After dinner, the air in the corridor carried a cold that hadn't been there before.
Eren sat in his cell with his back against the wall, the chill of the concrete seeping through the thin fabric of his clothes. His hands rested loosely at his sides, wrists encircled by silent manacles that neither rattled nor tightened.
Time had lost its shape here.
Since the incident at the execution chamber, the prison's rhythm had dulled, its routines blurring into something mechanical and distant. Day and night were no longer marked by windows or meals, but by the number of times the overhead lights dimmed and flared back to life.
---
Then the iron door opened.
Creak—
The sound was subdued, yet unnervingly clear as it carried down the corridor, like a structure long forced into stillness finally yielding under strain.
Eren lifted his head.
Aveline Ward entered first.
Her uniform was immaculate, as always—creases sharp, seams aligned, not a single detail out of place. The badge on her chest caught the dim corridor light in a restrained gleam. She did not look at Eren as she stepped inside, nor did she pause. She moved with quiet efficiency, then shifted aside, deliberately clearing the threshold.
Two figures followed.
The first wore a warden's uniform.
He was tall, broad across the shoulders, his posture upright without rigidity. Each step landed with a weight that seemed to absorb its own echo, and when he stopped, the air in the cell felt subtly compressed, as if accommodating his presence.
Eren recognized him at once.
Warden Kane Mercer.
A man who rarely set foot in death row, and never except during an execution.
The second figure—
A dark cloak, hood drawn low, obscured most of his face. The fabric itself was unremarkable, yet it seemed to drink in the light, dulling the space around him. His presence carried no overt pressure, no authority imposed through posture or motion.
And yet it pulled attention regardless, holding the eye for a fraction longer than comfort allowed.
"Eren," Aveline said, her voice more formal than usual, stripped clean of inflection. "This is Warden Kane Mercer."
Kane inclined his head once. No words followed.
Aveline paused, then turned her gaze to the cloaked figure. "This individual represents an external agency."
No name was offered, no jurisdiction stated.
The omission was deliberate.
The cloaked man lifted his head.
The face beneath the hood was younger than Eren had expected, features sharp and composed, expression austere to the point of neutrality. His eyes settled on Eren—not with curiosity, nor scrutiny, but with the detached focus of someone confirming a value already recorded.
"Vigil-Wyrm Order," he said. "Ethan Cross."
The words were delivered flatly, without emphasis or elaboration, as though the designation alone was sufficient.
"We are here to confirm one thing."
Eren did not respond. His expression shifted only slightly, a minute tightening around the eyes.
"You reacted to the anomalous black mist during the execution incident," Ethan continued. "You are the only confirmed successful sample."
Sample.
The word settled into the room.
Eren felt his gaze cool by a fraction—not in offense, but in recognition. The familiar cadence of systems at work: classification, categorization, reduction into something measurable.
"Confirmation is complete," Ethan said, without pause. "We are now extending you a choice."
"A choice?"
Eren repeated the word quietly. There was no disbelief in his voice—only a faint, involuntary tremor.
"Yes."
Ethan nodded once. "You may participate in an operation. Or you may remain here and await the resumption of your original proceedings."
Aveline remained to the side, silent, her posture unchanged.
Eren's eyes moved between the three figures—the warden's immovable presence, Aveline's unreadable composure, and the cloaked man whose attention never left him.
After a brief pause, he spoke.
"What operation?"
"Southern slopes of the Himalayas," Ethan replied without hesitation, as if reciting a briefing long finalized.
"Persistent anomalous mist coverage. Diffusion patterns unstable. The affected zone is expanding.
Multiple villages have already been compromised."
Himalayas.
The name surfaced immediately.
Arav.
That direction.
Those mountains.
And the report—never confirmed, yet never disproven—of contact lost beyond recovery.
Ethan drew a slow breath, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly.
"The first two investigative teams lost all communication within three hours of entry. No survivors located. No recoverable data."
He paused, then continued.
"Designated by the Vigil-Wyrm Order as an S-Class task."
The letter itself was never spoken aloud again, yet it lingered in the air—soundless, oppressive.
"Why me?" Eren asked, lifting his eyes to meet Ethan's.
Ethan did not avert his gaze.
"Because you can withstand it," he said evenly. "Or more precisely—because you can make it disappear."
There was no elaboration.
No justification.
Silence settled between them.
Eren's fingertips brushed against the cold metal of his restraints, the contact anchoring his thoughts.
"I'm not a soldier," he said.
Ethan didn't hesitate.
"Good."
The answer came too quickly to be reassurance.
"We're not looking for obedience," Ethan continued. "We're looking for deviation."
Aveline spoke before Eren could respond.
"Eren, your response profile to that energy exceeds every recorded threshold," she said, voice level, stripped of inflection. "This is not a recommendation. It's a statistical necessity."
Eren let the words settle.
His gaze moved from Aveline back to Ethan.
"And if I step aside?" he asked.
Kane answered without looking up.
"Then nothing changes."
The simplicity of it carried more weight than any threat.
Nothing changes meant the schedule held.
The order remained.
The outcome arrived on time.
Eren understood that perfectly.
A brief shift crossed his face—something that might have been a smile, if it had been allowed to exist.
"Then proceed," he said.
No demands.
No leverage.
Because refusal had never been part of the model.
Ethan extended his hand.
Eren took it.
Only then did he notice the warmth—unnatural, pronounced, as if heat lingered beneath the skin. Not the warmth of flesh alone, but the residual satisfaction of a conclusion reached.
"Departure at dawn," Ethan said. "Aveline will brief you on operational specifics."
He turned and left without another word.
Kane followed, his steps heavy and unyielding.
Aveline remained.
She looked at Eren. For the briefest instant, something crossed her eyes—relief, perhaps, or the acknowledgment of an outcome long anticipated.
"Prepare yourself," she said quietly.
---
The iron door closed.
Silence reclaimed the isolation cell.
Eren did not return to the bunk.
His gaze remained fixed on the sealed door.
Vigil-Wyrm Order.
The name rearranged itself in his mind, filed away with deliberate care.
And the words departure at dawn.
They felt less like an offer, more like a contract already in force—binding, irrevocable.
Only then did Eren realize—
From the moment he accepted, he no longer belonged to this prison.
But neither did he belong anywhere safe.
He exhaled slowly, controlled, measured.
This was not an ending.
Whatever came next would be far more dangerous.