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🛠️Blueprints for an Exit — Erwin x Reader

You build to survive — scraps turned into machines, ideas no one in this world should know. You sell to escape — each invention a step closer to freedom.

But secrets burn fast. And when a certain commander starts hunting for the mind behind the blueprints, You’ll have to decide whether to keep running… Or risk being caught by him.

“A mind like yours should never be wasted on survival.”

An Inventor!Reader x Erwin one-shot. Set in a Cinderella-inspired, kind of medieval, titan-free AU. ✨ Part 2 of the If the Shoe Fits, Run series. ✨ Standalone story - no prior reading needed.

read on: quotev | wattpad | ao3

full chapter below ↓

Blueprints for an Exit (Inventor!Reader x Erwin)

You remember the moment all too clearly.

The moment the world blinked out like a flame snuffed between two fingers. Your fingers, trembling over a door handle you hadn’t wanted to open. You were exhausted and desperate. You’d whispered to no one in particular, “I’d rather be anywhere else,” and whatever higher force had been listening must have agreed.

The next thing you knew, you were here. In a world out of a fairytale. One where time had rewound, where corsets replaced concrete, and where the men had swords but had never heard of a lightbulb.

You’re still not sure what kind of cosmic joke dropped you in this place. But you did recognize the setup almost immediately — an impending crumbling manor. A dead father. A freshly married stepmother and two daughters with sugary voices and serpent eyes.

Of course it had to be Cinderella.

Which meant you had two options: wait for a prince… or build your own escape.

You chose the latter.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Years have passed since then.

By day, you’re the obedient ward of a noble house, soft-spoken and always with a sweet smile, perfect at embroidery and perfectly silent. Always at your stepfamily’s beck and call.

By night, you become someone else — a hooded figure in the capital’s back alleys, slipping blueprints beneath crates, trading sketches for coin, moving parts for protection. Invention is your escape route. You sell convenience, ingenuity, and just enough brilliance to change lives without changing the course of history too fast.

You have your rules.

Never meet clients twice. Never leave real names. Never sell weapons.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The reports come in threes.

First: a small farming family in the outer ring claims their harvest tools now last three times longer — all without a single royal craftsman involved.

Second: the Reeves company quietly doubles profits with a new grain sorter—one so precise it can divide seed by weight. No patents. No blueprints. No one knows who built it.

Third: a military courier’s son survives a fatal accident thanks to a handmade breathing device. No one will say who gave it to him.

It’s always the same: innovation, anonymity, and impact.

Someone out there is rewriting the rules of progress. And they’re doing it without a crown seal.

Erwin leans back in his chair, hands steepled.

He’s seen enough revolutions to know what it looks like when someone gets too smart for the system.

The question is whether this one is dangerous — or brilliant.

He circles the edges of the map. Each incident forms a trail that loops back to one place:

The outskirts of the District Loden.Past Wall Sina, before the slums, the perfect blind spot for a ghost to vanish in plain sight.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

In the quiet hours of the night You're hunched over a candlelit desk in the attic, goggles crooked, hands streaked with soot and ink.

Tonight’s project is a mechanical compass, not for direction, but for detecting lies.

It’s a test. A prototype. A machine rigged to respond to minute shifts in pulse and pressure when someone speaks. The needle will tremble, just enough to notice. Useless in most noble courts (they lie like they breathe), but powerful in the right hands.

You solder the final piece, your breath steady. The needle twitches once, then stills. You smile.

You have no idea that this invention will be the one that finally gives you away.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The map stretches wide across the oak table, covered in markers and ink. He stands over it with arms crossed, watching unrest spread across the northern districts like a bruise under silk.

“Another noble arrested for treason,” Nile mutters, tossing a parchment down. “That makes four this month. All of them with inexplicably revolutionary tech in their homes.”

Erwin nods slowly. “And all of them claiming not to know where it came from.”

Pixis, half-asleep in the corner with a wine cup in hand, opens one eye. “I suppose our ghost of Loden strikes again.”

Erwin allows himself the ghost of a smile. That nickname, the ghost of Loden, had started as a joke. A whisper of an inventor slipping in and out of reach. Brilliant, anonymous, untouchable.

But lately, the whispers have grown louder. Sharper.

And more dangerous.

He rests a hand on the edge of the table. “We’ve traced two of the latest devices back to the Reeves Trading Company. If anyone’s had direct contact with our ghost, it’s them.”

Nile raises a brow. “Reeves’ll talk if we pressure him.”

“No,” Erwin says. “He’ll lie. And badly.”

He turns toward the map, his finger tapping District Loden.

“I want a meeting. Not as the Chief Strategist. As a buyer. Someone with coin. And a need.”

“You’re going undercover?” Nile snorts. “That’s bound to end well.”

Pixis laughs into his wine. “Do wear something less intimidating. Wouldn’t want them bolting before the bargain even starts.”

Erwin doesn’t respond. He’s already calculating the risks.

If this inventor is truly behind the devices destabilizing the Crown’s hold… If they’ve been aiding rebels under the guise of business…

Then he needs to look them in the eye himself.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You’ve never sold military tech before.

Not really.

You make tools, not weapons. Mechanisms. Hacks. A lantern that lights without oil. A hearing device sharp enough to catch whispers through stone walls. A boot spring that lets a man leap two stories.

But this? What they’re asking for now?

A pressure-triggered device. A trap meant to deter intruders, to scare off thieves.

“For protection,” they said. “Just to keep their stores safe.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

It could protect a village. Or cripple a child.

You close your eyes. Back in your attic, the air hangs thick with soot, metal cooling on your desk. The truth compass ticks faintly in the corner.

You promised yourself you’d never cross this line.

But coin talks. And you’re so close. So close to finally escaping this place.

Just a few more deals. A few more risks.

You reach for the seal you use on every delivery, a simple sigil stamped in wax, meaningless to anyone but you.

And slowly, you press it into the parchment.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

He arrives just as the bells begin to toll midnight.

The warehouse is one Reeves uses for “special arrangements”, off the books, low visibility, just enough foot traffic to look ordinary. Erwin wears a dark coat and gloves, the kind that wouldn’t draw attention. No insignia. No gleam of gold to reveal his rank. Just a pocket heavy with coins and a name on his tongue that isn’t his own.

A merchant from Trost. Interested in custom security tech. Payment in full. Delivery tonight.

He knows how this game works.

Reeves had been eager enough once the gold was on the table. “The ghost only shows if you’re serious,” he’d muttered, sweating through his collar. “And if they like you.”

Erwin waits in the far corner of the warehouse, leaning against a crate marked grain, ears tuned to the quiet clatter of the city outside.

Then the door creaks open.

Soft footsteps. Light. Calculated. Not the heavy shuffle of smugglers — something sharper.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You clock the man instantly.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hands gloved, posture loose but watchful. His face is shadowed under his hood, but something about him feels… official.

Too clean to be a merchant. Too calm to be scared.

Interesting.

You don’t let it show. You step forward and set the case on the table with a deliberate thunk.

“I brought what you asked for,” you say coolly. “Pressure-triggered. Adjusted to your specifications. You can test it before I leave.”

The man nods once. His voice is smooth, low. “And if I wanted more? Something custom. Exclusive.”

You tilt your head. “I don’t do repeats.”

A pause.

“Why not?”

“Because buyers get greedy. Start asking for things I don’t make.” You meet his gaze, even if you can’t quite see his face. “And I don’t make weapons.”

The man’s eyes flick down to the case. His mouth almost curves — not quite a smile.

“That’s one way to describe it.”

The man goes silent. Then, slowly, he reaches into his coat. Your body tenses, but all he produces is a compass.

Your compass.

You go still.

“Such an interesting invention,” he says, watching the trembling needle. “Perfect for business deals… or interrogation.”

Your pulse spikes.

“That’s not what it’s for,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

His eyes narrow, calm but cutting. “Then tell me — what is it for?”

Your heart hammers.

You scan him again, sharper this time.

Who is he?

You inch toward the bag at your side — smoke bombs, just in case, but he raises a hand, not threatening, just controlled.

“I don’t want to arrest you,” he says. “I want to understand why someone this brilliant is selling devices that could topple a kingdom.”

You freeze.

No buyer would say that.

Which means—

“Who are you?” you breathe.

The man reaches up, finally, and lowers his hood.

First you catch the eyes — sharp, unyielding, too perceptive to belong to an ordinary client. Then the rest of his face comes into focus: the hard jaw, the authority etched into every line.

Recognition slams into you.

Erwin Smith.

You’ve just walked straight into the lion’s den.

And you don’t even have a blade.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

There’s a sharp, awful silence in your mind, like every gear in you seizes at once.

You know that face. Everyone does. Chief Strategist of the Crown. The one behind the Capital Reformation. The man who broke the noble monopolies, exposed two major spy rings, and somehow did it all without ever raising his voice.

You’d studied him, and sworn never to meet him.

And now he’s here, in the same room, using your own invention against you.

Your mind starts spinning.

Probabilities. Options. Exits.

Could you throw the smoke bomb and bolt? Maybe. But the warehouse doors are heavy, and he’s too close. He’d catch you before the smoke cleared.

Could you bluff? Say you’re just a courier?

Too late. He’s seen your face.

You swallow, steadying your breath. You can’t out-muscle him. You definitely can’t outrun his authority.

But you can out-think him.

Maybe.

You force your voice steady. “If you wanted me dead, you’d have brought more guards.”

He smiles faintly. “I don’t make a habit of killing inventors.”

“Just arresting them?”

“I’d prefer not to,” he says. “That depends on how honest you’re willing to be with me.”

You snort. “That’s rich, coming from someone who showed up under a false name.”

The needle on the compass twitches.

His smile grows.

Damn it. You hate how smug he looks. Hate more that he caught you.

“So,” you say, folding your arms, “what now?”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

She doesn’t beg.

Doesn’t run.

Doesn’t even shake.

The girl in front of him has soot on her gloves and a mind like a locked vault. She’s young — far younger than he expected for an inventor — the kind of brilliance usually found in old men with dusty medals, not sharp-eyed girls in patched-up coats. But there’s a steel edge to her calm. A sharpness honed by hunger and calculation, not formal training.

He studies the lines of tension in her jaw, the bag at her side, the flick of her eyes to the exits. Already planning how to disappear.

Not yet.

He doesn’t want her gone.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says evenly.

She raises a brow.

“I won’t report this meeting,” he says. “I’ll walk out of here without touching you. But in return, you tell me who you really are.”

“I already told you—”

“Don’t lie.” He nods toward the compass. “It still works.”

She scowls at it like it’s a traitor.

Then, to his quiet surprise, she laughs.

It’s low, tired, almost bitter.

“You want to know who I am?” she says, eyes glittering. “Fine. I’m a girl with a cruel stepmother, two leeching stepsisters, and no family name that matters. I live in an attic that leaks when it rains, I work alone, and I’ve survived this long by knowing how to sell just enough to stay invisible.”

She takes a step closer.

“And you just ruined that.”

Erwin holds her gaze. “If you think I’m here to expose you, you’ve misread me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because,” he says slowly, “you built a handheld lie detector using nothing but gears and wire. Because you’ve made a dozen devices that could destabilize the noble courts, and yet none of them are weapons. Because someone like you shouldn’t be hiding in District Loden, selling secrets for food.”

She narrows her eyes. “And what do you propose I do instead? Join the Crown?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. For once, he doesn’t have a plan ready. Because that’s exactly what he was going to propose—in theory. A position under an alias, somewhere discreet. But now that he’s met her…

She’s too sharp to cage.

Too independent to tame.

He needs her cooperation, not her obedience.

So he tries a different tactic.

“I don’t want to own you,” he says. “I want to understand you. And if I can’t do that now—” he tips his head toward the door— “then I’ll leave.”

Another test.

Another bluff.

She studies him. Hard.

And then, slowly, deliberately, she reaches out and picks up the compass from the table.

The needle twitches under her fingers from the movement.

“Fine,” she says. “Ask your questions.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You don’t soften. You keep the compass between you like a line neither of you can cross.

“Let’s start with this,” he says, tone measured. “How long have you been building?”

You tilt your head. “Define building.”

His mouth twitches — not quite a smile. “Mechanical innovation. Inventing technology that doesn’t exist anywhere else in this kingdom.”

You pause. “Six years.”

Erwin nods once. He’d suspected as much — you were just stepping into adulthood when you started. Which makes the sophistication of your current designs even more remarkable. Dangerous, even. And he knows better than to underestimate someone who survived this long without a backer.

“Where did you learn?” he asks.

“I watched. I studied. I experimented. Failure is a far better teacher than any master.” Then, dryly: “Though I imagine you had access to both.”

He raises a brow. “And what would you say I’ve learned?”

You smile, tight-lipped. “That people will follow anyone in a clean uniform with a strong voice, so long as he names it duty.”

The jab is sharp, but not inaccurate. Erwin doesn’t flinch. Instead, he folds his arms and watches you carefully, as if weighing your bitterness against your brilliance.

“And you?” he counters. “What have you learned?”

You don’t hesitate. “That freedom is a resource. Like coal. Like knowledge. It’s either hoarded, stolen, or bought. And I intend to buy mine.”

A beat passes.

The needle on the compass stays still.

He exhales slowly. “And what price are you willing to pay?”

You meet his eyes. “That depends. What’s the going rate for a life outside this system?”

There’s something in your voice, not desperation, but defiance sharpened by exhaustion. Like someone who’s counted every coin, every betrayal, every compromise, just to crawl this far.

And for the first time in a long while, Erwin feels the steady tilt of certainty falter. Because this — you — were not in the plan.

He was supposed to find the source of the illegal tech, shut it down quietly, and move on. Instead, he’s staring at a girl with ash on her gloves and stars in her mind, holding her own against the man who commands half the capital.

And something inside him says: don’t let this go.

Not yet.

“I could offer you protection,” he says finally. “Resources. Anonymity. A lab. A salary.”

You scoff. “A collar, you mean.”

“No,” he says, voice low. “A choice.”

You watch him, eyes narrowed, weighing the truth in his words against the tremble in your gut. Because this shouldn’t feel like anything. This shouldn’t be anything. He’s the system. You’re the saboteur. There’s no version of this where you come out unburned.

But for a second, one impossible sliver of breath, you want to believe him.

And that’s what frightens you most.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A sound breaks the stillness. Sharp. Metallic. A crash from somewhere outside the warehouse.

Erwin reacts first, a flicker of alertness crossing his features as he glances toward the door. Reflexive. Calculated. But you? You know what this is.

A gift.

Because the footsteps follow fast, boots against cobblestone, and shouts echo in the distance. Not guards. Too erratic. Drunken, maybe. Local smugglers or dockhands. Wrong place, wrong time.

Or exactly right, if you're lucky.

“Stay here,” Erwin says sharply, already moving toward the entrance.

You don’t.

The moment his back turns, you move. Quick. Clean. Practiced.

Bag over your shoulder. Compass pocketed. You slip through the window on the side, the one with the stacked crates and rusted tools, and vanish into the smoke-veiled streets like a ghost with somewhere better to be.

Behind you, the shouting swells. The warehouse dissolves into the noise — fists, laughter, the crunch of boots on stone. You don’t look back.

You chose to run.

Not because you were afraid of being caught. But because, for a second, you weren’t.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

By the time the noise settles and the source of the chaos turns out to be nothing more than a drunken scuffle, she's gone.

Of course she is.

The crates by one of the walls have shifted. One’s been kicked. The window above is open. A clean and deliberate exit.

He scans the window she slipped through.

Not a trace.

Except the smallest thing. A scrap of parchment, torn and half-singed, caught beneath a metal gear.

He picks it up carefully.

A corner of a diagram, maybe. Notes in handwriting too fast to be elegant. Useless without any context.

Still, he folds it and tucks it into his coat.

Then he straightens, brushing soot from his gloves.

She ran, yes. But not out of defiance.

He’d seen it in her eyes.

That flicker of something real. The way she’d listened, despite herself. The way she’d hesitated.

She ran because she believed him.

And that… That’s how he knows she can be persuaded.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

He doesn't issue a warrant. No manhunt. No names in reports.

Let the brass think the trail went cold.

Let her think she got away.

It’s better this way — quieter. Cleaner. And infinitely more useful.

Because it gives him time to observe.

He’s not the kind of man who indulges in riddles, but this particular puzzle… deserves patience. She moves like someone used to surveillance, slipping through alleys with mirrors in her sleeves, checking for tails, never using the same contact twice. And yet.

She still shows up in the same place every morning.

A tiny bakery in District Loden. Not for bread, but for the child who lingers by the back stoop, limbs too thin, always barefoot. She gives him whatever scraps she has. A piece of bread. A copper coin. Once, a spring-loaded toy that made the boy laugh so hard he hiccupped.

Later that evening, she slips down a forgotten street on the edge of the district to mend a broken lantern no one else would bother with. She works fast, not showy, not proud, just efficient. A few twists of wire, a smudge of grease on her cheek. When she slips back down, unseen, the light flickers back to life.

Erwin watches from the shadows, arms folded, jaw tight.

He’s seen war criminals do less damage than some nobles in this district. And she, in her soot-streaked jacket and scavenged tools, is risking everything to mend what they’ve broken.

And still.

She runs.

That’s what baffles him most. Not her precision or her caution, but the fear. The deep, bone-sharp kind. It’s not just survival. It’s not guilt.

It’s something older than that. Something learned.

He thinks of the burned scrap still tucked in his coat pocket. Thinks of the way she’d looked at him that day, not with hatred, but with the kind of hope that hurts.

He doesn’t follow her when she disappears into a shuttered workshop to make another deal. Doesn’t break cover. Not yet.

Let her go a little longer.

She thinks she’s running out of time.

She doesn’t know he’s buying it back for her.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around your lungs and squeezes.

Even the attic creaks softer now, as if it knows you’ve been staying too long. You’ve reinforced the walls, covered your tracks, set up three different escape routes and a pulley trap in case someone trespasses.

It should feel safe. But all it feels is temporary.

You’ve been saving coin for years, hoarding it in careful increments. But the total still falls short, not enough for your plan, not enough to start over somewhere no one knows your name.

And more dangerously, you’re running out of faith. Not in yourself. In them.

No one keeps promises. Not without blood or leverage. The deal at the workshop proved that. You’d been careful, anonymous, masked, timed to the second, and still they’d brought backup, tried to corner you.

They weren’t looking for an inventor. They were looking for someone to exploit.

And if you hadn’t run…

You drag your hands down your face.

This isn’t working.

Survival is chewing away at you inch by inch. Even with your tricks, even with your charm, even with the few decoys you left behind in transactions to protect yourself — it’s not enough.

You need real power.

Something no one would dare touch.

Your fingers drift toward the schematic hidden under the floorboard. You don’t pull it out. You don’t have to.

You know it by heart.

A prototype so dangerous it’s illegal to draft. Stolen parts, repurposed tech from old Survey Corps designs. You hadn’t built it out of malice, just necessity. The idea had come to you one night while listening to soldiers talk about siege tactics. You realized they were doing it all wrong.

You built something better.

Too effective. Too efficient. The kind of weapon the capital would pay a fortune for, or bury you alive for.

You promised yourself you’d never sell it.

But promises don’t put food in your stomach. They don’t buy freedom. And they sure as hell don’t stop men like the ones at the workshop.

Your hands tremble as you light the oil lamp.

One last deal.

You still know someone who might take it. Someone who doesn't ask questions, just names his price.

If the trade goes through, you can finally leave. For real this time. No more looking over your shoulder. No more chances for that maddening blue-eyed officer to trace your steps.

You shut your eyes.

No more seeing his face when you hesitate.

No more hearing his voice when you think about staying.

You blow out the lamp and stand.

It has to be tonight.

Before your hope convinces you to trust again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Late at night, the meeting point is a burned-out stable half a mile beyond the canal walls, far enough from town to avoid guards, close enough to reach on foot without notice.

You chose it for its desolation, people tending to stay away. Ash still hangs in the air, the ruins left to rot.

You wear gloves this time. And a hood. And beneath your cloak, the prototype is packed in oilcloth and cinched tight against your ribs. Not a full weapon. Just the core, a proof of concept. Small enough to look like a bluff. Heavy enough to kill if it explodes wrong.

Which is why you hold it close.

Your contact is late.

You hate that he’s late.

You pace the length of the stables once. Twice. Your breath clouds in the cold. Your boots crack the edge of a frozen puddle. And still, no sound.

You’re about to leave when someone steps out from behind a charred post.

Not your contact.

Not even close.

Blue eyes. That coat. The way he doesn’t even bother to draw a weapon.

Just him.

“Funny,” Erwin Smith says calmly. “I thought you’d pick the canal bridge. More escape routes.”

Your blood ices.

You turn to bolt, but he’s already moved. Not fast. Not chasing. Just blocking the way back with the kind of steadiness that makes your skin crawl.

“I don’t want the prototype,” he says, voice low. “Not like this.”

You reach for your pocket anyway.

Erwin’s eyes flick down, not to the weapon, but your hands.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I said I didn’t come to take it.”

“Then why follow me?”

“Because you’re about to ruin everything you’ve survived for.”

Your grip tightens.

“It’s mine to ruin,” you snap.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you don’t actually want to.”

You laugh — harsh, bitter. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I do.” His voice is too damn gentle. “You want out.”

The wind cuts through the broken wall behind you.

“Everyone wants out,” you say. “You think I’m special?”

“I think you’re scared,” Erwin replies. “And smart enough to know this sale won’t buy you freedom. Just more people who know your name.”

“I don’t care,” you hiss. “I’m done trusting anyone.”

He steps forward.

You draw the device halfway out of your coat.

“Don’t,” you warn. “You’re not the only one who knows how this works.”

Erwin stops.

Not because he’s afraid, but because he’s listening.

“Then say it,” he says quietly. “Say you really don’t care. That no one’s ever worth trusting. That you’ll walk away from this alone.”

You swallow.

The words are there. You’ve said them before. In your head. In the mirror.

But you don’t say them now.

Because he’s not just calling your bluff. He’s offering something else.

Not safety.

Not escape.

Just truth.

And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

You look away first.

He doesn’t move. Just waits, still and steady, like he’s always been waiting.

Then finally, you exhale.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d go through with it,” you mutter.

Erwin raises a brow.

You glare at the ground. “I was going to scare him. Bluff the price up. Maybe… maybe drop it in the canal if he tried anything.”

A pause.

“At least you’re still weighing the risk.” Erwin says simply.

You glance up, startled.

But he’s already turning away.

“No arrest?” you say before you can stop yourself.

“No.”

“Not even for threatening a military officer?”

“You didn’t threaten me,” he says. “You just showed how far you’re willing to go.”

He looks back, just once.

He turns, boots crunching softly over frost. In another blink, he’s gone, footsteps fading in the dark.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You stay frozen long after he’s gone.

Not because you’re afraid. But because something else is clawing at your chest — something unfamiliar, raw.

You don’t want to feel it.

But it’s there, rising anyway:

That stupid, heavy, traitorous flicker of hope.

You grit your teeth and shove it down.

The device is still warm against your ribs. The deal’s off. Your tracks are covered. You’ve lost nothing. He let you go.

Still—

“…I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you whisper, but only to the dark.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It happens two days later.

You’re stupid. Careless. Just one stop to deliver medicine to the baker’s wife. One detour to fix the pulley at the tannery where a boy nearly lost his arm last week. In and out. Hood drawn tight. Nobody looking twice.

Except someone does.

Not Erwin.

Not a guard.

Just a glint of gold fabric at the edge of the square, the corner of a parasol too fine for this part of town. The clipped voice of a girl asking if that’s really her.

You run. Your breath saws sharp in your throat, cloak catching on the press of bodies as you push through.

Toward the maze of side alleys behind the dye house, where walls are close enough to climb, where soot stains cover your tracks. You think you’ve lost them.

But they know your patterns too well.

You’re halfway through your hiding place, a coal chute behind the barrel-maker’s shop, when someone grabs your ankle and drags you back down.

The world jerks sideways.

You hit the ground hard.

The last thing you hear is your stepsister’s voice, cold with triumph:

“Let’s see what Mother thinks about you skulking around like a beggar rat.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

They lock you in the attic.

The air is stifling, thick with the smell of splintered wood and oil.

Your workbench is bare. Shelves stripped. Even the half-finished gadgets you left mid-assembly are gone, taken before you could complete them. The trapdoor is locked from the outside. The windows are boarded over with crude planks that leave only slits of light.

Rage spikes hot in your chest. Not because you trusted them, you never did, but because they touched what was yours. They took the hours you built with your own hands, pieces no one else could ever understand.

They think keeping you here is leverage. That you’ll behave as long as they hold your name, your records, your “future” hostage.

They underestimate you.

They always have.

You give them three days.

You wait until they stop guarding the door.

Then you begin.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

You work with what little you have: lamp oil, torn ledgers, a bent paper knife. The knife pries loose portions of wood, sharp enough to work through a slate. You squeeze through the opening onto the roof, fingers raw from forcing the materials apart. Then you spill the oil, stack the papers, strike the spark. The fire takes quickly. By the time you’re climbing down the eaves, the smoke is already curling from the windows.

The whole wing catches.

They’ll think you died trying to escape the fire.

They’ll find remains — not yours. A bundle of clothes stuffed with meat you smuggled in, shreds of your own hair to give it the right smell. Enough that, when the embers dwindle, they’ll swear it was you.

They’ll find the letter you ‘tried’ to send for help — intercepted and hidden in the steward’s desk. Half-true, but damning enough:

“Please. They’ve locked me in the attic. They’ve taken everything I have and sold it as their own. I don’t know how much longer I can survive.”

The script is uneven, lines pressed too hard into the page, as if written in panic.

By dawn, District Loden believes you died in the fire.

By noon, the steward is under investigation.

By dusk, your stepmother is already fleeing the capital.

And you… You’re already gone.

Through the sewer grate you marked years ago, into the tunnels, past the river, and at last into the forest.

You don’t stop until the trees thicken and the air tastes like freedom.

And then, only then, you allow yourself a single minute to rest.

One minute to feel the burn in your lungs and the ache in your ribs and the tremble in your hands.

You’re alive.

You did it.

But you don’t cry.

You’re too busy planning the next move.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Erwin stands at the edge of the rubble as the last embers die.

What they recover are brittle fragments and scorched scraps, the pitiful remains and the stench of burned flesh convincing enough for officials to declare a body.

The investigators call it tragic. Unfortunate. A waste.

Erwin calls it convenient.

Too convenient.

To the officials, her confinement had been airtight — doors barred, windows boarded, no escape. The confiscated letter is shown as proof: her plea for help, tucked away in the steward’s desk. Evidence, they say, that she was silenced before the fire. Books and blueprints destroyed beyond recognition.

The stepmother was already gone, her getaway from the capital making the claims of corruption look less like rumor and more like fact. Convenient timing, Erwin thinks, for a woman under suspicion.

He’s seen better coverups.

What nags at him is the fire’s point of origin. The precise angles of the burn pattern. Someone knew exactly how to collapse the room — just enough to look fatal, not enough to bring the whole wing down.

Someone with skill.

Still, the evidence is gone. Mostly.

But in the rubble, half-buried under char, he uncovers a warped metal panel shielding what little survive. Forgotten. Or maybe abandoned in a rush.

Inside:

– A singed diagram, marked with Marleyan characters. – A customs report from a nearby port, three weeks old. – A sketch of an airship with a date beside it — today.

Marley.

Of course. The only place this side of the sea where technology outpaces bloodlines. Where engineers are courted by councils, and brilliant women file patents and argue science on the senate floor.

She’d been charting escape routes for months, weighing her options, preparing to buy her freedom with her mind.

Erwin folds the diagram and slips it into his coat.

He doesn't smile. But there’s a glint in his eye now.

She hadn’t run away from justice. She’d run toward something.

And if she’s half as clever as she seemed, she’s already past the first checkpoint, maybe even halfway to the coast.

But she made one mistake.

She assumed no one would care enough to follow.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The search party scatters past the tree line like hounds off the leash. But Erwin doesn’t move.

He stands still.

Watches the dirt.

Tracks lead into the woods. Too straight. Too obvious.

Too easy.

She wouldn’t have gone in blind. Not her. Not after everything.

She’s clever. Built escape plans like puzzles, like a cunning rabbit with multiple burrows. And if these tracks are real, if she really did run straight into the trees without even bothering to cover her tracks, then maybe he was wrong about her after all.

But he doesn’t think he is.

He lets the wind pass.

Looks around.

And then— He glances up.

The tree behind him is massive. Thick-trunked. Old enough to outlive empires. Its lowest branches are high, but not impossible to reach, not for someone who can fashion climbing gear out of anything at hand.

He squints. There's a flicker of motion in the leaves.

He smiles, small and sharp.

“I know you’re there,” he says, leaning one hand casually against the trunk. “There’s no point in hiding.”

A beat of silence.

Then a rustle. And a thud.

You land with a grunt, crouched and annoyed. Straighten your spine like a cat fluffing its tail.

“…Damn you and your wits, Erwin.”

He lifts one brow. “You’re welcome.”

You scowl at him. Your hair’s messy, uneven and choppy. A pack is slung over one shoulder. You’d planned for this. And yet… you’re still here, caught like a fox in the grass.

You dust yourself off without meeting his eyes. “Let me guess. You trailed the fire damage back to the passage.”

“And found what little you left behind.” He studies you. “You’re more meticulous than most escape artists. But I found your maps and plans.”

“Tch. I thought the fire would burn everything clean.”

You turn, like you might just walk away, but he steps in front of you.

“You were headed for Marley,” he says.

A pause.

You breathe out slowly. “What’s it to you?”

You hug the strap of your pack tighter, watching him weigh the words on his tongue.

“I had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” Your voice tightens. “I’m not dangerous. I wasn’t trying to make the world more chaotic than it already is. I just—wanted to live. Somewhere where I wasn’t property. Somewhere I could build things that mattered.”

“Then why not come to me?”

That gets your eyes on his. Sharp and shining.

The words hang there, fragile, almost too honest. For a moment, neither of you move.

“Because there’s no guarantee your people wouldn’t just wring me dry and use me for their own ends.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“I’ve worked every day to buy back my time, my body, my choices,” you say, voice steady but rising. “And you sit there, safe and respected, and expect me to put my future in your hands?”

“I expect you to survive,” he says, calm but firm. “You chose Marley. Do you understand what that means? You would’ve been studied, used, torn apart—”

“I studied them,” you snap. “Their border patrol routes, their trade ports, their inventor guilds. I made a calculated risk. I wasn’t throwing myself at wolves—I was choosing a place where they value innovation. Where I could join a workshop, register patents. Where I could live as myself.”

A beat.

“…I know the risks. I chose them anyway.”

He studies you then, deeply. Like you’re a cipher he finally has the patience to understand.

“So you’re ready to leave everything behind.”

You nod. “I already had.”

He sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what now? You run again?”

“…I haven’t decided.”

Silence stretches between you. The breeze is warm and faintly dusty. Somewhere in the woods, a soldier calls out — distant and sounding bewildered.

You look up at Erwin again, gaze softer now, but no less resolved.

“I wasn’t waiting for anyone to find me. You know that, right?”

He nods. “I know.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“I didn’t come here to save you.”

You tilt your head. “Then what?”

“I came to see if you were still running from something,” he says. “Or finally running to something.”

“And which is it?”

His voice is quieter now. “I think it’s both.”

You look away for a moment. The weight of everything pressing into your ribs. Then you square your shoulders.

“…You said I was a puzzle once. That no one knew what I was really after.”

“I remember.”

“Well. Now you do.”

A beat.

Then he steps closer.

Not threatening. Not chasing.

Just there—the same way he always is when everything else in your world threatens to shift.

And when he speaks again, his voice is low and certain.

“I won’t stop you. If you want to keep running.”

Your breath catches.

“But if you want to build something,” he says, “something lasting—then don’t do it alone. Let me help you, stand with you, so neither you nor your work are ever buried again.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[Epilogue – One Year Later]

The capital is quieter now.

Not calm, it never is, but steadier — like a machine that runs smooth, even if the gears still grind. You still keep tools hidden. You still lace knives into your boots. But now you sleep in a proper room, eat three meals, and work on your gadgets without looking over your shoulder.

And Erwin keeps his promises.

He doesn’t parade you through the barracks or ask you to testify before a council. Instead, he gives you a private lab and room in the Survey Corps headquarters — quiet, well-stocked, and technically off the books.

You work in peace. He checks in when he can. And once a week, when the hour is late and the hallways are quiet, he walks you to your room.

Just like tonight.

You reach the stairwell. Pause at the bottom.

“I can take it from here,” you say. “No sense in risking gossip.”

His brow lifts slightly. “From Levi?”

“From Hange.”

“…Fair enough.”

But you don’t move.

Neither does he.

You glance up at him, your usual smirk tugging at your mouth. “You don’t have to walk me back, you know. I’m not planning on running again.”

“I know.” His eyes flicker over your face. “But I still enjoy the habit.”

You roll your eyes. “Ever the gentleman.”

“Hardly.”

And just like that, he steps forward, one hand braced against the bannister — not quite caging you in, but close enough to steal your breath.

Your back straightens instinctively. Your chin tilts up, defiant. But your pulse flutters.

He’s too close. You’re not moving.

“Were you going to leave me without saying goodbye?” he says softly.

He studies you, waiting. “Were you going to let me?” you ask. “I trusted you’d say goodbye in your own way.” Your pulse stumbles. You look away, then back again. “Maybe I still could. If you stay a little longer.”

His brow tilts. “Stay?” “For tea,” you say, softer than you mean to. “I might even have sugar left.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans a little closer, close enough that the space between you hums. Then, the corner of his mouth curves. “Tempting.”

You steady yourself with a smirk. “You’d better be tempted.” You move your way up the stairs, pretending your heart isn’t pounding.

His footsteps fall in behind yours, deliberate, warm. “Then I’ll stay. Until you ask me to leave.”

At your door, you glance back — no commander’s mask, no burden of rank, only Erwin, steady and unguarded. Something in you yields. “In that case,” you murmur, leaving him at the entrance, “you’d better start paying rent.”

His laugh follows, low and surprised, curling through the silence until it feels like it belongs to only the two of you. And then he steps inside.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[Extra Epilogue]

You’re halfway through sneaking out the side door when a hand catches your waist. “Not again,” Erwin murmurs behind you, warm breath brushing your ear.

You freeze mid-step, already pouting. “I just wanted to stretch my legs after working so long.” “You’re leaving with a satchel, two knives, and a map of the next county.” “...I’m stretching them far.”

Erwin sighs, amused, and gently turns you to face him. Before you can wriggle free, his arm slides behind your back, and he braces one hand against the wall beside your head — a quiet thud against stone. You blink at the sudden position, more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“You can have your adventure,” he says, voice low. “But finish this first. One more report. One more device debugged. Then we’ll go.”

You scowl up at him. “You’re so annoyingly tall when you do this.” “I’ll crouch next time.”

You press a hand to his chest and give a dramatic shove — which, to your dismay, doesn’t move him an inch. “Fine,” you huff, overacting like a brat. “But only because you’re being hot about it.”

His smile curves slow, unbearably attractive. “Good. Focus now. I’ll bribe you with a proper vacation later.” “Tch. Tyrant.”

You storm off back to your workbench with all the grace of a stomping cat. But when you settle into your chair and reach for your notes, you’re still smiling. Just a little.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Author’s Note

me, plotting this fic: wouldn’t it be fun if the reader was a genius inventor? also me, 20 tabs deep into researching words fitting for the old timey setting 😵‍💫 never again will i write an intellectual character augh

word count for this one ended up at 7k bruh 💀 the arson bit was inspired by that scene in The Promised Neverland where they fake Ray’s body with cloth, meat, and hair :D

🛠️ thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed it, feel free to like, reblog, or drop a comment — i’d love to hear your thoughts ♡

more one-shots in this series coming! 🧵 follow #IfTheShoeFitsRun to catch future updates ♡

tag list: @alebrasil0101 (you asked to be tagged, so i hope u enjoy!)

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