— A Palm to Command Obedience —
Eren was escorted back into the prison complex.
This time, however, the iron doors did not open to solitary.
Instead, he was pushed into a standard cell—narrow, low-ceilinged, thick with the stale odor of sweat, disinfectant, and old rust. The kind of place where breath itself seemed to linger too long.
Before the door shut, Aveline turned sharply, her boots clicking once against the concrete.
"Stay in line," she said coldly, her gaze cutting across the inmates like a drawn blade.
"Anyone who lays a finger on Eren spends at least ten days in the hole."
The threat landed heavy.
Then—clang.
The reinforced door slammed shut, steel meeting steel with a finality that echoed down the corridor.
Aveline did not linger.
She knew this arrangement was temporary.
Once Eren's Vigil-Wyrm status cleared the final verification, special bail would follow.
A trace of anticipation flickered beneath her professional detachment—subtle, but real.
---
Inside the cell, silence lasted exactly three seconds.
Then it curdled.
Knife-Scar Jack shifted first.
His bloodshot eyes snapped toward Eren, veins bulging at his temples, a jagged scar cutting across his cheek twitching as his lips peeled back.
"You," he spat, voice hoarse with old violence and fresh humiliation.
"What the hell is your deal with that female guard?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Boys," Jack barked, rage overtaking caution, "teach him a lesson."
Chains rattled. Boots scraped.
Several inmates surged forward at once, crude blades flashing briefly in the dim yellow light—movements honed by instinct rather than thought.
Eren did not retreat.
He rose from the bunk slowly, as if disturbed from still water—unhurried, centered, his presence expanding without effort. No stance. No visible preparation.
Just a palm, lifting.
Then—
THUMP.
The air itself detonated.
A compressed wave of force exploded outward, slamming into the attackers mid-stride. Bodies were flung backward like broken dolls, crashing into concrete walls with wet, bone-deep impacts. The sound of cracking ribs mixed with raw screams as blood sprayed in thin arcs across the stained floor.
The cell shook.
Dust drifted from the ceiling.
Eren remained where he stood.
Calm. Upright. Untouched.
His gaze passed over the fallen men as if assessing objects already discarded.
"Do you wish to live," he asked evenly,
"or to die?"
The words carried no volume—only weight.
It was enough.
Knife-Scar Jack's bravado shattered instantly.
He dropped to his knees with a hollow thud, forehead striking the floor again and again as he kowtowed, hands trembling so violently they scraped against the concrete.
"B-Boss! We were blind!" he babbled, voice breaking.
"We didn't know who you were! Please—spare us! Please!
The other inmates froze.
This was Jack—the man who'd once carved authority into flesh, who'd never bowed to guards, never begged anyone.
Now he grovelled.
Fear spread faster than blood.
No one spoke. No one moved.
The metallic tang in the air thickened, clinging to their lungs, pressing against their chests like an invisible hand.
Without another glance, Eren turned away.
He returned to his bunk, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
The cell, moments ago on the verge of riot, fell into absolute stillness.
Time passed.
Then—
Footsteps.
Measured. Familiar.
The cell door slid open once more.
Aveline stepped inside, her sharp gaze sweeping across the corner where the prisoners huddled like chastened animals. A faint, satisfied curve touched her lips before she looked to Eren.
"You have a visitor."
Eren opened his eyes.
A slight crease formed between his brows—not suspicion, but genuine surprise.
"A visitor?"
At this hour...
In this place...
Who would come looking for him now?
---
— Face-Off —
The visitation room was split cleanly in two by a thick pane of reinforced glass.
On one side—harsh sunlight spilled in from high, narrow windows, bleaching the floor in sterile white.
On the other—dim shadows pooled in the corners, carrying the stale scent of iron, disinfectant, and resignation.
Eren stepped inside.
His gaze froze instantly.
Behind the glass stood a figure both terrifyingly familiar and utterly dreaded—Lyra Veyne.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to lose its sound.
Her face was pale, porcelain-cold, as if sculpted from winter itself. Yet her eyes—those eyes—burned like lakes set aflame, crimson fury churning beneath their surface, unstable and violent, as though hatred itself had taken physical form within her gaze.
Time pressed down on Eren's chest.
"You..."
His throat tightened before the word fully formed.
"Why are you here?"
The question slipped out almost against his will, his voice betraying a tremor he hadn't felt in a long time. He had prepared himself for guards, judges, executioners—but never for her. Never for this.
Lyra answered him with motion.
She slammed her palm against the glass.
The impact cracked through the room—sharp, sudden, brutal—like a whip striking flesh. The vibration traveled through the barrier, through the air, straight into Eren's heart.
"Eren," she hissed, her voice honed to a blade,
"you murderous demon!"
The words detonated.
They carried more than sound—more than accusation. They dragged with them a night soaked in blood, over thirty lives extinguished in screaming chaos. Eyes hollowed by violation. Bodies trembling in alleys and rooms that reeked of despair. The courtroom's cold glares. The verdicts spoken without hesitation. Trust shattered so completely it could never be reassembled.
Each memory struck like an icy dagger, pinning him in place.
Eren's breath faltered. A shiver crawled through his spine despite himself.
Still, he forced his voice to steady.
"Lyra... calm down. I'm a victim too. That night—"
He tried to explain.
Tried to arrange the chaos into something comprehensible—doubts, fractures, truths buried beneath layers of manipulation and blood. But the words ground against his tongue, crumbling as soon as they left his mouth. Each sentence grew weaker, thinner, until even he could hear how fragile they sounded.
Lyra's eyes blazed brighter.
"The evidence is ironclad," she snapped, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her nostrils flared as a dark flush crept across her cheeks.
"And you still deny it? Do you think I'd believe a demon's lies?"
Her hands trembled—not with uncertainty, but with rage held on the brink of eruption.
"I can't wait any longer."
She leaned forward until her face was inches from the glass, breath fogging its surface, eyes burning with an almost feverish light.
"I want you dead. Now."
Her voice dropped, low and hard.
"Every second you breathe is torture to me. I'll pay to have you killed in here."
The words struck one after another, heavy as stones hurled into his chest.
Eren didn't flinch—but something inside him cracked open. Guilt, long suppressed, stirred like rot beneath still water. He knew she wasn't bluffing. Lyra had lost everything—family, future, faith. There was nothing left to restrain her despair.
Then she continued, her voice tearing loose from reason, drenched in grotesque imagination.
"And after you're dead," she said coldly,
"I'll find a way to get your body. Chop you into mincemeat... and feed you to the dogs."
The hatred flared like wildfire, laced with a madness born of unbearable grief.
Eren fell silent.
For the first time, he noticed the faint traces of tears Lyra had wiped away too forcefully—reddened skin at the corners of her eyes, lashes still damp despite her fury.
His heart felt hollowed out—then filled with something heavy and cold, like stones sinking into a well.
Without another word, Lyra turned away.
Her steps were firm. Decisive.
Panic seized Eren.
His spiritual sense spread instinctively, brushing against the space beyond the room—and in that instant, he felt it. A lethal presence. Cold. Patient. Waiting along the path she was about to take.
His heart clenched.
It wasn't pity.
It was something deeper. More primal. An instinct to protect that defied logic, resentment, even justice.
"Wait!"
His voice broke through the glass, raw and urgent, carrying a plea he hadn't intended to bare.
Lyra stopped—but did not turn around.
Bathed in sunlight, her figure appeared almost unreal, a silhouette floating between brilliance and shadow.
"Begging?" she spat, her voice stripped of warmth.
"It's too late, demon."
And she walked away.
Eren stood frozen.
An invisible iron band tightened around his chest, constricting every breath. He could see the danger trailing her steps like a shadow, yet he was powerless to stop it now.
Hatred and remorse tore at him simultaneously—hatred for the true culprit who had cast her into this abyss, and hatred for himself, for the role he played on that shattered night.
Remorse for every wound she carried.
For every word he could never say.
He closed his eyes.
For a few seconds, he forced his mind into stillness, pressing down the chaos until a single, unwavering resolve surfaced.
If words could no longer reclaim trust.
Then action would.
He would protect what little of her world remained, even if she never forgave him for it.