𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐧 | 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲
AO3 / Masterlist
cw: violence depicted, death, crime, illegal fighting/activities, etc.
read at your own risk.
Chapter 1: On the Run
You’re on your feet before you even know it.
You don’t remember the last time you stopped running, it’s too much of a distant memory now. Everything’s changed for the worse. You feel your eyes pool with an aching, throat-lumping blur for a moment before focusing again, it’s too late to cry, it’s too late to sulk over this, you don’t have time for that, at least not anymore. So you blink it off.
The weight of your body feels like nothing, your legs are moving as quickly as your stamina lets you. Maybe this is what they’re describing when they talk about runner’s high. It feels good, it feels liberating, you don’t even want to stop.
The adrenaline pumps through your body in an out-of-body manner, you’re not tired, in fact, you’re free, you’re living, you’ve reached your peak.
Until you force yourself to halt, looking behind you, it’s just silence. There’s no one there. You’ve lost them for now.
Your chest burns as you gasp for air, the runner’s high crashing into reality like a brick wall. You compose yourself, catching your breath as quietly as possible, making sure that no sound comes out from your mouth, not even a groan, not even an exasperated gasp, you couldn’t risk it.
The street lamps blur together through your tears, the ones you can’t blink away this time. You sob, for the first time in months. You couldn’t believe it, this is your life now. You had spent months becoming someone you didn’t recognize—forging documents, lying to the government, stealing in every way that mattered—all desperate attempts to keep your mother alive. Credit card bills go unpaid, calls go unanswered, you’ve fully isolated yourself from the world, and maybe it’s better this way, but you know damn well it’s not.
You’re in some part of town you don’t recognize, industrial and empty. It’s the kind of place where people disappear.
You look ahead of you, the train station is looming ahead like salvation, no one’s there, maybe it’s because it’s 2 in the morning. Its fluorescent lights cut off and on, it’s uninviting but you make an attempt to walk towards it anyway. Your legs shake as you struggle to walk, muscle memory carrying you forward even as your body threatens to give out.
You push past the fair gates, not giving the consideration of paying a second thought. Even if you did, you don’t have the money. You ignore the station agent's empty threats and the five second alarm that stings your ears. You know they won’t actually do anything.
Inside, it’s almost deserted, just a few late-night commuters and a couple of unhoused people lying carelessly on the floor. The familiar sight stings you, you know it all too well.
You collapse onto the metal bench, finally letting yourself feel the weight of what you’re running from. Your clothes are dust-filled, sleeves torn and raggedy, your jeans cuffed and stained with browning, dried blood. You're at your lowest. There’s no home to go to, nowhere to stay for the night, you’re not in contact with anyone in your life anymore. You have complete liberty over yourself, only you don’t.
The numbers flash in your head like a neon sign: seventy-two hours. That’s what they gave you. That was three days ago. You push the thought behind your head, avoiding the thought like it doesn’t sneak back in every time you’re not occupied.
You glance at the train display as if you had a destination to stride off to.
Scheduled departures
Train H to Avon 7, 15, 34
Train F to West Lancaster 4, 23, 48
Train P to Medina 2, 17, 42
Train G to Loudon 3, 20, 45
You look back in front of you before mustering enough leftover strength to get yourself back up on your feet. Medina doesn’t sound so bad right now, and so does a train arriving in two minutes.
Your steps are unsteady as you make your way behind the platform line. The digital clock above the tracks read 2:03 AM - only one more minute until the train to Medina arrives. It’s quiet, comfortingly quiet, no one’s here to get you, and for once, you let your mind and your eyes shut.
Regardless, your muscles are the first to relax, but second comes the aching, every limb intertwining with your exhaustion as you force your eyes open. You can’t rest here, not now, and certainly not while standing up.
Beneath you the ground shakes, signaling that the train is almost near. You eye it in the distance; the lights are flashing, and the distant sound of the train horn is gradually getting louder. The train pulls in with a mechanical screech, its doors sliding open slowly.
You slip inside just as the departure bell chimes, collapsing into the nearest seat you could find. The train car is nearly empty, just you and a man in a rumpled suit sleeping, taking both seats of the paired chairs with his feet hanging off the seat. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as the train lurches forward, about 45 minutes until it reaches Medina.
You lean your head against the window and close your eyes shut. You’re numb to the feeling, of running, of sulking, of thinking of ways to desperately pay for your mother’s treatments, but you couldn’t do anything. The cancer had already spread, she was too far gone, and before you could even register the situation you hit the ground running. Literally.
The rhythmic clacking of the train wheels becomes a countdown in your head, matching the beeping of the machine that your mother clung onto before the final weeks of her life. You’d been sitting in that sterile, unwelcoming, hospital room, promising her you’d find a way to make her feel better, that you’d figure it out. She’d squeezed her hand with what little strength she had left, acknowledging your promise. She knew you wouldn’t be able to, deep down you both knew, so you strung your promises until they finally caught up to you three months after her funeral.
You push the memory into the back of your head, another one to ignore until it creeps back up.
The train shudders beneath you, and through your exhaustion, you hear heavy footsteps moving through the train car. Your eyes snap open, looking behind you as a transit officer makes his way down the aisle, checking tickets and looking directly at passengers.
Shit.
You’d forgotten about jumping the turnstiles. In sheer carelessness, you thought the empty threats were, well—empty. But here he is.
“Excuse me, miss.” His voice cuts through the mechanical hum as he stops at you. Medina couldn’t come any faster now. “I need to see your ticket.”
You hear your heart hammering, you’re convinced he can hear it too. “I… I don’t have one.”
“Miss, you need to step off at the next stop.” His hand reaches for his radio on his shoulder. “Fare evader on Train P, car two.”
The train begins to brake, and you know you have seconds before this becomes another chase. Through the window, you see the platform approaching. The sign flickers but you can see its faint glow. Medina. Thank fucking God.
Without putting in so much of a second thought, you’re already moving, pushing past the officer and making your way toward the doors. The departure bell is still chiming as you burst out of the train and onto the platform.
Medina station is just as deserted as you expected, and that works against you. You have nowhere to hide off to.
“She’s running!” The officer’s voice booms across the platform.
You don’t look back. Just like before, you run like you never have.
Your feet glide towards the dusty tiles with a sense of familiarity, pushing past the fare gates and straying off to another dead end of a night. But you don’t care, running from something is better than staying put. At least for you.
You maintain a good enough distance between yourself and the station before clearing the signal that you can look behind you.
The officer waves off a petty hand and turns his back around. You could almost hear the curses he yelled the moment he realized you were too far off to chase after. He gave up, not that there was that much of a point anyway.
You pant as you try to adjust your eyes to the darkness, the street lights giving way to an alleyway under a highway bridge. You’ve never seen anything like it before, it was poorly lit, with flickering yellow lights that would immediately make anyone’s gut gnaw.
Your legs feel like lead as you walk towards it anyway, with each step getting heavier and heavier than the last. You were exhausted and your body knows it all too well. You needed sleep.
You scan inside the alley for the driest corner, somewhere where the constant flickering of the lights won’t reach. Just a few hours of rest— that’s all you need before going back up on your feet again later.
It’s not the first time you’ve slept rough, and you know it won’t be the last. At least here, no one will think to look for you.
You desperately crawl towards the corner and settle in, eyes heavy and yearning for sleep before you notice a small crackle of light coming from what you thought was a solid wall.
Except it’s not. It’s a door, poorly painted but enough to not be detected from a distance. You could hear voices slipping through it— not the kind you’d expect in a place like this. Laughter. Cheering.
The smart thing would be to ignore it, to find another spot and to just leave it alone. But you couldn’t. This was too good to pass up on. The sounds were alive and sharp. Who would blame you?
Your fingers find the edges of the door carefully, the metal is beaten and weathered, rusty too. There’s no handle, there was nothing to grip on but the edges. So you pull slowly, with each exposing inch making the constant cheering louder.
And suddenly all the fatigue you felt vanished.
You step inside the narrow corridor that looks like it opens into something larger, with voices gradually growing louder with every step. You smell a horrid amount of cigarette smoke and you scrunch your face in disgust.
With one final stride, the corridor opens up and you freeze. Red light bathes everything, every single person, every dried blood, every ragged and torn up furniture—you struggle to process it all at once. There’s a mass of bodies surrounding the geometric shaped platform from the center that you slowly realize is a ring.
The crowd surges and moves violently like it’s a living thing. Everyone is focused, they’re all sweating, they’re all arguing and some are physically fighting each other. It’s chaos, you don’t even know what you just stepped into.
Two figures circle each other inside, they look like they’re fighting with raw, bandaged fists. With each movement creating fresh spatters on the canvas that’s already dark with stains.
You look to your right and left, posters cover every surface—faces you don’t recognize, dates, numbers. Some are torn, some are overlapping, creating a collage of violence and what basically looks like bounties at this point.
You press yourself against the wall, your heart hammering and encapsulating every inch of your being. This isn’t just illegal, it’s primal and desperate. People are gambling for their lives for the sake of entertainment.
Your eyes lock onto one figure in the ring. A man with his dark hair pulled back in a bun, sweat glistening on his bare shoulders and forehead. He was focused, with every punch as calculated and precise as you’d imagine. His eyes flashed a shade of dark green that complimented the rest of his features. You had to admit, he was attractive, but his brutality makes your blood run cold.
The crowd’s bloodlust suddenly makes sense to you now. This isn’t a sport, it’s a type of execution with an audience. You watch his opponent crumble, and there’s no getting back up. He’s limp and unmoving. He's dead.
The man in the bun pulled his head back and let out an exasperated laugh. He won and he knew it. No referee needed.
Every fight ends the same way. The winner takes all, with the loser not even taking anything, not even their last breath.
The crowd once again erupts with the loudest uproar you’ve ever heard in your entire life. The man steps back, blood dripping from his knuckles, his breath barely labored.
Four pairs of hands reach through the ropes, pulling him up onto shoulders. Someone grabs his wrist and thrusts it in the air, at this point, the roar becomes deafening.
He’s their champion. He’s their killer.
The name “Eren Yeager” bounces off the walls. That’s when he sees you. Through a blanket of faces he finds his eyes settling onto yours. Dark, calculating, still riding the high of his kill.
Even in his moment of triumph, he’s watching you. And you realize you’re no longer just a spectator.
Through the constant chants of his name he gestures with his other hand—not in victory, but pointing. Directly at you. His fingers curl in a subtle gesture, and you see two men at the edge of the crowd nod in understanding.
Panic floods through your system. You turn your body towards the corridor in which you came from, pushing past tens of bodies that suddenly feel heavier. The crowd is too thick and frenzied, and you realize you’re stuck.
Your heart hammers against your chest as you try to claw your way out, but firm hands grab your arms before you can even reach the door.
“Easy there,” one of them says, his voice almost gentle despite the rough grip on your arm. “Boss wants to meet you, nothing to worry about.” But the way he steers you tells a different story.
They guide you through the constant chatters and yells and you notice Eren being lowered down. You continue to get guided past the crowd and stop in front of a door. Same structure, same everything, but actually has a doorknob.
At this point, you’re being shoved in. And a couple seconds of pacing turns into minutes. You’re anxious, you don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into.
You scan the room for anything but you find nothing. Everything here is surprisingly sterile, the complete opposite outside of these doors.
Eren walks in, still wearing that stained wife beater from earlier, sweat and crimson staining parts of his upper body. He doesn’t bother cleaning up. Not when he wants to see you.
He leans his back against the wall, and you’re in the center of the room, studying you with the same calculated look.
“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He steps closer, “Hmm?” You can smell the metal tang from the blood on him. “And don’t give me bullshit either, sweets.”
You quirk a brow, suddenly everything about this doesn’t feel real.
“A girl like me?” You let out a harsh laugh. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I was looking for a place to sleep. Didn’t expect the entertainment.” You continue.
Eren’s mouth turns into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so sharp. “Entertainment.” The word rolls off his tongue with a click. He tilts his head to the side. “That’s what you call it?”
He’s now stepping towards you, he’s already examined every part of you. From your face to the rest of your body. He knew, you both knew, you’re on the run.
“Most people who stumble into my fights don’t usually stick around long enough to watch the finale.” He stops just close enough that you have to tilt your head back just to look him in the eyes. “But you did. Watched the whole thing.”
“So you’re either tougher than you look, or more desperate than you’re letting on.” He coos and rests his head on your shoulder before whispering. “I’m betting it’s both.”
“Sounds like we might be able to help each other, what do you think?” He puts his hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for your answer.
You should say no, you should definitely say no, but what do you have to lose? Nothing. You’ve been looking over your shoulder for weeks. What’s one more bad decision?
“What kind of help are we talking about?” The words come out before you can stop them, and you can see satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
“Tell me—how do you feel about getting your hands dirty?” The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications you’re not sure you want to get into.
“The work isn’t pretty, but it pays well. And I take care of what’s mine.”
“What’s yours?” You question, and his smile turns predatory.
Eren reaches up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek. “You stick around long enough, and you might find out.”
His touch is gone as quickly as it came. But his eyes never leave yours. “So what’s it gonna be? Hmm? You in or you out?” The way he says it makes you feel like there’s no other choice.
Fuck it.
“I’m in.”
[chapter 2]