But really, what was wrong with majoring in art?

Maybe the engineering students were a little right, or maybe they were just assholes who thought very highly of themselves. Either way, disrespecting people was wrong and Eren was fed up with it. He paid for his education just like they did. He studies for finals just like them. Engineering was all about memorizing facts, and art was about using your creative energy to create something great. In his mind, they were just as difficult.

"Hey, Eren." A familiar, soft voice interrupted his internal ranting. "You've still got five more hours. Don't get tired, alright?"

Mrs. Arlert reached up to poke his nose, her lips curving into a smile. She always treated him so nicely. Probably because he was working without pay; the art gallery they'd been managing for a few years now was struggling; or perhaps it was because he was her son's best friend. Not like he was complaining or anything. She was really nice. And he got to talk to clueless people about paintings until midnight.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

"What is it. School, again?"

I guess living with Armin, a Computer Science student, taught her how stressful college could be.

"Got it. How'd you know?"

"I can tell by the creepy glazed over look your eyes get. Now get to work." She pat his cheek, and her heels clicked on the floor as she walked to open the door for a couple of visitors.

Eren had been working there after his last class for only a few weeks now, and it seemed to be one of the best decisions he's ever made. Educating people about something he loved was rewarding in all of it's aspects; but the gallery was strangely empty for a Friday night. There'd only been a few patrons all day, apparently, and he could see the worry behind Mrs. Arlert's words and even more so in her eyes.

He wasn't exactly sure what she'd meant by 'get back to work.' What was he supposed to do? Wax the floors?

Oh wait. He did that last night.

He aimlessly walked towards the glass doorway, leaning his back against it as a sigh escaped his lips. When he wasn't occupied with anything like he was now, his thoughts tended to wander towards the past and stay there until he was busy again. How his father never came back and how his mother was still devastated. How his friends had been disappearing, one by one, without any goodbye or reasoning. How his mother has been acting so anxious lately, looking over her shoulder at the smallest of noises. Pulling Eren behind her every time the shadows moved as the sun went behind a cloud. It seemed she was paranoid about something, he didn't know what, but he knew it was something.

He hated not knowing things. He hated his dad. He hated the absence of his friends. Jean and him might not have gotten along the best, but somehow, they were still close.

Marco had been so friendly.

Historia was so sweet. Always forgiving anyone, no matter what the burden.

But they'd all been found somewhere dark, hidden from the public eye, their clothes drenched in blood, their eyes stained crimson. They'd done nothing wrong, none of them. But every single one had reached an early, undeserved demise.

The cold winter air seeped through the glass and numbed his skin, but he couldn't feel it. Everything that was once a light area in his life was now a dark corner, and everything that was once a dark corner was now pitch black. He felt blind, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He was kicked out of his own head once again by a loud tapping noise behind him; someone was tapping on the door.

"Oh, sorry." He apologized sincerely, mostly to himself, as he turned to open the door. The icy wind burst through the doorway, chilling his bones.

"Oi. You took long enough."

"Yeah. My bad."

The man was short. Like, excruciatingly short, but he still had an intimidating air about him. Like he could pound you to the floor with his fist if he wanted to. Without standing on a stool.

He shook his head.

"Idiot."

"Hey, you sh-"

That's when he looked up at Eren, an aggravated glint in his eyes.

They were grey. And foggy.

Menacing. Secretive.

Almost like he knew something you didn't.