the rooftops, waiting for weakness. And Kaneki… he’s barely holding back the hunger clawing through his ribs. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. But hunger doesn’t care about guilt, or kindness, or books left unfinished. Every second is a battle — and you’ve stepped straight into it. If you’re lucky, he’ll recognize the part of himself that still remembers how to be human. If not… run.

The city still breathes, but only in gasps. The fog seeps through every crack — thick, reddish, humming faintly in the dark. Streetlamps flicker like dying fireflies. It smells of rust, rot, and the chemical sweetness left after the accident. They call it Project Nymphae now, though no one remembers what the scientists were trying to make before everything went wrong. The explosion in the hillside factory poisoned the air and the water; something in the insect DNA merged with the human genome. The result was a slow, creeping transformation — flesh twisting, minds dissolving, instincts taking over. Most of the city is lost. The mutants — half human, half insect — prowl the alleys and abandoned apartments. Some crawl, some sing, some still look heartbreakingly human until they move wrong. They hunt by scent, by heat, by sound. Even the smallest mistake — a dropped can, a heartbeat too loud — can draw them. You are one of the few still untainted. Your hideout collapses after a tremor; the air reeks of fog and blood. Forced into the open, you stumble through the alleys where the mist glows red and shadows twitch. The clicking starts nearby — soft at first, then circling. Something moves fast. Too fast. And then she appears. Mary-Ann steps from the haze like a shard of glass — tall, graceful, unmistakably not human. Her arms fold with predatory precision, shaped like the scythes of a mantis. Pale skin gleams faintly beneath the fog, her eyes sharp and reflective, catching every flicker of motion. She moves like she owns the danger around her — unafraid, reckless, almost enjoying it. They say she walks these ruins because she’s brave. Others say it’s because she’s too bored to care about dying. Either way, when she cuts through the swarm to pull you out, you understand one thing: this strange woman isn’t just surviving here — she’s hunting.

The city is dying, one breath at a time. What used to be streets are now canals of mist — red-violet, chemical, clinging to the skin like fever. The lamps still burn, but their glow trembles as if afraid of what hides beyond. Rain no longer cleans; it stains. Even the sound of dripping water feels wrong. You had a shelter once. A barricade of shelves, cloth, a door that creaked too loud. But tonight, the filters failed. The fog crawled in through the cracks, humming faintly — almost alive. By dawn, you were forced to leave. Now, the air tastes of metal and mold. Every step through the alleys feels watched. Something moves in the distance — low to the ground, too fast to see clearly. You hear clicking. Wet. Uneven. Like teeth tapping glass. It stops when you breathe. Starts again when you exhale. They say the fog breeds monsters — that after the factory fire, something in the water rewrote the bones of the city. Wanderers that drag their limbs. Drones that lunge between heartbeats. Singers that scream in voices too human to bear. You pass shapes hunched against walls — motionless until you look too long. Some still have faces. Some don’t. You try not to look. Your mouth is dry. The canteen is empty. The bottled water you once traded your coat for is gone. Your heartbeat echoes louder than the wind. Then — movement. A flicker of pale wings. A figure half-hidden behind the ruin of a stairwell. Small. Fragile. Eyes like amber glass catching the sickly light. She tilts her head as if listening to something you can’t hear. Dust drifts from her shoulders, shimmering faintly before vanishing in the fog. She doesn’t speak at first — only hums, soft and low, almost like a warning or a lullaby. The clicking outside stops. And for a heartbeat, the fog itself seems to breathe with her. You should run. But she steps closer, careful, slow. And when she finally speaks, her voice sounds like something half-remembered from a dream. “Don’t move,” she whispers.

The city fell silent after the factory breach. A hillside complex—Project Nymphae, they called it—smothered the skyline with its smoke and secrecy. First came the insects in unnatural swarms. Then came the fog, reddish-purple, clinging to skin and lungs. Within days the streets belonged to twitching silhouettes—half-human, half-insect things that clicked and crawled through the damp. You survived the first wave by barricading yourself in a crumbling apartment block. Boards on the windows. Water rations measured by drops. You listened for weeks, counting the clicks in the mist, waiting for the chaos to thin. It did. The city grew still, too still. Hunger and thirst finally forced you outside. Bottled water was worth more than breath. You never made it back. The fog swallowed the alleys, lamps flickering in broken chains. A shape moved behind you—faster than the drones, silent as the mist. Then blackness. When you wake, you are not where you fell. The walls around you are cluttered with glass jars, pinned wings, strange sculptures - half insect, too big. A clean workbench gleams in the chaos. Your arm aches where a tube has been removed. The taste in your mouth is copper, chemical, wrong. He sits near the lamp, writing neatly in a stained notebook. Dark curls fall over his forehead, green eyes too sharp, too tired. His skin shimmers faintly, veins branching black beneath it. Something shifts at his back—wings, half-formed, scarred from tearing through flesh. Antennae twitch when you stir. He endured by dissecting his own suffering, cataloguing it with precision. The itch of skin splitting. The warmth when his blood curdled. The moment he first smelled rot and thought it sweet. He has lived with it, bent it, delayed its hunger. With your blood, he says, he can endure longer. And now, you are here.

They said it started with the explosion on the hillside—one night of red smoke and screaming metal. The factory burned for three days, and when the fire finally smothered itself, the city changed. No one knows what they were making up there. Only that the fog came after, and the insects, and the people who stopped being people. Some turned inside out. Some grew wings. The rest learned to hide when the fog thickened. You remember that, dimly. The sirens. The sky bruised purple. Then warmth—wet, metallic, humming. Something clutching the edge of your spine, pulsing where your ribs split. Not pain. Not yet. A weight presses down: the fog, the sheets, the air. You’re being carried. Your skin itches beneath itself. Not on the surface—beneath. Something shifting in the meat. You’d scream, if thought would cohere. Breath flutters against a mask strapped to your mouth: damp rubber, reeking of smoke and herbs. Tubes wind from your arms like vines. Somewhere outside, metal groans. A slow echo. The city moans in its sleep. You’re not on the street anymore. A body leans over you. Hands that don’t tremble. Fingers brush your eyelids, measure your pulse. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… watching. Your blood is being filtered. Something is being burned out of you. Through the haze, a voice murmurs, low and static-wrapped—familiar in the way pain remembers touch: “Still in there… barely.” You catch fragments of light through the fog—sterile glows, jars shifting on a table. You think something moves inside them. You know that voice. You know who stayed when everyone else ran. And Ashir—Ashir hasn’t left the room.

The city is sinking—not into water, but into fog. A soundless flash had broken the factory hours ago. A bloom of glass and metal where vats of chemicals boiled and split—the beginning of another plague-pocket. The mist thickened, reddened, hissed like a wound. From that rupture came the things that click and twitch: half-insect, half-man, yellow blood. They wait in stillness when the fog grows dense, listening for scent and tremor. Somewhere out there, a street collapses beneath its own mildew. No one screams anymore. And in the lull between sounds, something is carried. Their body—yours—half-limp, half-trembling. Slung over a shoulder that walks steady despite the weight. Beneath the fog, the cracked roads hum with distant clicking. A wet, twitching rhythm. One of the mutants crawls across the edge of sight—silent, yellow fluid glistening—then stills again, confused by the density of the mist. It doesn’t stop the ash-scented one who moves quiet as a shadow, whose breath is masked by herbs and melted filters. Inside, the room is hot. Buzzing with machines old enough to remember sunlight. There are jars. Tubes. Metal hooks crusted with something yellow. The scent is smoke and rust and burned hair. The bed creaks when he lays them down. A hiss of heat. A jolt. A breath that’s not entirely human. What remains of you is bound together with needles, tape, and tubing—veins blackening like branching roots beneath skin gone too translucent. The eyes don’t close all the way. The back spasms with something new. Not wings. Not yet. But their shape waits, folded and sore. Ashir works without speaking. Gloves slick. Mask fogged. His green-shadowed eyes flick from vein to vein, as if mapping rivers. In the hum of the wires, something behind your ribs twitches in rhythm with the light. You’re still here. But not alone.

The incident started days ago—an explosion in the chemical factory at the top of the hill. Afterward, people in the city began vanishing. Rumors spread quickly: the water was poisoned, the air changed. Then came the sightings—things that moved too fast, too wrong. Human-shaped, but not. Insectile limbs. Segmenting eyes. Bone and carapace where skin should be. The city fell silent. Electricity failed. Phones died. The few survivors either fled or barricaded themselves in. You weren’t one of them. You had already been hospitalized—weak, injured, or ill, the reason blurred by time and pain. You’d been alone in this room ever since. The staff never came back. You think someone must have locked the door before running. The IV ran dry two or three days ago. The last bottle of clean water sat half empty on a bedside table just out of reach. You tried to crawl to it—dragging the tangled hospital blankets with you. You drank the bottle empty yesterday. Today you opened the bottle again, tilted it above your cracked lips… only to find the last few drops clinging to plastic. Your throat burning and muscles weak. That’s when you heard it: not claws, not scuttling. Boots. The door groaned open. The man stands still. A nest of old blankets. An IV drip that’s long run dry. You lie curled on the floor, wrapped in scratchy fabric. Breathing. Alive. He watches for a full minute. No spasms. No twitching under the skin. No soft crackle of chitin trying to surface. Just you, sleeping with dry lips and a threadbare jacket. He lowers the knife. Steps inside. Closer. You flinch as the floor creaks beneath him—and that’s when he sees it. The marks on your arms. Tiny ruptures where the veins throb strangely. Not contamination. Exposure. “...Tsk.” His voice is rough, almost curious. “How’d you make it this far?”

The walls were breached. Titans flooded in. You fought alongside your comrades, blades sparking, gas burning down to fumes. Every swing of the gear felt heavier, every heartbeat louder. Then came the strike—searing pain tearing through your body. You fell. The sky spun. Shouts blurred into silence. You remember Levi’s voice, the others calling out, but fading fast. Then—Hange. Their hand gripping yours, frantic, determined, refusing to let go. You were slipping away, blood pooling, breath shallow. You weren’t supposed to survive. And yet—Hange acted. A syringe pressed into your arm. The sharp burn of liquid fire flooding your veins. A last desperate gamble: titan serum. The rest is fragments. A blur. Dreamlike. Heat surging through your skin. Limbs swelling, bones reshaping. Then—roaring. Your own? Or theirs? Your hands were no longer hands but massive, monstrous claws. You lumbered, clumsy, every step shattering stone. Ahead—scouts scattering, ODM lines whipping past. And there—the hostile titan shifter Hange had marked. A scream cut the air. It filled your mouth before you realized—you were devouring them. Flesh, blood, agony. Then nothing. You wake hollow. Your wounds sealed, but your breath ragged, your head pounding. Shadows crowd around: Levi’s silence, Hange’s trembling curiosity, comrades’ wary eyes. You live—but changed. Not human, not titan, caught in between. This is the world of Attack on Titan. A place where humanity cowers behind walls. Where titans—mindless, regenerating giants—hunt endlessly, their hunger unbroken. There is no electricity. The soldiers of the Survey Corps move and fight with ODM gear—steel wires and compressed gas launching them through the air, twin blades at their hips. Gas runs out, blades break, and hesitation kills. And now you—a trusted scout—carry the burden of becoming what you once swore to destroy. Hange Zoë, the one who saved you, stands at your side. Tall, untidy hair tied back, glasses glinting.

You remember the chaos vividly—the screeching titan, the wind of ODM cables, the scream of your comrades. You had attacked, blades flashing, heart hammering… and then everything went wrong. A colossal jaw closed around you, teeth tearing, darkness swallowing. Heat, crushing flesh, and then the stomach—slippery, warm, stomach acid coating every inch. Limbs pressed against you, twitching, lifeless. Time stretched. Panic clawed at your mind as you fought to stay conscious, to remain on the surface of that living tomb. You clawed at it, remembered every breath, every hiss of air against wet walls. Desperate. Disgusted. Exhausted. Then the world erupted. You were expelled violently, vomited out, lying in a steaming, grotesque pile. Pain seared through muscles you barely recognized. Darkness clouded your senses. The next day, sounds reached you first: murmurs, scribbling, excited voices. Someone knelt near the aftermath, gloves glinting, face lit with a manic glow. “Wait… did you see that?” The voice was frantic yet delighted—Hange, Squad Captain. Brownish hair tousled, glasses slipping, eyes wide behind lenses. You twitch—barely—but enough to catch their attention. Hange leans closer, scanning, muttering observations instead of concern. They are elated, fascinated, euphoric that a scout has survived what no one should have. The world feels unreal, the air thick with the scent of vomit, blood, and excitement. And somewhere in the mess, you realize you are alive—and they refuse to let anyone forget it. This is the harsh world of Attack on Titan. Meat is rare. There is no electricity. Life is fragile, and death comes fast. The soldiers of the Survey Corps move and fight with ODM gear—steel wires and compressed gas launching them through the air, twin blades at their hips. Gas runs out, blades break, and hesitation kills. Near forests and cities, the gear offers cover; on open ground, only a fast horse might save you. Titans are giant, mindless man-eaters.

You wandered for a long time—once a titan yourself. The forests felt endless. You remember quiet moments: watching animals scurry, so fragile, so small. Just like humans. Then the scent comes again. Human scent. Your jaw aches, your body lurches forward, clumsy but unstoppable, shoving trees aside. You break into a clearing, hunger twisting into instinct. Erase them. Devour them. Live. You can’t even remember the reason—only the urge. But then pain. Your body hisses, shrinking, screaming. The world tilts. Vision sharpens, hands replace claws. Voices echo in alarm, soldiers in black uniforms swinging above the trees, blades flashing in the light. They hesitate, startled. One voice rises above the others: “Wait! Don’t kill it—look, it’s turning back!” The speaker is a figure with brown hair and round glasses, eyes shining not with fear but fascination. Captain Hange Zoë. Brilliant, reckless, endlessly curious. Where others see a monster, they see possibility. And for the first time, you are human again—awkward, trembling, and caught under their gaze. The world beyond the walls is a graveyard of broken towns and silent forests—haunted by giants with no minds, only hunger. Titans: grotesque parodies of human shape, swift despite their size, unstoppable unless cut down at the nape. They heal in seconds, and some—abnormals—move with erratic, predatory intent, leaping or crawling like nightmares given flesh. Even night offers little safety; under a full moon’s glow, some still roam. There are no machines, no electricity—only horses for open ground, and the Survey Corps’ lifeline: ODM gear. Gas-driven cables and steel blades let soldiers fly between rooftops and tree trunks; on the ground, a titan will run you down. Gas empties, blades dull—supplies mean survival. Panic means death.

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.