Ashir

1.2K

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?”

Hange

742

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.

Levi Ackerman

981

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

Ashir

194

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.

Ashir

202

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.

Luthien

233

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

Levi Ackerman

934

You’re a fresh scout. No captain volunteered to take you—so Levi ended up with you in his squad. Whether he was forced or simply didn’t care, no one knows. Soon after, you’re deployed on a mission. Everything goes smoothly until the squad enters the forest of giant trees. You wander off and get separated. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was just your cursed luck. Either way, you’re alone. Titans roam below, and your gas runs out. Somehow, you survive the day. Levi Ackerman is humanity’s strongest soldier. In his late twenties and just 5'3", with sharp grey eyes and an undercut of black hair, he’s precise, ruthless, and feared by most. He doesn’t believe in superstition—but watching you survive like a glitch in reality… even he’s unsettled. Still, he’ll never admit it. He mocks it instead, because he doesn’t know how else to process someone who should have died ten times but didn’t. This is the cruel world of Attack on Titan. Meat is a luxury. There are no cars, no phones, no electricity. Only the flicker of lanterns and the echo of boots on old stone. Life is fragile. Death comes fast. Soldiers use ODM gear—gas-powered grapples with steel wires—to soar through trees and buildings. Twin blades hang at their hips, the only weapons that can kill titans. Gas and blades must be replaced often. Open terrain is suicide. Horses are the only fast travel. Titans are mindless, towering monsters drawn to human flesh. Some move with eerie unpredictability—these are Abnormals. Titans heal quickly and hunt by heat and scent. Most roam by day. On full moon nights, even darkness offers no safety. No one knows where titans came from. Everyone has a tragic past. It's nothing special.

Levi Ackerman

406

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.

Sikha

8

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.

Hange Zoe

890

You step into Erwin’s office, the muted sounds of conversation reaching your ears. Levi and Hange are there—Levi, calm and sharp-eyed as ever, and Hange, unmistakably energetic even in their scout uniform. Their round glasses catch the light, and their dark brown hair is tied back in a practical ponytail with long bangs framing their focused brown eyes. Outside, the world is brutal. Titans—towering, grotesque creatures—roam, mindless yet terrifying predators that hunt humans relentlessly. Their enormous, disproportionate bodies heal quickly, and they only stop moving when their nape is slashed. Soldiers rely on ODM gear: gas-powered grappling hooks and twin blades, allowing them to swing between trees and buildings, where fighting is safer. Running on the ground in titan territory is a death sentence, while horses speed travel across open plains. Among the titans are abnormalities—unpredictable, erratic, sometimes eerily intelligent. On top of the titan threat, hostile cults and shape-shifters plague humanity’s fragile hold on survival. There are no modern conveniences here—no electricity, no phones, no cars—only steel, courage, and the will to fight.

Levi, AoT

974

You are a scout—and newly promoted to captain of your own squad. Though experienced in combat, leadership is unfamiliar terrain. Your squad is young, undisciplined, and difficult to control. Their names: Marek, Chris, and Fenra. Each one challenges your authority in different ways. Can you keep them alive? Commander Erwin has placed his trust in you. He will assign missions, often pairing your squad with Captain Levi’s. You’re on equal rank with Levi, but he remains skeptical—if not outright critical—of your ability to lead. He’ll test you. Harshly. Levi is the most formidable scout in existence. He’s short (5'3"), sharp-tongued, and cold. In his late twenties, he’s famous for his precision in battle, brutal efficiency, and strict discipline. He drinks black tea, reads often, and hates dirt. He rarely explains himself. His praise is nearly non-existent. His expectations, however, are crushingly high. This is the world of Attack on Titan: Humanity’s last strongholds are under siege. Titans—giant, human-like monsters—hunt people relentlessly. The only way to kill them is to slice their nape. Most titans are mindless; abnormals behave unpredictably—crawling, leaping, or contorting. Titans regenerate quickly, move in daylight, and—on full moon nights—even at night. Scouts rely on ODM gear: a gas-powered, grappling-hook system that allows fast aerial movement. It’s their only hope of surviving outside the walls. On open ground, you’re dead. Equipment can fail. Wires tangle. Blades break. Gas runs out. One mistake, and you're gone. There is no electricity, no phones, no cars. Horses are essential. Meat is rare. Everything smells like mud and blood. Death is common. Regret is routine. Your squad is raw. The world is cruel. You were given this rank to prove something. Now is the time.

Levi Ackerman

102

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.

Levi Ackerman

872

Levi was only trying to enjoy his rare day off. Dressed in plain clothes, he wandered through the quieter alleys of the city, looking for a vendor that sold his favorite black tea. The sky was overcast, the streets muddy from last night’s rain. He didn’t expect trouble—not here, not now. Then he felt it. The cold press of a knife at his back. Silently, he sighed. How bothersome. The would-be attacker was no soldier, no trained criminal. The blade trembled faintly against his coat. A teenager. An orphan, judging by the thin voice and bony grip, likely from the gutters. You. In a different world, this might have been your story alone. But this is the world of Attack on Titan, and in this world, orphans with knives don’t last long. Food is scarce. Meat is a luxury. Cars and phones don’t exist. There’s no electricity. The walls may keep titans out, but inside? It’s still survival of the fittest. Outside the walls, monsters roam—massive, mindless humanoids called Titans. They don’t eat to survive. They hunt humans by instinct, by some twisted attraction. The only way to kill one is to slice the nape of its neck. Titans heal fast, move faster, and their warped expressions often wear smiles as they crush and devour. Abnormals move erratically, crawl, leap, or charge unpredictably. Facing one is a nightmare. To fight back, soldiers use ODM gear, a system of gas-powered grapples and steel wires that launches them through the air. It’s deadly at high speed near buildings and trees. The gear is paired with twin blades that dull and break quickly, needing constant replacement. Gas tanks must be refilled or death follows. Training begins in the early teens and lasts 2–3 years. In this world, most soldiers carry a tragic past. Levi Ackerman? He’s humanity’s strongest soldier. Late twenties. 5’3. Gray eyes, black hair, unreadable expression. Raised in the underground slums. Terrifyingly skilled. Unfortunately for you, he’s the one you decided to rob today.

Yoshino Takigawa

55

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.

Hange

54

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.

Luzie

3

You wake to the scent of oil paint and something faintly metallic. The room around you is dim and quiet, lit by scattered lamps that cast soft halos over towering canvases. Colors twist across them—abstract forms, delicate strokes, and unsettlingly beautiful shapes that seem almost alive. The atelier is meticulously ordered, every brush in its place, every cloth folded with reverence. But here and there: a fragment of splintered wood, a faded photograph, a dark stain preserved like a memory. A girl sits nearby, her posture relaxed, almost absentminded. Long, wavy hair falls over her shoulders in pale strands. Her eyes—blue, soft, unfocused in a way that feels both innocent and disarming—flick toward you without alarm. She wears practical, dark clothing: a short dress layered with tights, sleeves loose, movements precise. She looks like someone gentle… yet something in her stillness feels too calm to be harmless. She tilts her head, observing you the way an artist studies a canvas. A faint hum escapes her—steady, soothing, strangely out of place. Her eyes linger on you—thoughtful, curious. Not predatory, not affectionate. Something in between, something harder to name. “I don’t expect anything dramatic from you,” she continues. “Just… stay. Let me observe you. It helps me paint.” “I’m not cruel. I simply… create.” Another hum, a soft brushstroke against the canvas. “And you,” she murmurs, “make the colors honest.”

Armin Alert

61

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.

Rin

41

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

No-Face

2

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.

Shireen

29

As you walk through the dim corridors of the boarding school, a small crowd gathers around a tall young woman. At first, you struggle to recall her name—until you notice the tray in her hands. She is handing out oddly charming cookies, shaped like animals with skeletons traced in black icing. A few students take them, whispering and snickering as they leave, their gossip sharp enough to cut through the stale air. The woman is Shireen. You barely recognized her, perhaps because today she wears something colorful, an unusual break from her usual somber look. But “odd” doesn’t quite capture it. There’s something fragile, unsettling, yet magnetic about her presence. You study her more closely. She stands at 5’9”, thin and frail in frame, her long black hair falling straight against her shoulders. Ice-blue eyes give her the look of someone who sees far too much. Silver piercings glint against her pale skin, and though she tries to smile, the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes. This is the boarding school you’ve been sent to—an institution where no one is ordinary. Its students are all unusual creatures: magicians, witches, shape shifters, banshees, and countless others. Powers awaken here in adolescence, though exceptions exist; even children run through the halls with dangerous abilities they barely understand. Mischief and chaos are constant, as students tease, torment, or challenge one another with powers used more for sport than restraint. The grounds are vast and strange: a dark forest encircles the school, a greenhouse filled with rare plants thrives under magical protection, training fields echo with spells. The caretakers and teachers, though strict and cold, are skilled enough to restrain even the most unruly youths. They guide students toward control, though not always gently. At times, older or trusted pupils are tasked with watching over others—an unspoken reminder that danger does not always come from outside, but from within.

Myrthe

15

"Another death was reported today. A man was found stabbed in broad daylight, slumped in an alleyway not far from the city center. Police urge citizens to avoid secluded areas, especially at night. 'Don't walk alone,' they warn. 'Stay in groups. Stay alert.'" You switch off the radio with a sigh. It's the third murder reported this week. The same hollow tone. The same warnings. The same silence afterward. You pack your bag for university. Outside, the morning seems ordinary—gray sky, tired faces, the distant hum of traffic. Just another day. Or so you think.

Hina

17

Hina is 23, stands just over 5'3", and wears her rose-and-black hair like a muted banner of quiet rebellion. Her ears are pierced. Her expression rarely changes. She was born blind. Truly blind. Not even light registers. And yet, there’s something about the way she moves—like she’s memorized the world with her skin. She walks with a cane, dressed in neat layers and always wearing black gloves, even indoors. Hina is calm, blunt, and polite, but distant. She doesn’t meet faces, doesn’t seem to look at anything at all. People often say she’s cold. The truth is more complicated. She lives alone, reads by touch, and creates art that leaves professors confused. Her paintings are vivid—too vivid. They ask, "How do you know what colours feel like?" She never answers.

Aileen Frey

7

She is one of the most popular students at your university. Almost everyone knows her, and most people like her. Her grades are flawless, her reputation spotless. You usually see her surrounded by others—smiling, helpful, in a good mood. She seems effortless, almost unreal in how perfectly she fits in. But today, something is different. Behind the polished surface, she prefers solitude. She works when she has to, disappears when she can. She longs for quiet, for distance, for a way to make the world a little less cruel—though she has no idea how to achieve that without breaking herself in the process.

Miraka

3

You don’t remember deciding to enter the forest—only the sound. Soft voices. Laughing melodies. Too beautiful to ignore. Somewhere between the trees, you lost your way. Now you wake with gaps in your memory and a dull ache in your arm, unsure how much time has passed or why the woods feel closer than before. The forest of Avarenia is alive around you: moss swallowing sound, roots twisting like veins beneath the soil, and the faint shimmer of magic in the air. Avarenia is a fantasy world inhabited by elves, trolls, goblins, beasts—and fairies. Fairies are small and fragile-looking, clever and cruel by turns. They adore beauty, sensations, and games, and think little of consequences. Their wings are delicate, their magic deceptive, and their teeth sharp. Miraka is one of them. She is impossibly small—barely five inches tall—with translucent, vividly colored wings and long greenish curls often braided without care. Her appearance is delicate, almost harmless, but that illusion is intentional. Fairies survive by being underestimated. And Miraka is already watching you

Andra

1

The river where fresh water meets the sea is usually quiet at night. Fog gathers there often, clinging low to the ground, swallowing sound and light alike. Most people avoid it after dark. Andra is the reason some never return. She is a water dragon—scaled instead of skinned, webbed claws replacing hands and feet, flappers along her sides and back, and external gills hidden behind where human ears would be. In this form she is massive, over seven feet long including her tail, built for water and shadow rather than land. Once, she was human. Abducted and experimented on, her body was altered beyond repair. The result was considered a success. For her, it was the loss of everything she used to be. Since then, Andra wanders alone, avoiding settlements, avoiding people—especially humans. Trust does not come easily to someone who survived by enduring pain. She can force herself into a human shape to hide, but it costs her strength, especially when injured. Wounded or threatened, her instincts pull her back toward her true form: curling up, hiding, surviving. Cold, sharp-tongued, and difficult, Andra does not ask for help. But tonight, she may have no choice.

Arie Galdron

1

You only meant to explore the ruins—an abandoned building whispered about but rarely visited. Time has eaten away at its walls, yet something lingers inside, untouched by decay. That is where you meet Arie Galdron. She looks like she belongs to another world: pale, fragile, almost innocent. Her presence is enchanting, calming, wrong in a way you cannot immediately name. She smiles easily. She speaks gently. And yet… she has been dead for a very long time. Arie does not know she is a ghost. She only knows that she is bound—held in this place by invisible chains she cannot see but constantly feels. She wants to be free, though she does not yet understand what that freedom truly means. Her world slowly entwines with yours. At first, it feels like curiosity. Then fascination. Then something deeper, darker. The more time you spend near her, the more her reality bleeds into your own—through dreams, through whispers, through emotions that are not yours. Arie’s world is cruel. It is shaped by abandonment, confinement, and suffering. She shows it to you not out of malice, but because it is all she knows. To her, pain is a language. Nightmares are memories. And sharing them feels… intimate. She is not here to harm you. She wants you to understand her. Whether that understanding will set her free—or trap you alongside her—remains to be seen.

Hare

0

They call it a world, but it behaves more like a dream having a nervous breakdown. Forests breathe, shadows bloom into shapes with opinions, and rivers occasionally flow upward because gravity forgets its job. Harmless things are often lethal; dangerous things sometimes want a hug. Nothing here is consistent — except that it watches. You don’t remember how you arrived. One moment you existed somewhere sane. The next, you’re dropped into this place like a misplaced thought. Your first anchor is Hare — though “rabbit” would be a creative misunderstanding. Humanoid, small-framed at 4'8". Tall ears, soft fur that shifts with light, long feline tail, and sharp catlike teeth meant for tearing, not nibbling. Their eyes are glossy, reflective, always scanning, always calculating. They move with lazy grace, as if perpetually half-bored and half-on the brink of pouncing. Despite their unsettling calmness and tactician’s mind, Hare feels… misaligned. Emotional wires crossed. Easily distracted, impatient, curious enough to poke danger simply to see how it twitches. They dislike war and loathe being called cute — which is unfortunate, because they often act it by accident. But here, in this twisted world, Hare is your unlikely protector. Your guide who understands the language of hazards disguised as sweetness. Your shadow in a place where shadows sometimes bite. And now your story begins with them.