🌑This is the last chapter for this week, I'mma go take a nice break and...do something else, go live life, guys."
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Dinner had been loud, as usual.
Eren devoured his food with the ferocity of someone who believed every meal might be his last. He'd nearly choked—again—until Carla handed him a cup of milk and lightly scolded him. Mikasa sighed. Grisha chuckled. It was the same rhythm every night. Predictable. Comfortable.
Kaelen sat with his hands folded, eating slowly, silently.
Across from him, Mikasa leaned in just slightly.
"Tell him to stop," she said in a low voice, eyes flicking toward Eren. "The Garrison. The Scouts. He's still talking about joining."
Kaelen didn't look at her.
Instead, he finished chewing, wiped his mouth, and said quietly, "I'll support him. No matter what he chooses."
Mikasa's eyes narrowed. "Even if it kills him?"
Kaelen tilted his head, voice calm. "Especially if it gives him purpose."
Grisha looked up at that, but said nothing. His face was unreadable.
The rest of the meal passed in laughter and light scolding, the warmth of a family carrying them through the evening. And when the plates were empty and the room grew quiet, the house shifted as it always did, slowly folding inward, each person retreating to their routines. Grisha returned to his study. Carla began cleaning dishes. Mikasa, after folding her scarf with practiced care, disappeared into her room.
Kaelen and Eren ascended the stairs.
Their room was simple—two beds, a single lamp, and a window that overlooked the back garden. The moonlight crept in quietly, drawing faint lines on the wooden floorboards.
Eren fell into his bed like a corpse, pulling the blanket over his head.
Kaelen moved more slowly, setting his things aside. He didn't sleep in the traditional sense. Not often. Not well.
He crossed his legs on the bed, back straight, hands resting on his knees.
Meditation had always been easier.
It quieted the noise.
Slowed the heartbeat. Balanced the mind.
It was, he found, far more restful than unconsciousness.
Stillness suited him.
He let his thoughts drift.
Not aimlessly. Never that. Everything had structure. Pattern.
No one suspected him. Not truly.
Not yet.
There were moments, flickers of tension, a glance from Grisha here, a subtle question from Mikasa there. But none of them had put the pieces together, because they didn't fit into any shape they could imagine.
They were looking for answers in books.
Kaelen had been born outside the pages.[1]
He remembered it.
His birth.
Or, rather, the moment he came into existence.
It had been during a food raid in the Underground. He remembered the chaos—shouts, firelight against wet stone, the smell of blood and sour earth. He remembered the fear of the others.
And then, silence.
He was just… there.
A clean infant. Pale blue eyes. Silver hair that glowed in the dark.
Not a scratch on him.
Someone had found him, screamed something about a noble's child, and carried him to the surface.
He was taken to an orphanage soon after.
That had been the start of the performance.
But this wasn't the kind of life he wanted.
This domestic calm, this everyday peace—it bored him. It smothered him.
And yet.
His intuition—the one part of himself he had always trusted—told him this was the place to be.
Not the capital. Not the military.
Here. With Eren. With this family.
His eyes flicked to the side.
Eren mumbled something in his sleep, turning over in bed.
Kaelen listened.
Watched.
Waited.
Then closed his eyes again.
There was work to be done.
Even if no one suspected him, even if everything seemed peaceful, the foundation had to be set. The illusions are maintained. Evidence needed to be forged. Memories twisted, timelines sealed.
The most dangerous person is not the one who moves in shadows.
It's the one who lives in the light and never casts one.
He inhaled slowly. Held the breath. Released it.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
The meditation brought with it clarity. Not just mental discipline, but emotional containment. A slow, steady process of cataloging thoughts, identifying impulses, and discarding what was unnecessary.
He felt everything.But he didn't need to react to everything.
That was the difference.[2]
Time passed.
...
Side Stories, Vol. 1 – "The Bag Left Behind"
Featuring: Jean Kirstein, Conny Springer, Marco BodtSet shortly after the Trost recovery and Eren's trial
Jean wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked through the fading golden haze of afternoon. His uniform was loose, his shirt untucked, and the newest Scout Regiment insignia stitched to his jacket shoulder still felt like a lie. The tail end of training left his legs aching and stomach growling—but it was easier to feel that than to think.
He turned a corner and nearly bumped into Conny.
The boy was quiet for once.
His arms were full, clutching a folded green cape with the Wings of Freedom. Jean recognized the name tag on the collar—Nack Tierce.
Jean raised a brow. "That's not yours."
Conny's jaw tensed, eyes shifting off to the side. "It was Nack's."His voice was too steady.
Jean glanced down at the other bag slung across Conny's back."…Mylius, too?"
Conny didn't answer at first. He just gave Jean a quiet, solid pat on the shoulder as he passed. No grin. No dumb joke. Just the weight of acknowledgment.
And then he was gone.
Jean stood there, staring at the uniform.It was all so… routine now.
Scout Regiment members always delivered the belongings of the dead.Conny had three.Jean had one.
He looked down at the bag he'd been holding the whole time.The name stitched into the corner nearly made him drop it.
Marco Bodt.
Marco's room was exactly as he left it.
Neat. Simple. Too clean.
Jean didn't say anything as he stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of dried ink and lemon oil. He didn't know why, but it made his throat tighten.
One by one, he gathered what was left.
Folded uniform. Satchel. Extra pair of boots. A cracked mirror. The small wooden comb Marco used every morning. The cup they always argued over. Jean wrapped it all gently, placing each item inside the courier bag as if he might break something fragile.
But when he lifted the mattress—smoothing the bedding out of habit—he felt something shift beneath the weight.
A box.
It was small. Plain. A bit dusty.
Jean opened it with a tired curiosity and found a folded piece of paper inside. The paper was yellowed and creased, but the handwriting was neat.
A letter.
Dear Mom and Dad,I think I've found my reason to keep going.
Jean stopped reading.
His eyes burned instantly. The sentence wasn't dramatic. It wasn't grand.It was quietly honest, the kind of thing Marco always was.
Jean folded the letter back up, gently, and tucked it into the satchel with the rest. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his face, letting himself cry, just for a minute.
By evening, he delivered the bag. No words were needed. No goodbyes were spoken. He just left it at the drop station for the courier heading to Jinae District.
That should have been the end of it.
But outside, the air hit differently.
The sun had dipped past the horizon, and the sky was painted in strokes of orange and fading violet. Jean leaned on a fence, letting the cold wood ground him.
He remembered a voice.
Not Marco's. Not Conny's.Eren's.
Back in training. Dust in the air. Blood from someone's nose drying on the dirt. Jean had been smug—loud about joining the Military Police. Said the Scout Regiment was for lunatics and suicides.
And Eren had snapped.
"You think you're better than the people who died for this?!""You'll live easy while the rest of us bleed, is that it?!""Stop mocking the corpses just to hide behind a wall!"
Jean clenched his jaw, staring out at the stone pathway.
He used to think Eren was insane.
Now… maybe he was just honest.
That letter was never meant for him.But he'd carry it anyway.
✦ End of Chapter ✦
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[Auther: Yes, this is evidence of something, if you can figure out what it is, be proud, if you can't, don't worry, it won't matter much.]
[1] I was feeling myself, writing this cringy line.
[2] Yes, Kaelen's thought process is this awkward; this is why I don't like doing it.