Attack On Titan: Dark Romance #3 ᝰ.ᐟ
ᯓ★ Y/N has been childhood friends with Eren Jaeger since they were little kids. Y/N is affected by Anti Social Personality disorder. She is a sociopath. Due to trauma, she cannot feel emotions or empathy-- she uses men around her as props wrapped around her fingers. And Eren is one of them.
obsessed!eren jaeger x sociopath! reader
The rooftop of Y/N’s apartment complex was nothing more than a slab of cracked concrete surrounded by rusted railings, but she sat there as if it were a throne. The night air pressed cool fingers against her bruised skin while she leaned her spine against the low rooftop wall, her knees drawn loosely up, her hair falling around her shoulders in tangled waves. She dragged her fingers through it over and over, almost absently, as if smoothing out the chaos of her thoughts.
Below her, the city breathed in quiet pulses. A bus hissed somewhere in the distance. A dog barked in a neighboring alley. The hum of cheap fluorescent streetlights filled the silence between her breaths.
Her gaze drifted across the rooftop, to the dark outline of a water tank and the shadow of a forgotten lawn chair. She waited harder. Her foot tapped once, irritation prickling beneath her skin like a mild electric current.
Then her phone vibrated sharply against the concrete.
The screen lit her face in a pale glow.
She answered, slipping instantly into the version of herself she wanted him to hear.
Jean’s voice burst through the speaker, already raised, already furious. “What the hell was Eren doing? I’m coming over right now. Are you alright, Y/N? He told me what happened. I can’t believe he let this happen to you.”
Her lips curled, not into a smile but into a knowing smirk that remained safely hidden from her voice. She lowered her lashes, softened her tone with delicate control, and added a faint tremor that she knew would make him spiral.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just a little bruised up.” She coughed lightly, making sure it sounded strained. Vulnerable. “Don’t worry too much.”
“Too late,” Jean growled. “I’m on my way, boss.”
She ended the call before he could say anything else. The moment the line disconnected, her expression dropped its softness. She let out a short, irritated breath and rolled her eyes up toward the sky. The rooftop lights flickered above her, casting long shadows that swayed across her figure.
When she lifted her gaze again, she caught sight of Eren standing several paces away, watching her with a wrecked expression. The guilt in his eyes was almost theatrical. His shoulders slumped, head lowered slightly, as if the weight of his remorse had bent him out of shape.
She tilted her head slowly, studying him the way a scientist observes a quietly malfunctioning experiment.
“Eren,” she said, drawing his name out in a tone that managed to be both gentle and cold.
He looked up immediately, and the guilt in his eyes intensified. She always found that look uniquely satisfying; it meant she still controlled the atmosphere around him.
Such a poor, sweet thing. He wore guilt like armor, and she was the only one who knew how to crack it open.
She shifted her position slightly, letting one knee drop and one foot remain perched on the sill, a posture that made her look smaller, almost fragile, even though nothing about her actually was. “Can you hit me?”
The guilt evaporated from his face, replaced by confusion, then fear, then something close to heartbreak. His eyebrows pulled together in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”
“It needs to look like my stalker roughed me up a little more,” she replied, as if discussing nothing more serious than adjusting makeup. Her tone was flat, practical, almost bored. She looked up at him with her chin slightly raised. “What is wrong with you? You have seen me get beaten my entire life. Just do it.”
Her eyes were steady. Sharpened. Unaffected.
Eren’s hands shook. Not dramatically, but enough that she noticed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down whatever emotion threatened to escape him. He stepped closer, then immediately dropped to his knees beside her, like gravity had yanked him down.
Before she could react, he folded forward, pressing his forehead against her lap, arms wrapping around her waist as if she were the only stable surface in his collapsing world. His fingers clung desperately to the fabric of her pants, and when he looked up at her from his kneeling position, his eyes were glossy with pain.
“That’s why I can’t,” he said quietly.
The way he said it wasn’t defiant or stubborn. It was broken. Pleading. A confession pulled out from somewhere deep inside him.
He lifted one of her hands in both of his and held it as though it were something sacred. His thumb brushed the back of her knuckles, trembling. Everything in his expression begged her to stop asking him for something that tore him open.
“I’ve watched people hurt you for years,” he continued, voice strained. “Your father. Your mother. Those kids at school. That stalker. Everyone. Every time, I wished I could take the pain and give it to myself instead. I thought if I stayed close enough, if I stayed alert enough, if I just loved you hard enough, it would stop.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
“But I can’t become another person who hits you,” he whispered. “I won’t. Even if you tell me to.”
Y/N studied him as he knelt there, devout and anguished, clutching her like someone drowning. She didn’t soften; she didn’t pity him. What she felt was closer to calculation, a measuring of leverage, the recognition of just how deeply wrapped around her he already was.
But he would do almost anything else.
She smiled at him, and then cupped his face while leaning down to plant a small kiss on his forehead. "I get it, Eren."
Eren remained on his knees beside her, hands resting lightly on her legs as if any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile truth hovered between them. Y/N leaned back against the rough concrete, her fingers still threaded through his hair in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The silence itself felt like a leash tightening around him.
The city below murmured softly, a distant mix of traffic and nightlife. A breeze moved across the rooftop, lifting strands of Y/N’s hair and brushing them against Eren’s face, but he didn’t flinch. He looked content in the quiet, as if kneeling before her was a natural place to exist.
Then a sound interrupted the stillness.
Metal scraped against metal—the rooftop access ladder. Boots climbed rung by rung with urgency. Y/N’s hand stilled in Eren’s hair. Her eyes sharpened.
She didn’t even look toward the ladder. She didn’t need to. The moment she recognized the cadence of the steps, she lowered her head into her hands with a soft, controlled exhale, rearranging her entire posture with a frightening ease.
Knees pulled close, shoulders hunched, elbows tucked inward—her body folded into the shape of a devastated girl.
Eren stared at her, startled by how fast the transformation happened. Just a moment ago, she had been steady and composed, eyes glowing with strategy and fury. Now she looked smaller, broken, trembling. None of it was real. He knew it. He had seen the switch flip behind her eyes.
Before he could say anything, Jean’s head appeared above the edge of the roof. The second he saw her curled form, he climbed the rest of the way up with frantic speed.
“Y/N!” he shouted, shoving past Eren without acknowledging him. “Boss, what the hell—are you alright? Did that bastard touch you? Are you hurt?”
He crouched in front of her, reaching for her arms to steady her. His eyes darted over the bandages, the dirt on her clothes, the faint marks on her wrists. He looked ready to kill someone.
Y/N lifted her face slowly, letting her lashes flutter just enough to appear exhausted. “I’m okay,” she whispered, voice barely above breath. “Really. I’m fine.”
“The hell you are,” Jean muttered. “He could’ve killed you. I knew something wasn’t right when Eren called me. That creep… I swear, boss, I should’ve been here.”
Y/N lowered her eyes again, just enough to force Jean to lean closer, instinctively protective.
“I’m going to be dropping you off and picking you up from everywhere,” he said firmly. “Every shift. Every class. Every damn grocery run.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she murmured, rising to her feet slowly. The movement looked weak and shaky, though she was fully steady. “Really, Jean. You don’t owe me anything.”
“I want to,” he interrupted, jaw tight. “I dug into this guy already. There’s been reports of girls your age getting kidnapped around this area for months. Someone like him probably saw your pictures online—the ones people keep posting without your permission—and targeted you.”
Behind them, Eren stiffened.
Y/N blinked once, letting a tremor run through her breath. “Jean… you don’t have to put yourself at risk for me.”
He stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her with fierce protectiveness.
“I’d do anything to protect you, boss,” he murmured into her shoulder. “You know that.”
And behind his back, hidden from him but visible to Eren, her expression shifted.
Slow, curling, deliberate.
A smile with no warmth. No fear. No weakness.
A smile that could send a chill through bone.
Everything was falling into place. Piece by piece. Person by person. Devotion by devotion.
Jean squeezed her tighter, completely unaware, while Eren watched with a prickling sense of dread that crept down his spine like cold water.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes had regained their glossy sadness, her voice a fragile whisper crafted to perfection. “I’m really scared, Jean.”
He brushed a thumb across her cheek in reassurance. “Don’t worry. I got you. I would do anything to protect you."
Y/N tilted her head very slightly, like a curious child, but her eyes glimmered with something far more calculated. “Anything?” she asked, voice precise and soft.
Jean nodded without a second of hesitation. “Anything.”
Her eyes drifted past Jean’s shoulder—toward Eren.
Eren felt the look before he understood it. It was a spark of recognition, a signal, a flashing blade under candlelight. She was planning something. Something big. Something irreversible.
And both these boys, willingly kneeling beside her in different ways, were going to be part of it.
He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when. He didn’t know who it would destroy.
But he knew the truth as surely as he knew his own name.
And someone—maybe many someones—was going to pay for it.
Classes always felt heavier on Fridays. Teachers droned through lessons, students counted minutes until the bell, and the afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows in dull golden sheets that made everything feel slow, suspended, waiting.
Y/N sat by the window as always, her mechanical pencil gliding across her notebook in precise, patient strokes. Her handwriting was flawless. Her posture was immaculate. Her expression was serene in the way a blade laid flat on a table is serene.
Behind her, a pair of voices broke the quiet.
Their desks were pushed together. Mikasa leaned shoulder-to-shoulder with him, her hair falling like a glossy curtain as she tucked her head against his arm. Eren didn’t move away. In fact, he lifted his arm so she could slide closer, and gently rested his cheek against the top of her head.
They looked sickeningly soft together.
Mikasa whispered something. Eren chuckled quietly, low enough to sound intimate. Their fingers brushed across the desk. Mikasa’s lips parted in a soft smile that made two girls in the back squeal under their breath.
Y/N didn’t turn around, but she didn’t need to. She could see their reflection in the glass—two warm figures pressed together behind her cold silhouette. Her pencil never stopped moving. Not even when Eren reached up to push a strand of hair behind Mikasa’s ear.
Then Eren’s voice carried across the quiet classroom.
“Hey… um… Mikasa. Do you want to go out this weekend? Like… a real date?”
Mikasa’s head shot up so fast her chair scraped loud against the floor. Her eyes shone. Her cheeks flushed pink.
“Yes,” she breathed, nodding. “Yes, I’d really like that.”
Y/N’s pencil paused for just a fraction of a second—too small for anyone to notice. Then she resumed writing. Her reflection in the window smirked even though her real face didn’t move at all.
The bell rang, loud and crisp, slicing the room open, signaling the end of the day. Students shot up from their desks, the air filling with chatter and rustling bags. Mikasa hugged Eren’s arm once more before hurrying out with Historia and Sasha, all three whispering excitedly.
Y/N didn’t rush. She stacked her books neatly, zipped her bag, and stood.
A shadow fell over her desk.
He hooked two fingers through the strap of her backpack and swung it over his shoulder before she could touch it. His expression was unreadable, but his posture was possessive in a way that made two boys watch nervously from the door.
“Let’s go,” Jean said simply.
Y/N nodded once and followed him out, ignoring the lingering looks from Eren, who was still seated at his desk, staring after them with guilt tightening his jaw. Y/N didn’t look back.
The sunlight was warm outside, pooling across the school courtyard as they walked side by side. Jean walked slightly ahead of her, the way he always did when he felt protective. When they reached the motorcycle parked at the curb, she placed a hand on his arm before he handed her the helmet.
“Drop me at the barbershop first,” she said.
Jean blinked. “The barbershop?”
He didn’t question further. He never did.
The ride was short, the wind cold and sharp against her skin. When they pulled up, Y/N slid off the bike and smoothed her hair with a slow, deliberate movement.
Jean leaned against the bike, one arm draped over the handlebar, watching her walk inside.
The barbershop door chimed when she entered. Twenty-five minutes later, the door chimed again.
Y/N stepped onto the sidewalk with a new silhouette. Her hair was cut much shorter than before, framing her face with clean, angular edges. It fell just above her shoulders, straight, sleek, dark, eerily similar to Mikasa Ackerman’s signature style. The cut sharpened her jawline, drew attention to her eyes, and made her features look brighter, younger, more dangerous. More intentional.
Jean’s lips parted. He stared, genuinely struck speechless.
For a moment, he looked like someone who had forgotten how to breathe.
“Holy… shit,” he muttered under his breath. He stepped closer, staring at her like she was a different person. “Boss… you look… wow. I mean—really good. Like—”
Y/N looked up at him with calm, collected amusement, the faintest hint of a smile curling at the edge of her mouth. “Better?”
He swallowed so hard she saw his throat jump. “Much.”
She brushed a strand of newly cut hair behind her ear, letting the gesture appear shy even though she calculated it down to the angle of her wrist.
Jean threw a leg over the bike, still staring at her like she was unreal. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
The ride back was quiet. Y/N sat behind him, hands lightly on his jacket, eyes half-lidded against the wind. Her thoughts were already weaving through new trajectories, new pieces on the board shifting exactly where she wanted them.
He parked in front of her apartment. She slid off the bike gracefully.
“See you later, boss,” Jean said, still unable to stop looking at her, still trying to piece together why she suddenly felt… different.
Y/N gave him a small nod.
And as he drove away, she touched the ends of her new haircut with slow, calculating satisfaction.
The hallway of Y/N’s apartment building always smelled faintly of boiled lentils and mothballs. The elderly woman in unit 3B kept her door half-open most afternoons, pretending it was for ventilation when in truth she enjoyed monitoring every corridor footstep like a neighborhood security camera with arthritis.
Y/N approached her door, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and softening her expression into the polite student the old woman adored.
“Auntie?” she called gently, tapping the doorframe.
The woman perked up instantly, lowering her newspaper. Her glasses slid halfway down her nose as she broke into a delighted smile. “Y/N come in, come in! Why are you out so late? Everything alright?”
“Yes,” Y/N said with a practiced warmth. “I actually came to borrow your broom. The long-handled one. I need to do some heavy cleaning this weekend, and mine broke.”
“Of course, of course,” the woman said, shuffling toward her balcony closet. “You return it whenever. I’m just happy it’s you asking and not those hooligan children from the fourth floor.”
Y/N smiled politely as she accepted the broom, gripping it lightly with both hands. The old woman looked her up and down, then narrowed her eyes with curiosity.
“So,” she said, leaning conspiratorially closer, “who’s the new boy dropping you home nowadays? Is he your boyfriend?”
Y/N let out the softest scoff, playing offended. “Auntie! Of course not.”
“Oh?” The woman lifted a brow.
“You know I’m dating Eren,” Y/N said, lowering her gaze like a shy schoolgirl confessing a secret. “I love him.”
The old woman melted instantly. “Ah, love,” she chuckled, patting Y/N’s arm. “You young people are all heart.”
Y/N kept her smile small, innocent.
“Jean is just a friend,” she added casually, as if the topic hardly mattered. “Although he’s been a bit… overprotective recently.”
“Overprotective?” Auntie echoed.
Y/N murmured, “I’m getting a little worried.”
The woman’s eyes sharpened with grandmotherly concern. “Worried? Why?”
Y/N let out a breath, subtle and carefully placed, as if she were debating whether to speak. “He’s gotten into too many fights lately. Because of me.”
“He’s getting himself hurt,” Y/N continued, lowering her voice to something fragile. “He’s becoming… violent.”
The older woman’s hand flew to her chest. “Violent?”
“Sometimes,” Y/N whispered, gaze drifting away, “he reminds me of my father.”
The effect was immediate. Auntie’s entire expression collapsed into horror. She reached out and pulled Y/N into a trembling embrace, her thin arms wrapping around her with protective fervor.
“Oh, my child,” she murmured. “No, no, don’t compare anyone to that man. It’s alright. You’re safe now.”
Y/N allowed her shoulders to shake just enough to seem wounded. She didn’t return the hug fully—just let herself be held, exactly the way older women expected of traumatized girls.
When she finally stepped back, Auntie cupped her cheek with a thumb rough from years of kneading dough. “You know, you should tell that boy he’s not your boyfriend,” she said firmly. “Because he loves you.”
Y/N blinked, allowing confusion to appear naturally on her face. “Love?”
Auntie sighed. “Only love makes you that brave, honey." She looks at her, almost as if she speaks with experience. "And that damn stupid.”
Y/N’s expression softened into thoughtfulness, though her real emotion was something far more calculated. She tightened her grip on the broom and leaned forward to hug the woman again, wrapping her arms gently around her shoulders.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.
The old woman smiled into her hair, unaware that every word she’d spoken had been coaxed out of her with perfect precision. Unaware that she had just become another piece in Y/N’s masterpiece.
Unaware that she would remember this conversation clearly when the police arrived.
Jean arrived earlier than he ever had before.
The sun wasn’t fully up yet, and the apartment hallway was washed in a faint gray-blue glow when he knocked on Y/N’s door—three quick raps, like always. He stood with perfect posture despite the early hour, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, trying not to look like he sprinted there out of anxiety.
“Come in!” Y/N called from inside.
Jean hesitated. They never did this. Usually she opened the door herself. But her voice sounded hurried, so he pushed the door open.
Y/N stood in the middle of her living room wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around her chest, hair dripping down her shoulders. Water traced lines along her collarbones and down her legs, glistening in the dim morning light. She was digging through a laundry basket for clothes, completely unbothered by his presence.
Jean, however, short-circuited.
His eyes widened like someone had punched him in the lungs, and then—panicked—he spun around so fast he slammed his forehead into the wall beside the door.
“Shit—! I’m sorry—I didn’t—sorry—” He held his forehead with both hands, mortified.
Y/N didn’t even look up. She had already pulled on her work shirt, buttoning it with calm, swift precision. “Relax, Jean. I’m just running late.”
He kept his face toward the wall, ears burning so red they nearly glowed. “Yeah. Sure. Right.”
She tied her damp hair into a messy low knot, grabbed her bag, and brushed past him. Jean walked behind her like a malfunctioning security robot, still apologizing under his breath all the way to the motorcycle.
They rode in silence. Jean was too flustered to speak. Y/N was already planning her day.
When they pulled up to the café, she slid off the bike smoothly, adjusting her shirt collar while Jean avoided eye contact like a guilty schoolboy. Through the café window, she saw Floch wiping counters and yawning.
The bell above the door chimed as she walked in.
Floch brightened immediately. “Y/N! Oh thank god you’re here. Uh… someone’s been waiting for you.”
Y/N paused. She turned slowly.
A woman sat near the front—legs crossed, posture perfect, hair smooth and pinned into a sleek bun. She wore a charcoal-gray suit tailored so sharply it could slice air. Her tablet lay open on the table beside a minimalist leather tote bag.
Corporate. High-end. A woman who walked into a tiny neighborhood café at dawn on purpose. Y/N’s expression went blank, emotionless, unreadable. She walked forward and sat across from the woman without a word.
Outside, through the large windows, Jean leaned on his motorcycle and watched her like an overprotective guard dog. He would stay there for hours if she let him.
The woman smiled with professional warmth. “Y/N L/N, correct? Thank you for meeting with me.”
“My name is Ms. Li,” the woman continued. “I’m one of the managers of Starforce Entertainment. We represent actresses, models, brand ambassadors, and online personalities. I apologize for showing up at such an early hour, but I felt reaching you before opening hours would be most respectful.”
Y/N blinked slowly. It was the most emotional reaction she gave.
Ms. Li continued. “I saw your photos online. Quite a few are circulating. You’re… striking. There’s a natural presence in your features. The camera loves you.”
Floch nearly dropped a tray behind the counter as he pretended not to listen. Y/N maintained her blank expression.
Ms. Li leaned forward. “I believe you have star quality. I would like you to join our program as a trainee. With training, branding, and the right exposure, I can guarantee you a career. A real one. Possibly international.”
She slid a sleek portfolio across the table. Glossy pages. Contracts. Agency success stories. Professional headshots of current stars.
Instead, she looked through the window again.
Jean was still there. Waiting. Watching. Loyal to a fault. Her pawn, her shield, her inconvenience, her weapon—she still hadn’t decided which.
Ms. Li followed her gaze. “Your boyfriend?”
Y/N’s voice didn’t waver. “No.”
Ms. Li arched a brow. “Bodyguard?”
“No.” Y/N shook her head faintly. “He just… follows me everywhere.”
Ms. Li nodded as if she understood. “And that’s exactly why people like you need security and management. We can give you that. You deserve to be in a place where men don’t stalk or cling to you.”
Ms. Li pushed the portfolio closer. “This industry is brutal, but you have the face for it. The kind people obsess over. The kind that trends. Give me six months and your life will change.”
Y/N finally met her eyes. Her tone was soft, but icy. “I’m not interested.”
Ms. Li blinked. “Not… interested? At all?”
Y/N folded her hands neatly on the table. “I have a lot of things to take care of first.”
Ms. Li tilted her head. “Like what?”
Y/N leaned back in her seat.
Her gaze drifted again toward the window where Jean stood—leaning against the motorcycle, staring inside, waiting for her, undoubtedly willing to wait the entire shift. And when she spoke, her tone was calm in a way that felt almost threatening.
Ms. Li’s smile faltered. Just a little. But she collected herself quickly. “Well… the offer stands. If you ever change your mind—”
Ms. Li swallowed. “Right. Well. You never know." She smiled, tilting her head and slid her card to her. "Hold onto this. If you ever get into trouble."
And the Ms. Li left the café.
Floch came over, eyes wide. “Holy shit, Y/N. You got scouted. Do you know how rare that is? Why’d you say no?”
Instead, she slowly untied her damp hair, letting it fall into the shape of her new, shorter cut. The strands clung to her cheek, framing her face in clean lines that made her look eerily composed.
Through the window, Jean noticed the movement. His eyes softened. He adjusted his posture. He waited. Y/N’s lips curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.
Jean was still there when her shift finally ended.
Four hours had passed. The street had grown brighter, then busier, then quieter again. He never sat, never wandered, never checked his phone. He simply leaned against his motorcycle and stared at the café door as if nothing else existed.
When Y/N stepped outside, tying her apron into her bag, he straightened immediately.
“Let’s go, boss,” he said, holding out the helmet.
She slipped it on but held his wrist for a beat before climbing onto the back. “Actually… can we stop by the mall?”
Jean blinked. “The mall?”
She nodded, voice soft, almost playful. “Please?”
His shoulders softened. “Yeah. Sure.”
The engine rumbled to life beneath them, and she pressed closer than usual, resting her chin lightly on his shoulder. Jean swallowed hard but didn’t comment. She felt him inhale, steadying himself, before speeding off into the city.
The mall was crowded but warm, filled with chatter and perfume and weekend excitement. Y/N walked a step ahead, her expression neutral to everyone else—yet every so often she glanced back at Jean and gave him a small smile.
Cute.
Sweet.
Drawing him closer without saying a single direct word.
Jean tried not to stare too openly, but he failed miserably.
“So where did you want to go first?” he asked, adjusting his jacket.
His brows lifted. “Ice cream? Since when do you want that?”
“Since now,” she said simply, already leading him to a small pastel-colored shop tucked into a corner.
The second they stepped inside, the smell of waffle cones and cold sugar hit them. Y/N ordered two cones without asking Jean’s preference—chocolate for herself, vanilla for him—paid quickly, and handed him his.
He took it, slightly flustered. “Thanks, boss.”
She tilted her head at him. “Don’t call me boss right now. Not when we’re doing something fun.” Her voice softened into something teasing. “Call me Y/N.”
Jean’s heart almost stopped.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
While he readjusted his grip on the cone, she reached out casually and dabbed a bit of her ice cream onto the tip of his nose.
Y/N’s expression remained perfectly innocent.
“What-what was that for?” he sputtered, wiping at his face uselessly.
She shrugged. “You were staring too seriously.”
He stared at her for half a second… then dipped a finger into his ice cream and flicked it lightly at her cheek.
Her eyes widened, but a smile tugged at her mouth.
“Oh, so that’s how it is,” she murmured.
A small ice-cream skirmish broke out between them: quick, silly, harmless. Jean laughed, really laughed, for the first time in days, and Y/N let herself laugh too, bright and airy, the sound echoing through the shop in a way that made Jean’s chest ache.
People in line smiled at them. A little girl whispered to her mother that they “looked like a couple.”
She knew Jean heard it. She knew he felt it. And she knew he would remember it.
When they left the shop, Jean was wiping at a smear of chocolate on his shirt. Y/N handed him a tissue without looking at him. He watched her speak to a vendor, watched the way she walked, the way she tilted her head, the way she glanced back at him from under her lashes.
He didn’t dare say it aloud, but he felt it in his chest, warm and dangerous.
They wandered through stores until they passed a horror-themed pop-up attraction—a dim tunnel covered with fake cobwebs and red lights.
Y/N stopped walking. “Let’s go in.”
Jean snorted. “You? In a horror house? You hate loud noises.”
“Not today,” she said, pulling him by the sleeve.
Inside, the darkness swallowed them. Screams echoed from deeper in the maze. Animatronic ghouls lunged from behind curtains. Y/N walked ahead, unbothered. Jean stayed close behind, stiffening every time something jumped out.
At one point, a mannequin fell forward with a sudden metallic crash. Jean instinctively pulled Y/N back against his chest.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t even blink.
But she let him hold her. Just long enough for him to feel needed. Just long enough to confuse him.
When they exited, blinking into the bright mall lights, she stepped out of his embrace like nothing had happened. “Let’s go to the clothing store,” she said lightly.
Jean followed, still recovering.
Inside the store, she walked straight to a rack of simple red shirts and dark blue jeans—plain, unassuming, completely unlike her usual soft neutrals and skirts.
She pulled out a red top without hesitation.
Jean frowned. “That’s… not really your style.”
“I know,” she said, her voice low, almost absent.
“Then why are you buying it?” he asked.
She turned the hanger slowly, watching the fabric swing like a pendulum. The lighting overhead reflected in her eyes, sharp and eerie.
Jean didn’t understand. Not yet.
And by then, it would be far too late.
Jean dropped her off just after dusk, the motorcycle engine humming into silence as Y/N slid off the back. Her fingers lingered on his shoulder longer than necessary when she handed him the helmet.
“Come inside,” she said quietly.
“Mm.” Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes held something that made the air shift. “Just for a minute.”
He followed her up the stairs, trying not to overthink it, though his pulse had already started to pound. The second she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the atmosphere changed.
Her apartment, dimly lit by the orange glow of the streetlamp outside, felt smaller tonight. Closer. Warmer. Jean lingered near the doorway, unsure what to do with his hands.
Y/N took two slow steps toward him.
It wasn’t tentative or soft. She caught the collar of his shirt in her fist and pulled him down to her mouth, crashing him into a moment he was entirely unprepared for. Jean froze, startled, then kissed her back with a breathless sound as his hands hovered—afraid to touch her, afraid not to.
She deepened the kiss, guiding him backward with small, decisive steps until the back of his knees hit the edge of her bed. He sat, stunned, and she followed, straddling his lap without hesitation, gripping the sides of his face as she kissed him harder, swallowing the gasp he couldn’t stop.
Jean’s hands finally rose to her waist, trembling.
She kissed him again, slower this time, letting the softness lull him. That was when her hand slipped behind her into the drawer at the bedside.
The plastic crackle of the ziplock bag was buried beneath the sound of their breathing. Her fingers found the seal—she had placed the bag there hours ago, anticipating this moment.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath brushing his lips. Jean stared at her like he was drowning.
“Y/N…” he whispered, voice rough.
She threaded both hands into his hair as if to pull him closer.
Jean hissed in surprise, eyes squeezing shut as she tugged hard—harder than he expected, hard enough to shock a few strands loose at the roots.
“Y/N—” he started, pain flickering across his face. As soon as he was about to pull awya in pain and look at her, she pushed her hips harder against the bulge in his pants, angling her hips to sit right on top of him as she silenced him with another kiss, slow and consuming, keeping him off balance while her fingers closed around the tiny bundle of hair hidden between them.
He was too overwhelmed and turned on to notice the subtle shift of her hand.
When he finally exhaled shakily, she pulled back, her lips brushing his cheek as she whispered,
With one hand loosely curling into the back of his neck to keep him close, she lowered her gaze briefly, just long enough to slip the stolen strands into the open ziplock bag behind his back. She pressed the seal together with a quiet click, her eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.
Then, with fluid ease, she reached behind her and tucked the bag under the bed in one swift motion, hidden in the shadows where she’d prepared a spot for it earlier.
Jean, dazed, noticed none of it.
When she lifted his chin again, her touch was gentle, almost tender, as if nothing strange had happened at all.
His breathing was still uneven. His eyes were still soft.
And he was still entirely, beautifully unaware of how deeply he had just been woven into her plan.
Jean walked her downstairs, still breathless and dazed from the intensity of the moment upstairs. His hands kept brushing against hers like he didn’t know what to do with them—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch her anymore or if he had already crossed a line he would never come back from.
Y/N didn’t say anything. She just held his wrist for a moment at the bottom of the stairs and then leaned forward to hug him. It was slow, soft, almost affectionate. Jean’s arms hesitated before wrapping around her waist, pulling her in just a little tighter.
“I’ll text you when I reach home,” he murmured near her ear.
She nodded into his shoulder, then pulled back slightly, giving him the sweetest, smallest smile—one that could ruin someone’s life if they weren’t careful.
He turned to climb onto his motorcycle.
And that was when a stumbling shadow crossed into the dim yellow light of the apartment complex entrance.
“Where the hell is my money?”
Jean turned sharply, already annoyed someone was yelling at her.
Her father staggered toward them, the stench of cheap liquor radiating off him even from three steps away. His shirt was half untucked, his eyes bloodshot, his hands twitching with agitation. Exactly the way Y/N knew he would look at 8 PM after reading her text.
Jean stepped in front of her instinctively, shoulders broad, stance rigid. His helmet was still on, the visor down, which made him look like a silent, faceless guard.
Up above, the nosy neighbor from 3B slipped onto her balcony, drawn by the shouting. She squinted down, already forming judgments. Y/N saw her. Good. Very good.
Her father walked closer, glaring at Jean. “Move,” he slurred. “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to my daughter.”
Then Y/N did what she needed to.
Not kindly. Not warmly. A thin, mocking smile she knew he hated.
A smile she had used years ago to provoke him into drunken rages.
“Why the hell are you smiling?” he barked. “You think this is funny? Where’s the money you owe me? Huh? You think you can just disappear and act smart with me?”
Jean stepped forward. “Back off.”
Her father shoved him, almost making him stumble. “Mind your own goddamn business, kid.”
Then he turned to Y/N again, grabbing her arm. Y/N allowed it—just long enough. “Where’s the money?” he shouted in her face. “You think you’re better than me now? You think getting a job changes anything? I made you. You owe me.”
Jean lunged forward. “I said BACK OFF.”
Her father shoved him again, harder this time, and spun toward Y/N in drunken fury.
The sound cracked through the courtyard.
Y/N’s head snapped to the side. Her hair fell over her cheek. She stayed still.
Up on the balcony, the old neighbor gasped and clutched her chest. Then she grabbed her phone and began dialing.
Something inside him snapped like a brittle bone.
He ripped off his helmet and threw it on the ground, chest heaving. “Don’t you EVER touch her!” he roared, and before Y/N could even lift a finger, Jean slammed into her father with so much force the older man went backward onto the cement.
Then punched again.
And again.
And again—
each blow fueled by weeks of pent-up fear, rage, and protectiveness.
She stepped back slightly, positioning herself where the neighbor could clearly see her terrified expression. She grasped at the air as if she wanted to stop Jean but couldn’t find the courage. Tears didn’t fall—but she widened her eyes just enough.
The neighbor shouted from above, “Stop! I called the police!” Her voice trembled with shock and urgency.
Jean didn’t hear a thing.
He continued punching. For ten whole minutes.
“JEAN!” Y/N called, finally stepping forward and wrapping her hands around his arm just when she decided it was enough. She made sure to grip him tightly, as if trying desperately to pull him off. “Jean, stop! Stop it! Please, please stop!”
He paused, chest heaving, knuckles scraped and raw.
Her father groaned on the ground, curled in on himself, his breathing rough and uneven.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Jean blinked up at her, shaking. “He hit you. He HIT you. I couldn’t—Y/N, I couldn’t just let him—”
“It’s okay,” she whispered, soft and trembling. “Just… just stand up.” Jean staggered to his feet. And that was when flashing blue lights washed over the courtyard.
Two police cars screeched into place. Officers stepped out, hands on batons, eyes widening at the sight of a drunk older man bruised and barely conscious on the pavement and a known delinquent standing over him with scraped knuckles and a wild look in his eyes.
Jean didn’t resist when they grabbed his wrists.
But the confusion on his face—the devastation—was unmistakable. “Y/N… I didn’t mean to… I was protecting you…”
Y/N let her voice crack for the first time. “Jean… I know.”
Her father pointed weakly at him. “He attacked me… he just attacked me…”
The officers turned to Jean with a hardened glare. “You’re under arrest.” Jean dropped his gaze, breath shaky, heart pounding.
Y/N stepped forward as if to go to him—but an officer held an arm out to stop her. And in that fraction of a second, she allowed her mask to fall. A tiny smile.
"You'll have to come down to the station too, miss."
And she did. She rode in the police car for what felt like hours, and when she finally came to her senses she was already there. The police station smelled like sweat, old paper, and leftover aggression.
It was the kind of place where misery clung to the walls like mildew.
Y/N sat in the cold metal chair opposite the interviewing sergeant, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her posture straight, composed, almost eerily calm. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, washing her skin in a pale, ghostly glow.
Across the room behind thick bars, Jean sat on a bench with his head in his hands, still wearing his blood-smeared jacket. His knuckles were swollen, his lip cracked, and his breathing heavy from the remnants of rage. Every few seconds he lifted his head just enough to look at Y/N—like she was the only lifeline in the entire building.
The sergeant cleared his throat. “State your name for the record.”
“Y/N L/N,” she answered softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound fragile but not enough to lose control of the room.
“And your relation to the men involved tonight?”
“One is my father,” she said, lowering her eyes. “Jean Kirschtein is… a friend.”
The pen paused in the sergeant’s hand. He studied her face. “And what exactly happened?”
Y/N let out a slow exhale, lowering her gaze to the floor as if summoning courage. She let silence hang just long enough to build tension.
“My father has been… hurting me,” she whispered finally.
The sergeant’s posture straightened.
She continued, layering sincerity into every syllable. “For years. Since I was a child. He wasn’t… he wasn’t just angry tonight. He’s always been like that. Violent. Drunk. Unpredictable. He hit me when I was seven, nine, thirteen. Sometimes with his hands. Sometimes with… whatever was close by. I never reported it. I didn’t think anyone would care.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
The sergeant’s expression softened. This was the reaction she wanted.
“He came to my apartment tonight demanding money,” she said. “He said I owed it to him. And when I told him I didn’t have it, he hit me. Again.” She touched the faint red mark on her cheek. “Jean only stepped in because he saw my father hit me. He was just protecting me. He never intended to… hurt him. It was a reaction. A reflex.”
Jean looked up from across the room, guilt written all over him.
Y/N did not meet his eyes.
The sergeant sighed. “Miss… domestic cases are complicated. And Jean Kirschtein is a known offender. We can’t just dismiss this.”
Y/N lifted her eyes slowly—big, glassy, broken.
And then she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a trembling whisper. “Please, sir. He saved my life. My father would have… he would have done worse. Jean is the only reason I’m standing here and not in a hospital.”
She let silence fill the room again, her lashes wet, her breathing uneven. Even the way she clutched her elbow seemed instinctively vulnerable.
The sergeant shifted uncomfortably.
Then she played her next piece.
She slid her hand subtly under her jacket, pulling out a small, folded envelope. Crisp enough to hint at its contents. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if hesitant.
“I know the system doesn’t usually protect girls like me,” she murmured. “I know you’re overworked. Underpaid. I understand how things work.”
She placed the envelope on the desk between them.
Not pushing. Not pleading.
Just giving him the opportunity.
The sergeant stared at it. His jaw clenched. His fingers drummed on the desk. His conscience wrestled with his paycheck.
“He has no mother,” she whispered. “No one. If he gets locked up, he’ll lose everything. And I… I owe him more than you know.”
The sergeant exhaled, long and defeated.
He opened the envelope slightly.
Enough for the faintest rustle of notes.
Enough to make the decision.
He closed it and slipped it into his drawer without a word.
Y/N didn’t smile. Not outwardly. But something satisfied flickered behind her eyes, like a quiet spark struck against flint.
“Alright,” the sergeant said, rubbing his forehead. “Alright. Given the circumstances… and the level of provocation… we can consider releasing Jean with a fine and mandatory anger management classes. But this is off the record. And it never happened. Understand?”
She nodded once, slow, grateful, angelic.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The sergeant stood and walked to the holding area. “Kirschtein. You’re free to go.” Jean’s head snapped up. Confusion and hope collided in his expression. He stepped out, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been.
The moment he saw Y/N in the hallway, he froze. Then he walked toward her as if pulled by gravity, his eyes wide with remorse.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I just—he hit you. I couldn’t—”
Y/N stepped close and wrapped her arms around him.
The kind that rewrites loyalty.
“You saved me,” she whispered against his shoulder.
Jean’s breath hitched. He stood stiffly, overwhelmed, then melted into her hold, his arms tightening around her.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him.
Her eyes were soft.
Her mouth was soft.
Her touch was soft.
Everything else inside her was not.
“You protected me,” she murmured. “Nobody’s ever done that before.”
Jean swallowed, his voice breaking. “I’ll always protect you.”
Her gaze deepened, darkened, sharpened.
She held his face in both hands.
“Will you?” she asked softly.
Jean nodded without hesitation. “Always.”
A smile that hid the fact that every word he had just promised would be used against him.
Eren lay stretched across his bed, one arm behind his head, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, casual, almost bored in tone—yet the faint smile on his lips betrayed something else entirely.
“So what should I wear tomorrow?” Mikasa asked on the other end, trying to sound effortlessly calm. She failed. She sounded excited, breathy, almost shy.
Eren hummed as if thinking deeply.
“I don’t know…” he drawled. “I like girls who wear red. Red lace tops… simple jeans…” He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it. “That kind of look suits a date.”
Mikasa’s heartbeat picked up instantly. “Red lace? Really? I… I actually have something like that.”
“Yeah?” Eren leaned his head back against the headboard. “Wear it.”
She laughed softly, flustered. “Okay… I will.”
They talked about the restaurant, the time, where he planned to take her afterward. Mikasa rambled about school, about a test she was nervous for; Eren half-listened, his responses smooth and warm, practiced and easy.
Finally, she murmured, “I’m really excited, Eren.”
They exchanged soft goodnights. The moment he cut the call, the entire atmosphere in the room changed. Silence swelled.
On the other side of the bed, lying on her stomach with her chin propped on her hands, was Y/N—wearing nothing but Eren’s oversized black shirt, the sleeves slipping off one shoulder, her bare legs tangled lazily in his sheets.
Her eyes were half-lidded, observing him with a slow, feline curiosity.
She wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t offended.
She already knew every word he would say to Mikasa. She already told him what to say. Eren placed the phone beside him and turned his head toward her.
“So,” she murmured, voice soft, velvety, dangerous. “Did you have to add the red lace?"
He smirked, shifting onto his side to face her fully. “Thought it would get the reaction you wanted.”
His eyes dragged along her silhouette in his shirt—the way it hung too loose on her frame, the way her fingers absentmindedly played with the hem, revealing the bare skin beneath for fleeting moments.
She tilted her head, watching him, the corner of her lips lifting with something dark and satisfied.
“You did good,” she whispered.
Eren exhaled through his nose, a faint laugh leaving him as he pushed himself upright with one arm. “I always do, don’t I?”
Her gaze didn’t move from his face.
Not even when he moved closer.
Not even when the mattress dipped under his weight, each shift pulling her into the gravitational pull he always found himself orbiting around her.
Y/N’s fingers slid over the fabric of his shirt, curling around it, pulling him closer without ever looking away.
And then their mouths met.
It was immediate—slow but decisive—Eren’s hand cupping the side of her jaw while her fingers curled into the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss. His lips moved against hers with the kind of hunger he could never hide around her, the kind that made him forget the world outside his room existed.
Her body shifted slightly, sliding closer, the oversized shirt brushing against his bare arm, the faint scent of her shampoo rising as she threaded a hand into his hair.
He let out a quiet, helpless breath against her mouth. Her lips curved faintly mid-kiss.
Control was a beautiful thing.
She drew him closer still, their breathing merging, their mouths moving in a rhythm that felt too familiar, too practiced, too inevitable. The kiss turned deeper as she fell onto her back on the bed as he fell on top of her.
He held her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing her against her cheek caringly. She melted into him, letting herself let go for the first time. Control was beautiful. But pleasure was something she never had as a child.
After the entire Jean debacle, she was glad she ended back up here. She always ended back here. Back with Eren. Her legs came around his hips and pulled him closer, her hands threading through his hair and her tongue pushing past his lips. A soft moan left her when Eren's bulge pushed up against her thigh.
Y/N's hand trailed up the hot skin pulsing under his T-shirt, he hissed into her mouth as her hands were cold. She knew they were, but she danced them across each of his abs and he groaned. Eren pulled away from the kiss, straddling her thighs as he reached to pull off his shirt.
This was also part of her plan.
A perfect way to control a man was sex.
Give him your most vulnerable moments and he'll do anything for you. And when it comes for her and Eren? It could be anything.
Even framing an innocent man.
His lips fell to her neck, sucking the sweet spot that makes her eyes roll back. Her breathing got heavy as she ran her fingertrips across the muscles of his back, and then a moan escaped her when his hips grinded against her.
"Eren," she softly moaned into his ear strategically, sounding soft and breathy enough for whatever she says to sound like magic through Eren's ears.
Taking his virginity will cement her position in his life. Even if she already has a prominent role in pulling his heart strings, this will just make it harder for Eren to pull away.
And she clearly knew that.
Moonlight filtered weakly through the grimy apartment window, washing the walls in a muted gold. Y/N stood before the mirror with her hair pinned loosely up, the red lace top held against her torso. The fabric glowed against her skin—soft, delicate, deceptive. A weapon disguised as clothing.
Behind her, Eren tightened the laces at the back, pulling the strings through each eyelet with slow, deliberate precision. His fingers grazed her spine. His breath warmed the nape of her neck. His eyes—sleep-heavy, love-drunk—never left her reflection.
“You’re really going to do this?” he murmured, leaning closer. His lips brushed the curve where her jaw met her neck, feather-light. “Are you sure?”
Her eyes met his in the mirror—flat, cold, unreadable beneath the pretty exterior.
“Are you questioning me?” she asked softly.
Y/N turned slightly, just enough for the lace to shift against her skin, the movement controlled, purposeful. “Don’t you trust me, Eren?”
“I do,” he said immediately, almost too quickly. “I just—”
“He hit me.” Her voice sliced through the room—quiet but sharp, deliberate. "He raped me. Filmed it. Sold it."
Eren’s jaw clenched. She watched the guilt bloom in his eyes, watched him inhale shakily, watched that memory break him open again. Exactly as she intended.
“You promised no one would hurt me again,” Y/N whispered, tilting her head just so, letting the light catch the faint swelling on her cheek—something he had already apologized for at least a dozen times despite not causing it. “You promised.”
His shoulders collapsed under the weight of his own vow.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you going through something like this aga—”
She silenced his apology by pulling him down into a kiss. Soft at first. Final. Decisive. A command disguised as affection. Eren melted instantly, hands settling lightly at her waist.
When she pulled back, her eyes were calm again. “Good. Now stop worrying.”
She picked up her bag from the small table by the door. Eren grabbed the movie tickets from the counter—two neatly perforated slips that represented nothing more than another step in her plan.
They left the apartment together.
On the second floor, Y/N knocked on the neighbor’s door. The old woman opened it almost immediately, wrapped in her house shawl, smelling of sandalwood and detergent.
“Auntie,” Y/N greeted softly.
The elderly woman’s face lit with concern and fondness. “Beta, what happened to your cheek? Oh dear—”
“I’m alright,” Y/N said, cutting her off gently. “I’m going on a date with Eren today. I wanted to tell you I’ll return your broom as soon as I’m back.”
The old woman smiled knowingly. “Ah, a date. Good, good. That boy cares for you.”
Y/N nodded sweetly. “Can you keep an eye on the building for me? Just in case my father comes back. After… everything.” Her voice trembled in all the right places. “You were so brave, calling the police. But I don’t want you getting hurt. Please stay safe.”
The neighbor pulled her into a warm, maternal hug. “Of course, dear. I’ll watch everything. And you be careful today, hmm?”
Y/N hugged her tightly, resting her cheek on the woman’s shoulder with a softness that made the elderly lady’s throat tighten.
“Thank you, Auntie,” she whispered.
When the woman finally closed the door, Y/N’s expression dropped back to its natural state—blank, calculating. She turned to Eren, who was still tucking the movie tickets into his jacket pocket, trying not to stare at her in the red lace top like she was something sacred.
Y/N leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick, delicate, chillingly sweet. “Do a good job,” she murmured.
Eren nodded, cheeks flushing, heart thudding.
By the time he took the stairs down, she was already heading back up toward her apartment, steps slow, controlled, purposeful.
Y/N’s apartment was quiet in the way abandoned places often were—still, echoing, faintly expectant. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds in thin golden stripes, cutting across the floor and the lower half of her legs as she slipped off her shoes at the door.
A light, pleasant melody. Something a mother might hum while cooking dinner, something warm and domestic. It contrasted terribly with the cold calculation settling behind her eyes.
She set her bag down on the small table near the window, the red lace top glowing like a bloodstain under the fading sun. Eren was across town right now, taking Mikasa to the movies just as instructed. Everything was moving exactly where she wanted it.
And now it was time for the next piece.
Y/N walked to the mirror near her closet and let her fingers trail over her reflection’s cheek, brushing lightly over the fading bruise. She tilted her head left. Right. Observing. Adjusting.
The first one—too soft. Too gentle. No power in it.
The second—too bright. Too sweet. Someone would suspect she wanted something.
The third—smaller, a delicate upward curve, eyes warm but not too warm, the exact balance of approachable and grateful. The kind of smile that lowered defenses, opened wallets, softened spines, and made men believe they were heroes.
She held it for a moment, studying herself.
She dropped the expression instantly. Her real face: flat, still, empty, returned like a shadow reclaiming its owner.
She hummed again as she moved around the apartment, wiping nonexistent dust off her nightstand, straightening the bedspread, cleaning up a little. All the while she kept glancing at the clock.
Fifty minutes passed. Then sixty.
Right on time— There was a knock at her door.
Y/N paused mid-step, her hum tapering into silence. She took one slow breath, smoothed her hair back, centered her expression, and walked to the door.
Jean stood there, shoulders tense, hands awkwardly behind his back. His eyes softened the moment he saw her, frantic concern melting into something warm and boyish. When he revealed what he was holding, his ears flushed pink.
A messy bouquet wrapped in cheap paper, likely bought from a street vendor. The stems were uneven, and a few petals were already beginning to wilt, but the sincerity behind them was painfully obvious.
Y/N let her smile bloom exactly the way she practiced it.
“Jean,” she breathed, stepping forward.
Relief crashed through him. His entire posture loosened as if her voice alone had untied every knot inside him.
“I, uh—got these for you,” he said quietly, offering the bouquet like it was something fragile.
She leaned in and hugged him.
Arms slipping around his torso. Head resting briefly on his shoulder. Just long enough for him to feel chosen. Jean froze, then slowly hugged her back, unsure if he was allowed to, desperate not to do it wrong. The flowers almost slipped from his hand.
She pulled away with a soft laugh, taking the bouquet. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.” He exhaled, shaky and relieved, looking at her like she was the only thing tethering him to this world.
Y/N carried the flowers inside and placed them gently on her bed, arranging them so they looked more expensive than they were. She turned back toward him, tilted her head, drew her lower lip between her teeth.
She stepped close—close enough for her breath to warm his collarbone, and pressed a brief, soft kiss to his mouth.
When she pulled back, her eyes glittered, notwith affection, but anticipation.
“Come in,” Y/N said gently.
And the door clicked shut behind him.
Jean sat on the edge of her bed at first, still shy from the kiss, still overwhelmed by the intimacy of being invited inside her apartment again. His knees were slightly angled inward, his hands folded nervously. But as minutes passed, Y/N let the room shape itself around him.
She sat beside him, close enough that their knees brushed when she shifted. She laughed softly at the stories he told — exaggerated fights, near-arrests, the stupid things Connie and Floch said during lunch. Jean loosened, slowly unwinding, slowly falling deeper into a comfort he didn’t get anywhere else. She let him ramble, interrupting occasionally with something small and warm:
“You’re not as bad as you think.”
“You were protecting them.”
“You’re not a monster, Jean.”
And each time she said something like that, he sat a little straighter. He didn’t know he was being sculpted. He didn’t know she was studying every crack in him. He didn’t know she was shaping him into something she needed.
After nearly an hour of talking, Y/N stretched her arms upward, yawning softly. “I’m hungry,” she murmured. “We should make something.”
Jean blinked. “Make something?”
She nodded. “Yes. Cook. Like normal people.”
He stared at her helplessly. “I don’t… really know how to cook.”
“I know,” she said gently, stepping closer to him until he had to tilt his chin down to meet her eyes. She cupped his cheek with one warm hand. “It’s okay. You can help.”
Y/N took his wrist and led him into the small kitchen — a narrow strip of counter, two cabinets, a stove that flickered when it heated. It looked plain, underwhelming, but tonight she wanted it to feel intimate.
She set out ingredients: onions, tomatoes, a packet of spices, rice. Something simple. Something that required chopping. Something she could use.
“I’ll make a quick curry,” she said. “But it’ll be faster if you help me.” Jean nodded eagerly. “Tell me what to do.”
She handed him an onion. His eyes watered immediately. “Shit—okay, wait—how do people do this?” She laughed softly and pushed his hand down, taking the knife herself. The blade glinted under the light as she began slicing with smooth, practiced motions. The onion crackled beneath her touch, each cut clean and precise.
Jean leaned against the counter, watching her with awe. “You make it look easy,” he murmured. “Because it is,” she said. “You’re overthinking it.”
“I overthink everything.”
“I know,” she replied, glancing up at him. “That’s why you make mistakes.”
She returned her attention to the cutting board, slicing again and again, the knife scraping rhythmically. And then— She felt him move.
Slowly, cautiously, Jean stepped behind her. His presence was warm, overwhelming, filling the small kitchen. His chest brushed her back before he seemed to realize what he was doing, but by then it was too late to pull away.
His hands slid over her arms. “Let me try,” he whispered near her ear. Y/N stilled her knife.
Jean’s fingers curled around her wrist, then gently took the knife from her hand, as if afraid it might cut him for real if he wasn’t careful.
He stood directly behind her now — close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breathing, close enough for his nervous exhale to warm the side of her neck. His hands moved around her, guiding the knife down toward the cutting board.
His fingers spread across the blade’s handle, long and splayed, wrapping around the metal with surprising precision.
Jean dragged the knife downward in a slow, careful motion. The onion split beneath the pressure. He cut again, gaining confidence, his hands pressing firmly, his arms bracketing her in.
Y/N leaned back slightly, just enough for her spine to graze his chest. Jean froze for a second, then continued slicing, his breath catching.
“You’re doing good,” she whispered, her voice dipped in velvet. Jean’s jaw tightened. “Only because you showed me.”
“Maybe.” Her smile widened, unseen by him. “Or maybe you just needed the right guidance.”
Jean swallowed again. His hands shook just barely — the faintest tremor of someone trying desperately to keep control. She watched the way his fingers stretched fully across the knife handle.
Spreading wide. Leaving prints.
She memorized the placement.
His left thumb at the edge of the metal. His right index curled under the ridge. The faint smudge of sweat forming on the flat of the blade. Every detail mattered.
The kitchen filled gradually with warmth: onions softening in oil, cumin crackling against the metal pan, steam rising in slow, fragrant tendrils. Y/N moved through the space with a kind of detached elegance, opening drawers, rinsing tomatoes, brushing her hair back as if she belonged in every room she entered.
Behind her, Jean continued cutting onions exactly the way she taught him — fingers spread across the handle, pressure steady, brow furrowed in a way that was unintentionally endearing. His concentration made him quiet. Vulnerable. Easy.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye.
Perfect positioning. A perfect angle. A perfect imprint of fingerprints she could use later.
Slowly, she stepped away, letting him take full control of the knife. He didn’t notice her absence, didn’t notice the shift in her attention, didn’t notice the gleam that entered her eyes as she wiped her hands on a cloth and retrieved her phone from the counter.
She turned slightly, making sure he couldn’t see the screen. Her thumb flicked across the keyboard with calm precision.
Y/N: I have the money.
Y/N: Come to my place at 10. Don’t be late.
The reply came instantly, a vibrating pulse against her palm.
Father: This better be worth it.
She stared at the message, expression blank.
Then she deleted the thread. Not just the texts — the entire conversation. Wiped clean in seconds.
When she turned back around, her smile was already in place again. Jean didn’t notice a thing. He was too busy trying not to cry from the onions. “You’re doing great,” she said softly.
Jean laughed under his breath. “My eyes are burning, but… yeah. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
She stepped behind him and reached over his shoulder to take the bowl he’d filled with chopped onions. Her body brushed lightly against his back — not an accident.
He stiffened. Then relaxed, almost melting.
She poured the onions into the pan, stirring until the edges caramelized. The scent thickened the air. Jean watched her every movement like someone memorizing a dream.
“Hand me that spice packet?” she asked. He did. Clumsily. Eagerly.
She ripped it open and sprinkled it into the pan — then let the empty packet slip from her fingers intentionally. It fluttered through the air, hitting Jean’s chest and leaving a streak of turmeric against his shirt.
Jean winced. “Shit—sorry—did I—?”
“No,” she interrupted gently. “That was me.”
She leaned forward and tapped the stain with her fingertip, wiping a small smear across the fabric. “I should wash this for you before it sets.”
“Oh—uh—okay.” He tugged at the collar, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the way.”
“You never get in the way.” Her voice wrapped around him like velvet.
Jean flushed. “Take it off,” she said simply.
He tensed, startled — but obeyed. He pulled the shirt over his head, folding it awkwardly before handing it to her. His shoulders were tense, posture uneven, breath unsteady.
She placed Eren’s shirt, the one she wore last night, in his hands. “Here,” she said softly. “Wear this for now.”
Jean stared at it. At her. At the fabric that still faintly smelled like Eren’s cologne and her skin mixed together.
She moved closer, stepping into the small space between them, placing one hand on his jaw and lifting his chin slightly. His breath hitched. Her lips brushed his. Once. Soft. Controlled. Calculated.
Jean inhaled sharply, leaning into her with a need he didn’t know he had. His hands hovered awkwardly at her waist, wanting to pull her closer, not daring to without permission.
His pulse was visible at his throat.
Y/N kissed him again — slower this time, just long enough to set him on fire, just brief enough to deny him any real satisfaction. When he leaned forward instinctively, instinctively seeking more, she placed her hand on his chest and stopped him.
“Jean,” she murmured with a small, apologetic smile, “you should go.”
His breath faltered. “Go?”
“I have work early tomorrow,” she said, stepping back, her tone gentle but immovable. “I need to sleep.”
“Oh.” He nodded quickly, eyes darting to the floor, embarrassed. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I don’t want to keep you.”
She touched his jaw again — a soft, intimate graze. “Thank you for today,” she whispered. “Really.”
His eyes softened instantly.
She guided him to the door, walking him out as if escorting something delicate, something valuable. When he reached the staircase, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
He looked like he could collapse from the intensity of emotion in his chest. “Goodnight,” he whispered, and went downstairs.
Y/N watched him leave, expression unreadable. The door clicked shut softly behind her.
The door clicked shut with the soft finality of a coffin lid sliding into place. Y/N stood perfectly still for a moment, listening to the fading echo of Jean’s footsteps down the stairwell. The hallway quieted. The air inside her apartment shifted. Everything warm or affectionate drained out of her face like water slipping through cupped hands.
She checked the digital clock on her nightstand.
Fifteen minutes until her father arrived.
She moved quickly, no hesitation, no wasted breath. She crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside the bed, reaching under the frame until her fingers closed around the packet she had prepared two days earlier. A sealed plastic bag containing her essentials.
The kind of essentials only someone who planned ahead would ever keep.
She opened it with steady fingers.
First came the elastic gloves. Thin. Quiet. Snapping against her wrists with practiced ease. Then she pulled her shirt over her head, tossed it aside without emotion, and slipped into Jean’s shirt instead. The fabric still smelled faintly of his skin and the detergent he used. She buttoned it up slowly, watching the reflection in the mirror as she transformed into something unrecognizable.
She gathered it tightly, coiling the strands with almost clinical detachment. Every loose piece mattered. Every thread had to disappear. She twisted it into a knot and secured it, then removed the shower cap from the packet. The plastic crinkled softly in her hands. She stretched it over her head, tucking every strand into it, pressing the edges flat against her scalp until no trace of hair was visible.
Her face in the mirror looked wrong. Wrong in the way a mannequin looks wrong. Too still. Too cold. Too prepared.
She inhaled slowly through her nose.
The television remote sat on the dresser. She picked it up and turned the TV on, flipping to an action movie with loud gunfire and dramatic orchestral music. She increased the volume. Then higher. Then higher still. The walls vibrated lightly from the sound.
No neighbor would hear anything else tonight.
She took her phone from the table.
Armin answered on the second ring. His voice was soft and nervous, exactly how she needed it.
“Y/N? Is everything okay?”
She smiled even though he could not see it. The kind of smile meant to make someone relax. “Yes. Thank you for answering so fast. I just wanted to check... did you clear all the security cameras around my building like I asked?”
“Yes,” he said quickly. “Everything from the last forty-eight hours. Wiped clean. Even the street-side ones. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
“Good.” Her tone softened. “I really appreciate it, Armin. You know how people online are. If that footage of Jean beating my father went viral, it would destroy him. He was only protecting me. He doesn’t deserve to get dragged into it.”
Armin exhaled with relief, touched that she trusted him with something so sensitive. “Of course. Anything for you, Y/N.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, head tilting slightly as if she were touched by his loyalty. “Thank you, Armin. Really.”
He hesitated. “What is all that noise in the background?”
She glanced at the blaring TV. “I’m at the movies with Eren,” she said easily, as if it were obvious. “We picked something loud. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Enjoy the movie.” His voice softened further. “And... I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Goodnight, Armin,” she whispered.
The silence afterward was immediate. Total. Her expression emptied in an instant. All softness evaporated. The smile disintegrated. Her eyes became flat, cold, unreadable.
The TV continued its deafening soundtrack, but inside her head there was only stillness.
The clock on her nightstand blinked.
Nine minutes until her father arrived.
Y/N stood up with the robotic grace of someone slipping into a role she was born to perform. She tightened the gloves once more, smoothed the front of Jean’s shirt, and looked around her apartment like a stage director checking props.
Her breathing slowed as she waited for the inevitable knock.
The knock came exactly at 10:01.
Three sharp raps. Impatient. Entitled. Predictable.
Y/N exhaled through her nose, a slow, controlled release of air, as if steadying herself before stepping onto a stage. She walked to the kitchen counter and picked up the knife she had placed there hours ago.
The blade still held the faintest fog of Jean’s fingerprints along its handle. She turned it once in her gloved hand, inspecting the smudges she had carefully memorized earlier that evening.
She set her features into a mask of weary resignation and opened the door.
Her father shoved past her immediately, the rancid scent of cigarettes, sweat, and stale alcohol rolling into the apartment with him. A half-burned cigarette hung crookedly from his lips, the ash threatening to fall with every movement. He scanned the living room with a scowl.
“What the hell is with that noise?” he snapped, jerking his thumb toward the blaring television. “You trying to get the whole building deaf? Turn that shit off.”
He stomped toward the center of the room, muttering under his breath, complaining about her apartment, her neighbors, her attitude. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling, as if he owned the air inside her home.
Y/N closed the door gently behind him.
He turned, eyes narrowing. “Where’s the money? You texted me like you finally grew a brain. Don’t play games with me tonight.”
He pushed aside a stack of books, swiped a cup off the counter, peered into her sink as if searching for something to criticize.
Slowly, he turned toward her.
His eyes traveled from her shower-cap-covered head to the gloves on her hands… to the oversized shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders. Confusion tightened his features.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded. “What is this? You look crazy.”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
The question hung between them.
For a moment the only sound in the apartment was the roar of the television and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
The motion was slow, delicate, unsettling in its calmness.
The movement was fast — faster than he expected, faster than he could brace for. Her body collided with his, driving him backward toward the living room. The cigarette fell from his mouth. His arms flailed instinctively, trying to grab her, stop her, make sense of what was happening, but she held on with a grip that didn’t shake, didn’t falter, didn’t hesitate.
Just a sharp, violent burst of motion under the roar of the television.
The lights flickered from the force of their struggle. Something toppled over — a lamp or a picture frame — clattering loudly against the floor. The TV blasted gunshots and orchestral drums that drowned out everything else.
Her father gasped, stumbled, tried to regain his footing.
Y/N didn’t give him the chance.
A stab in the stomach. Chest. Shoulder.
She moved with precision born from years of planning, her expression empty, her eyes cold behind the plastic shower cap, her gloves catching the dim reflection of the television light.
He staggered, breath ragged, eyes wide with something he had never felt toward her before.
He tried to speak her name.
He tried to shove her away.
But she clung to him with a strength he didn’t know she possessed. Her breath hitched, raw and animal. Her grip tightened.
A decisive, unstoppable thrust powered by every moment she had been touched, hit, threatened, belittled, owned, or broken. The impact jarred her arms. Her gloves slipped slightly. Her breath ripped out of her.
With the impact she was stabbing him, the knife was digging into her own skin. She could feel him clutching at her ankles, trying to get her off of him as she straddled him.
The TV blared behind them — battle scenes, gunfire, music swelling. Reality blurred into the soundtrack of something primal.
Her breath came in frantic bursts. Blood splattered all across her face as the knife dove into his chest once more, so deep she could feel his muscle twisting around the steel of the knife, and as she did she twisted the knife in his chest and heard him let out a guttural sound of pure anguish.
Y/N looked up into his eyes, seeing the near blank expression on his face she knew he was close to death. A smile etched itself across her face.
It took all her strength to take the knife out of his chest this time since it had dug so deep, and she recoiled once she finally got it out of his chest.
Then she looked up at his face. His disgusting face that she'd seen on top of her almost every single day since she was six years old, shoving himself inside her, forcing himself into her.
She aimed the knife into his lifeless eyes. She knew he was dead. But she couldn't stand seeing his face anymore.
Y/N let out a scream of freedom as she launched the knife into his eye and then took it out and then in the middle of his face.
She didn't stop until his face was just a pool of blood. Nothing was recogonisable. Her breathing was ragged as she sat there, her own face covered in blood, Jean's shirt covered in blood, she looked up at the ceiling-- and laughed.
She felt years leaving her body. Years of terror. Years of pain. Years of being small. Years of being powerless.
Shackles snapping. One by one. Unseen but unmistakable.
“You can’t touch me anymore.” She whispered, dropping the knife and taking off the gloves, running her hands down her face to feel his blood on her hands.
Her father’s body slumped beneath her. The life in him flickered like the dying light of a faulty bulb.
Her shoulders rose with a shaky breath, then sank in something like relief. Her eyes softened — not with remorse, but with the quiet gravity of a burden that had finally fallen from her spine.
A girl who had been caged.
A woman who had broken the bars.
She tilted her head slightly, letting the blood cling to her skin like a blessing. The air tasted different now. Clean. Sharp. Electric.
Her voice was a whisper — soft, tremulous, almost prayer-like.
“So this is what it feels like.”
Her breathing steadied. The smile still on her face.
Every inhale felt deeper. Every exhale felt lighter. Her chest expanded with a sense of ownership she had never possessed.
She stood up slowly, like a queen rising from her throne, her shadow stretching long across the floor. The overhead light gleamed against the remnants on her gloves and cheek, outlining her in a dark halo.
She felt untouchable. Unbound. Invincible.
thirty minutes later the door creaked open.
Eren stepped inside without knocking, his breath held tight in his throat. He had run the entire way here, hands sweating inside his jacket pockets, pulse pounding against his ribs like a second heartbeat. He carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. Heavy. Prepared. The zipper rattled faintly when he exhaled.
The TV blared loudly, washing the apartment in frantic blue-white light.
Y/N stood in front of the bathroom mirror, still wearing the shower cap, still wearing Jean’s shirt, still faintly trembling, still streaked with blood. She was staring at her own reflection with a stillness that made Eren’s stomach twist.
Then he whispered her name. “Y/N…”
She didn’t look at him. Not right away.
Her eyes stayed locked on her reflection, wide and hollow, as if she were meeting herself for the first time. The woman she had always been beneath everything else.
Eren swallowed hard, closed the door behind him, and set his backpack down. His hands shook as he reached inside and pulled out a pair of elastic gloves. He tugged them on with silent urgency, the latex snapping sharply around his wrists.
He approached her slowly.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. Her skin felt warm through the thin cotton of Jean’s shirt. Too warm. His chest tightened.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
She blinked, her gaze shifting from her reflection to his eyes. Something in her softened. Or maybe it cracked. Or maybe it simply rearranged.
Eren stepped behind her and began unbuttoning the shirt with careful, trembling fingers. “You need to shower,” he whispered. “You need to wash everything off. You can’t stay like this.”
She allowed him to take off the shirt, her breath hitching but controlled. She raised her arms for him when needed. She let him guide her toward the bathroom door.
“Go,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
For a moment, she simply stared at him as if memorizing his face. Then she stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind her, and the sound of water rushing from the showerhead filled the apartment.
He inhaled through his nose.
He moved with a frantic elegance, as if he had rehearsed this a thousand times in his mind. He crouched beside the body but did not look directly at the injuries. He focused instead on footprints. On displaced objects. On surfaces she might have touched. He wiped counters, door handles, the table edge, the cabinet knobs. He peeled off one glove and replaced it with another. His breath shook with every movement.
He stepped outside the apartment and walked down the hallway, carrying Jean’s shirt in a plastic bag. He continued until he reached the dumpster behind the building. He opened the lid. The metal groaned. He tossed the shirt inside, letting it land among the trash bags with a soft thud. He closed the lid.
To anyone, it would look like Jean thrown his bloody shirt away in a hurry.
Something a frightened man might discard while running.
He returned inside and grabbed the ziplock bag from under Y/N’s bed — the one holding Jean’s hair. His throat tightened as he stared at it. He wondered when she had taken it.
He scattered the strands with a soft flick of his fingers, letting them drift near the body, near the table legs, near the rug. Places investigators would search. Places they would notice.
“Please,” he whispered under his breath, voice cracking. “Please let this work.”
He reached into his backpack again. Gloves. Clean wipes. A rock.
He stepped outside the apartment door and smashed the lock once, twice, three times until the metal bent inward and splintered. The sound echoed down the hallway, but no one came. The music from the television masked everything.
It would look like Jean broke into her apartment.
It landed with a dull, incriminating weight.
He reentered the apartment and moved to the body once more. He did not look at the wounds. He only looked at the angle, the placement, the stillness. His breath trembled.
His hands shook violently as he guided the knife into his chest. He tried not look straight at the body as he did so. He was crafting a story. A story investigators would recognize. A story of rage. A story of someone finishing what they started and fleeing.
Y/N had made sure the police knew how much Jean hated her father. And she had also made sure to tell her neighbour about her going on a date with Eren, she had also made sure the neighbour had seen her wearing the same outfit Mikasa wore to the date with Eren.
And Eren had made sure that Mikasa's actual face was hidden from the movie theatre cameras by standing at angles where you couldn't see her actual face but mostly just her clothes and the back of hair. Which looked exactly like Y/N's new haircut.
Y/N had a solid alibi. She was safe.
His eyes burned. He pressed the back of his gloved wrist to his mouth, biting down on a cry he refused to let out. He was terrified.
Terrified of what had happened. Terrified of what she had done. Terrified of how much he still loved her through all of it.
He had never been more afraid of Y/N.
Inside the bathroom, the shower continued to run, steam curling under the door. Eren turned toward it. Toward her.
Toward the girl he would burn the world for, even if she had just set fire to her own.
The shower cut through the thick silence of the apartment, hot water hissing against tile, steam curling beneath the bathroom door and filling the hallway with a soft, ghostly warmth. The rest of the apartment was still. Eren stood near the door, gloves trembling on his hands, heart thudding like a drum left out in the rain.
Then the water shut off and the door opened.
Y/N stepped out, wrapped only in a towel. Steam poured around her legs like she had walked through a veil. Drops of water clung to her shoulders, running in thin lines down her collarbone, her hair plastered to her scalp under the damp shower cap she hadn’t removed yet. Her skin looked pale from the heat, clean, untouched—reborn.
Reborn into something terrible. Something brilliant. Something unstoppable. She blinked once, slowly, as if adjusting to the world again.
Eren’s breath caught in his throat. Not because of the way she looked, but because of what she no longer looked like: the trembling girl who had dialed his number months ago. the victim. the frightened child.
There was nothing left of her.
She didn’t respond. She simply held out her arms like a doll waiting to be dressed.
Eren stepped forward, hands shaking as he removed the towel from her head, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. He ran the towel gently over her skin, drying every drop that could have carried a trace of the night. His touch was reverent, terrified, devoted.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t help. She didn’t hinder. She simply let him.
When he finished, she stared at him with blank, patient eyes.
“Clothes,” she murmured. His throat constricted. “Yeah. Of course.”
He retrieved her outfit—the one she had worn earlier in the evening, before everything had changed—and helped her step into each piece. Her limbs were obedient, quiet, almost doll-like as he pulled her shirt down, zipped her jeans, brushed her hair forward over her shoulders.
“You’re cold,” he whispered. She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway.
He took a moment to steady himself. Then he shut off the TV, plunging the apartment into a heavy quiet broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Y/N walked to the doorway and stood there, waiting.
Eren swallowed his fear and his devotion in the same breath. “Ready?” he asked.
He took her hand and they walked outside together, descending the stairs slowly, making sure Y/N leaned into his shoulder as though they had just been out having fun. She even let out a small laugh, light and airy, to drift down the hallway. A neighbor’s door cracked open; they saw nothing wrong. Just a boy and girl returning home from a date.
Y/N squeezed Eren’s hand before they entered her apartment again. An alert. A reminder. A cue. He squeezed back.
The door creaked as they stepped inside.
The moment the scene hit their eyes, Y/N let out a shrill scream—raw, breaking, perfectly timed. She fell backward into Eren’s arms, nails clawing at his shirt, shaking her head violently.
“Oh my God! Eren— ERENN—”
Eren widened his eyes, breath immediately staggering into panic as he let out a shout of his own.
“Someone— someone’s in here! Someone— call for help!”
Y/N buried her face into his chest, trembling in a way she hadn’t trembled once tonight. Her voice cracked like shattered glass.
“D-daddy— no— no, no, no— Eren, please— please— I can’t—”
Her screams echoed through the hallways. Within seconds, her neighbor’s door flew open. The old woman from next door rushed into the hall, her face wrinkled with confusion.
“What happened?” she cried, hand over her mouth.
Eren looked shaken to his core.
“He— her father— we just came back and— someone broke in— someone— please call the police—”
Y/N trembled harder, clutching his shirt in her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The neighbor gasped and rushed back into her home, grabbing her phone.
Y/N let out one more perfectly fractured sob, just loud enough for the neighbor to hear.
Eren held her tighter, pulling her head against his heart, making sure she looked utterly destroyed.
Inside his chest, however, his heart pounded in a different rhythm.
Fear. Devotion. A thrill he didn’t understand. He looked down at her subtly, barely a fraction of a second. She was not crying. Not truly.
Her eyes were dry. Her breathing measured. Her expression empty where the neighbor couldn’t see.
Cold. Triumphant. Knowing.
The first perfect lie of the investigation had begun.
The conference room at the saffron police headquarters was packed wall to wall. Cameramen adjusted their lenses. Reporters murmured to one another, flipping through notepads. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, the kind that precedes breaking news. A line of officers took their places behind the podium, the center officer—Inspector Rao—clearing his throat before stepping up to the microphone.
Flashbulbs exploded the moment he began.
“Good evening. Thank you for joining us on short notice. We are here to provide an official update on the homicide case that occurred last week in the Greenbridge Apartment Complex.”
A wave of shutters clicked.
Inspector Rao continued, expression somber and measured. “Following an extensive investigation, we have concluded that the crime was a premeditated act of passion carried out by a seventeen-year-old male who had an obsessive infatuation with the victim’s daughter.”
Reporters leaned forward eagerly.
“The suspect was known to be closely associated with the young woman,” Rao said, flipping open a file for reference. “Evidence suggests he was in love with her, while she regarded him only as a friend. This unrequited emotional attachment appears to have escalated into a violent confrontation.”
A journalist raised a hand. “Inspector, do you believe jealousy played a role?”
Rao nodded once. “It is highly likely. Two days before the murder, the suspect was detained at this very station after physically assaulting the victim’s father. He claimed he was ‘protecting the girl’. We now believe that altercation served as a precursor to the homicide.”
Gasps rippled through the room. Rao continued, voice steady and clinical.
“On the night of the murder, the suspect appears to have observed the father’s vehicle parked outside the apartment and used that opportunity to break in. Forced entry marks were found on the doorframe.” He paused for effect. “At that point, he attacked the victim inside. The assault was sudden and merciless.”
A low murmur filled the room.
“We recovered overwhelming evidence at the scene,” Rao said, gesturing to photos spread across the table. “The suspect's fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. His bloodstained shirt was discovered in a nearby dumpster, consistent with an attempt to dispose of incriminating material.”
Cameras clicked furiously.
“Additionally, multiple strands of the suspects hair were found on the victim and around the crime scene, confirming a violent struggle.”
A reporter whispered, “This is airtight…”
Rao continued. “The daughter of the deceased is a minor and is deeply traumatized. For her safety and mental wellbeing, her identity and the suspects identity will remain confidential. We urge the press to respect her privacy.”
Another reporter raised a hand. “Inspector, is the girl cooperating with the investigation?”
“The young woman is currently under medical supervision and is not interacting with the suspect or media. However, she has provided a statement confirming that she was not present at the time of the crime.”
“And her alibi?” someone shouted.
Rao nodded. “She was at the Eden Theatre with her boyfriend during the window of the murder. We have verified this through surveillance footage, ticket records, and witness statements. She was nowhere near the apartment that night.”
The murmuring grew louder. Cameras flashed like lightning. “Is the suspect confessing?” a journalist called from the back.
Inspector Rao’s jaw tightened.
“No. He denies all charges. However, given the overwhelming physical evidence and his prior history with the victim’s father, we have formally charged him with homicide. He is currently in custody and awaiting trial.”
A hush fell over the room.
“That is all the information we can release at this moment,” Rao concluded. “We ask the public to allow the legal process to proceed and to keep the young woman in their thoughts. She has endured significant trauma.”
He stepped back, the officers surrounding him forming a protective wall as reporters erupted into questions.
Cameras caught everything.
And somewhere far away, behind a drawn curtain in a quiet apartment, a girl watched the broadcast with the faintest curve in her lips.
Everything had unfolded exactly the way she wanted.
Y/N smirked as she turned the business card between her fingers. The logo gleamed under the soft lamp light. The acting agency’s crest — a rising star fractured by gold foil — shimmered like it had been designed for her.
She held it delicately, almost reverently. The manager had handed her this card as if offering an escape route. But Y/N didn’t see escape. She saw opportunity. She saw the next rung on the staircase she had been building her entire life.
“Now that one chain is broken,” she whispered to herself, “it’s time to climb.”
Becoming powerful didn’t begin with revenge. It ended with it. And now, standing on the ashes of her past, she was ready to step into the light.
She lifted her phone. Dialed the number on the card. Held it to her ear.
A voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi,” she said, voice smooth as glass. “It’s Y/N.”
Her eyes hardened. Her smile sharpened.
And, with that, she severed the last thread tying her to the girl she used to be.
Y/N held the business card delicately between her fingers, studying the embossed lettering as if it were an artifact excavated from some world she had only imagined belonging to. The edges were clean, the paper thick, the gold foil gleaming even in the dim warmth of her apartment’s single lamp.
When she finally set the card down on her table, she did so with the same deliberation one uses when placing the final piece of a puzzle. Something fundamental in her life had shifted. The world was no longer something that happened to her; it had become something she would carve through carefully, methodically, until she owned every inch of it.
She remained still for a moment, letting the quiet of the apartment settle around her like a second skin. The air felt different now—lighter, sharpened, stretched open by possibility. She turned toward her closet, pulled out a small suitcase, and laid it flat on the floor.
Her hands moved with a calm, disciplined rhythm as she folded away the remnants of a girl who no longer existed: the apron from the café, the worn backpacks from school, the notebooks filled with equations and memories, the sweaters that still faintly smelled of old fears.
At the very bottom lay Eren’s hoodie, the one he used to drape over her shoulders whenever she shivered, the one she stole so often he eventually stopped asking for it back.
She lifted it once, held it for a breath, and then pressed it into the suitcase without hesitation. The action wasn’t mournful. It wasn’t sentimental. It was surgical.
A clean excision of a limb that no longer served her. Eren had been necessary once—useful, loyal, malleable—but keeping him would bind her to a life she had already shed. When she closed the suitcase, she sealed him inside it, locked behind a zipper she would never open again.
She stood by her window afterward, watching the streetlights flicker over the cracked pavement below. A group of teenagers walked past, laughing loudly.
A delivery worker pedaled through the rain. A cat slinked into an alley. Life went on with its ordinary rhythms, unaware that she had just decided to ascend out of it. Her reflection in the glass looked calmer than she felt—eyes clear, shoulders steady, posture unyielding. She pressed her fingertips to the cold pane, breathed in the last trace of her old life, and turned away.
Time became fluid after that, slipping around her like water around a stone. Days folded into weeks of training sessions, vocal lessons, brand meetings, endless auditions.
She learned how to tilt her chin for the camera so her jawline cut the light just right. She learned which colors suited her on film, which expressions cast shadows too soft or too sharp, which angles made strangers fall in love with her without understanding why.
Coaches praised her discipline. Directors admired her precision. Agents noted her hunger. Her performances were clean and layered, subtle but magnetic; she understood emotion not because she felt it, but because she had studied how to imitate it flawlessly.
Her rise was not meteoric, but it was unmistakable. First came a supporting role in a late-night drama. Then a recurring character in a streaming series. Then a movie that performed better than critics predicted.
Her name began to appear in interviews. Her face graced the corner of magazines. She walked red carpets with the poise of someone who had rehearsed her smile in the mirror until it obeyed her perfectly.
And through all of it, Eren was nowhere. Not because fate drifted them apart, not because time diluted their connection, but because she erased him with quiet, decisive violence.
The same week she signed her first contract, she blocked his number. The same month she booked her first lead audition, she told mutual acquaintances she wanted nothing more to do with him.
When he appeared near a set once—hesitant, hollow-eyed—she turned away before their gazes could meet. Leaving him was not an accidental consequence of her ambition; it was a requirement. He belonged to the world she had buried under her own two hands, and she refused to carry corpses up the mountain she was climbing.
Years passed without her thinking of him except in the abstract, the way one recalls an old scar: a faint reminder of something healed and irrelevant.
Her apartment grew larger. Her wardrobe expensive. Her bedsheets silk. Her mornings filled with sunlight slicing through floor-to-ceiling windows. Her evenings crowded with scripts, rehearsals, managers, stylists, journalists.
When her name appeared on a nomination list for an up-and-coming actress award, her agency celebrated. She accepted the congratulations with a cool smile, her thoughts already on the next rung of power she intended to seize.
She had spent so long surviving that now, at the first true taste of dominance, she felt almost serene. Every role she accepted polished her image. Every interview sculpted the public’s perception of her. Every endorsement added to the empire she intended to build.
Eren was not a part of that empire. He was not even a ghost in its halls.
On a quiet afternoon, years after she first held that business card, Y/N stood once again by a tall window—this time overlooking a clean, glittering skyline. Her reflection looked different now. Older, refined, sharpened by ambition.
A woman who had stepped deliberately out of the ashes of her past and refused to look back.
She touched the glass lightly and let herself smile.
Everything she had become had required sacrifice. And she had never regretted a single one.
But little did Y/N know...
Her rise was only the beginning of her imminent fall.
