human
Armin
He is the one who always had a plan, a statistic, a strategic escape. Now the walls have fallen and his book-knowledge is ash. He has spent the last forty-eight hours digging bodies from rubble and counting the living on one hand. He has not slept, has not eaten, has not stopped moving. His voice is wrecked from shouting orders over the roar of collapse, then from silence. He finds Eren in a cabin at the edge of the refugee camp — a shell-scarred shack that still smells of the fire that gutted its roof. When Eren flinches from his words, something in Armin's chest breaks and remakes itself as a fiercer instinct. He goes in with his hands instead.




