A/N: Thankie to those who's followed/favorited and reviewed so far! The suggestions I got on the last chapter were fun to write, as well. I'm going to be mixing in the suggestions from both FFN and AO3, though, so if I didn't get to yours yet, I'm so sorry ;~;

I'm also going to be using 'Hange' instead of 'Hanji' along with gender neutral pronouns.

Warnings: Explicit language, vomiting, graphic descriptions of torture and death, gut spills, minor vivisection


II

"I've always been fascinated by the human body, but you can become quite morbid and paranoid if you think too much." - Ellie Goulding


Eren couldn't remember the last time he had a good night's sleep.

Then again, it wasn't often that he'd go a full night without waking up from some sort of nightmare. Or at least that's what Armin told him at some point, but he never quite remembered the nights. It was completely blank, from the moment he knocked out right up to the very second he stirred back awake.

He found that a lot of his childhood was like that, as well. Now that he thought back at it, it was very fragmented. Nebulous. Suppressed, if anything. There were only bits and pieces that were clear to him, all of those being insignificant memories that should have been forgotten. Had he always had a shit memory?

Was it even important?

No, a small voice answered in the back of his head, so why dwell on it?

Honestly, he didn't know. He just kept coming back to the original thought of, 'what was my childhood like?' Somewhere along the road of mulling over that question, he was abruptly pulled out of the abysmal fog that was his mind when he realized that someone had been talking to him. Those hard, frigid eyes hardened at his clueless expression.

"Earth to shitty brat. You paying attention?"

Ah, here came the simple question that, for some reason, was too complicated for him to answer. He wasn't given a chance to make up some half-assed excuse, though; Levi pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "Never mind that. You never seem to pay attention."

"Yeah, I do!" Eren retorted.

There we go. There was that vivid vehemency in those bright, jade-green eyes. Levi looked up at Eren with a slight quirk in his brow. He shifted the documents in his hand into a neat stack and set them aside. He weaved his fingers together, leaned forward, and rest his chin on the intertwined digits, as if waiting for some perceptive elucidation.

"Fine then, kid. Tell me what I've said to you in the past five minutes in chronological order."

"Uh. . . ."

The corner of Levi's eye twitched. He sighed heavily as if he was dealing with a heavy burden.

"I'll explain to you one more time. There's five documents I need copied. Ignore the one on the very top; that needs to go into a separate folder altogether. Maybe you should label them. Yeah, do that. Go down to Petra's desk, find the copy machine -" As Levi continued, Eren's mouth opened, a worried look laden on his countenance, but the glare sent his way kept him quiet. "and organize them by date. The right side, three drawers down." He then thrust the documents forward. "Give them back to me when you're done. Got it?"

Eren inquisitively glanced at the papers in his hands. With quite an audible gulp, he inquired weakly, "Uh . . . c- could you, uh . . . repeat that . . . please?"

Levi threw his hands up in the air as if he relinquished to the brunet before him. "Are you fucking retarded, or are you purposely trying to piss me off?"

"It's not my fault you talk too fast for anyone to follow a word you said!" in an afterthought, Eren uncomfortably shifted on his feet and added, "Sir."

"I'm not going to repeat myself because you're too damn slow to retain anything. I don't care what's wrong with that thick head of yours, I want the task done. Is that clear enough for you?"

"There's nothing wrong with my head!" Eren frustratingly pointed out. Levi rolled his eyes, and at this, he said in a much softer tone, "I just have a lot going on, y'know? And it's really -"

"Didn't I just tell you that I don't care?" Levi interrupted with a frigid deadpan. "I don't give a flying fuck about your personal life. You can be bordering on the edge of suicide and I really couldn't care less about it. What I do care about, though, is getting those damn copies done on time."

"But I'm not suicidal and I'm not retarded and I'm not trying to piss you off!" Eren felt the need to explain himself, somehow. He was instantly unnerved, however, as Levi's cold eyes bore into his own, scrutinizing him in that ignominious look that Eren knew all too well. The brunet spluttered hastily, "I- I'm sorry, okay, I'll – I'll get you copies – I'll organize them, okay, but you never told me how many -"

"Holy shit, you never shut up. The fuck's wrong with you that makes such a simple thing so damn hard for you to do?"

Eren knew he was treading on thin ice, but he couldn't help the cheeky little grin that spread across his lips as he countered, "Didn't you just say you didn't care what went on in my personal life, sir?"

"Oh ho ho, think you're real fuckin' smart, don't you, kid?" Levi abruptly stood up and snatched the papers out of Eren's hands, which made the young man flinch. As he rounded the desk, Eren's heart pounded against his chest, expecting physical damage of some sort, but the man merely stepped past him with a growl, "Get out of my office. If you're here by the time I get back, I'll hang you by the fucking toes."

He didn't need telling twice this time.

The first thing he expected when he scrambled out of Levi's office was to see Petra typing away at her desk, but the small redhead was nowhere to be found, nor was she anywhere in the break room. There, he met up with Connie, who was scrolling through his phone with disinterested purse in his lips.

At the sound of footsteps, Connie looked up, then tucked his phone away and whined, "What the hell, man?! I've been bored outta my mind all day!"

Eren took the seat next to him. "I thought you'd be hanging out with Thomas or something."

"He's boring. Work is boring. Everything's boring." Connie finished with an exasperated sigh. "I'm getting desperate. I tried finding Horse-face -" An unfathomable sense of dread firmly grasped his throat, making it much harder to breathe all of the sudden. It felt as if a large block of ice dropped heavily into the pit of his stomach. "but I can't find him anywhere! He hasn't shown up in days. Think he finally quit or something?"

He could still see Jean's face. The black, swollen skin that glued his eye shut; the threat of losing his vision due to the amount of blood that flowed so freely from the gash on his forehead; the purple fingernails that jutted out at awkward angles from the shards that had been jammed under them; the way a thumbnail had nearly been torn off completely, only dangling by a measly strand of pink, tender flesh. . . .

Bile burned the back of his throat. He didn't bother responding, in fear that if he even tried to open his mouth to speak, he'd vomit instead. Why did he feel so dizzy? It was as if he was falling asleep, as if he was walking into a thick fog in a forest -

"Yo, Eren . . . are you okay. . . ?"

Eren flinched as soon as Connie gripped his shoulder. He abruptly stood from his seat and accidentally sent the chair toppling backwards. The loud clatter caught the attention of his co-workers, and suddenly, all eyes were on him.

Worry. Judgment. Bewilderment. All directed towards him, watching his every movement, just as it had been only four days prior. But this time, he wasn't in the safety in his apartment, nor could he contact either Armin or Mikasa, nor cry, nor release the bile that piled heavily in his throat.

Suddenly, it was all too much, and he darted off towards the restrooms with a hand over his mouth. As soon as he made it into the restroom, he retched and heaved, unable to even make it to the stall. Thus, he settled for the sink, cracked and stained with forgotten misuse. His body forced everything out of his stomach, even when there was nothing left, even as he was merely coughing and dry heaving. The acid burned the back of his throat and brought a sour taste in his mouth.

He stared up into the mirror, right into the guilty eyes of a man with blood on his hands.

Christ, what has he done to himself?


Once again, he found himself home alone, staring idly at his computer. Bright greens never left the light grays on the black, glossy screen. Curiosity brought himself to think, to ponder, and to yearn. For what exactly, he didn't know, but another part of him did. It filled him with an odd sort of itch that made him want to get back onto the internet and pry into places he knew he shouldn't be in.

He would technically be breaking the rules. Giving himself the thrill of his life. Seeing things he never knew a human body could endure. It was something that got his heart pumping, his blood rushing, his body quaking with disgusted shivers – and as undesirable as that was, another part of him still wanted to go back. Still wanted to experience what the deep web had to offer.

People always say never to meddle with healing wounds, but it doesn't hurt to pick at a newly formed scab, does it?

It's only been four days, but with the constant pacing around the apartment and messing with random things in his surroundings, it felt like four weeks. Again with that familiar itch. It crept up along his spine, ran its fingers through his hair, nipped at the shells of his ears, and he finally found himself up and moving.

But this time, it was towards the computer, not the next room. He didn't know exactly what brought him to do it, really. There was no excuses in the back of his mind, no way to comfort himself as he loaded up that same, damnable browser. There was just that faint urge that Eren felt, something in his subconscious that pushed him forward.

It's okay. Armin won't know. Mikasa won't know. No one will know. It was a childish thing to say, coming from such an authoritative voice. Everything is kept anonymous. He knew he was being manipulated, but he didn't fight against it, not when a solid, comforting thought came to mind; therefore, it's safe.

Then again, there was what happened to Jean. He could still hear the disgustingly wet ripping and spurting as the pliers twisted deeper and deeper into his socket. Amongst Jean's echoing screams and the sharp squeaking of the chair protesting against his violent thrashing, he could still hear that small voice in the back of his head; what's done is done. You can't fix it. You can't change it. You can, however, learn from that mistake and avoid another major fuck up.

His hand lingered on the mouse. The courser hovered over a link, a random link that could lead him to so many places, but he couldn't do it. His mind, as always, wandered. That sick fuck found Jean with a (probably misspelled) name and workplace.

But that's so interesting. Just imagine . . . He clicked on that link, then another, and another. . . . being able to end someone's life, just by entering a name and a work place . . . and no one would know it was you. . . .

Eren knew he was being played, knew he was being manipulated to do something that he would have never consciously done even to save his life, but he didn't care anymore. To think that you'd be able to end a person's life without having to do it yourself, that you'd be able to watch said person be treated as a plaything rather than a human being with impunity. . . .

It was an infatuating drug that fueled his morbid curiosity, and there was no willpower left in him to quit. He was hesitant, though, and undeniably ambivalent towards the act of slaughtering other human beings as if they were cattle. Yet there was something interesting about the fragility of the human body.

There was something about the way the blood gushed from that man's jugular as his throat was hacked into, again and again, the laceration becoming wide enough to show bone, veins, and muscle until the head finally dropped out of sight. There was something about the way the blood welled up through the pores of the skin, like raindrops against a window, as each strip of skin was torn off.

What was even more fascinating was how much pain a human can endure before they finally die. If a mere child can be dropped into a tub of boiling oil, only to come back up screaming and crying while every centimeter of skin seared red and swelling with blisters that threatened to burst, then just how much can an adult endure?

Was he the only one who realized just how fragile, albeit resilient the human body really was?

That small voice agreed with him, recommended that he finds the answer to his questions himself, and he went with it. He didn't know how long he clicked through those dead links – they all looked different, though the pages looked so similar, and it was impossible to tell whether he was going in a circle or in the completely wrong direction.

Once he clicked into an unfamiliar link that sent him to the Wings of Freedom, he could only make one logical guess; the links often changed to help hide the websites. And it worked pretty damn well, because by the time Eren found the page he was looking for, it was already ten o'clock. Armin must have been working a later shift – just his luck.

There was still the question of where those livestreams were held; just like the very first time he was there, every post dated back to early 2007 – 2009, and those were just as uneventful as reading the morning paper. The further he burrowed into the pages of dead threads, the more he began to realize that the dates were becoming more recent rather than moving backwards from 2007 to 2001.

Does that mean. . . ?

When he reached the bottom of a page that had threads from late 2008, he clicked on the arrow that navigated him to the very last page. There, at the very top of the page, was a livestream that was going on at that moment, held by a person who went by the screen name Psychescience.

Clever.

He hesitated for a moment. An unfathomable sense of anxiety and fear dawned upon him; maybe this wasn't a good idea, maybe he was just being stupid, because he was pretty sure he'd regret it in the end -

But then again, you weren't ready last time. You know what to expect now, though.

That was true, Eren supposed.

You can click out when you want.

He relaxed a bit.

It's easy. That creep isn't here to stop you.

Then, with a deep breath, he braced himself as he clicked into the current livestream.

". . . was getting to that, actually!" He walked into an artificially high-pitched voice laughing. "One of you mentioned it the other day. Did you really think I'd keep you guessing?"

The video wasn't that bad in quality, but it wasn't the finest in the entire world, either. It was good enough to show just the right amount of detail that would satisfy the crowd. A young woman sat bound in ropes to an old wooden chair, with a blindfold over her eyes and a large cut that split her lower lip nearly in two. The skin was swollen with bruises and glistened with blood.

The torturer themselves was a rather tall person with shaggy hair that was tied back in an equally unkempt tie – whether they were a brunet or a ravenet, Eren couldn't quite make out. A gas mask covered their face entirely, which made him assume they had a hidden microphone in their collar or something. They wore a regular dress shirt and slacks, with a bloodstained apron tied securely around their waist.

They went to retrieve something that was placed away from the view of the camera, leaving the victim alone for Eren to scrutinize. He licked his chapped lips as a shiver ran down his spine; there were numerous lacerations that trailed over her chest, forearms, wrists, and thighs, all of which had been cauterized. The raised bumps of skin were charred black and crusted with blood, with thin red fingers trailing down in random directions before the wound had been seared shut.

A minute or so passed – with small tinkering of glass and thuds on a tabletop evident in the background – until they returned with a flask in their hand. A very thin wisp of smoke trailed up from the mouth.

"When you mix, let's say Clorox and Windex, the bleach breaks down into hydrochloric acid. It reacts with the ammonia and forms chloramine fumes, which are quite toxic, mind you."

That explained the gas mask. The woman visibly tensed at this. She started to struggle, a small squeak leaving her lips, but her torturer disregarded her.

They continued, "Basically, once the hydrochloric acid forms, the ammonia and chlorine gas react and form chloramine. That is released as a vapor -" The closer they brought the flask towards the victim, the more violent her thrashes became. "and, if there is enough ammonia present, an extremely toxic and explosive liquid hydrazine may be formed."

A sob left the victim's lips. Now that Eren payed attention to it, her breathing was steadily becoming erratic.

"Now that I've given you a basic chemistry lesson, it's time to experiment with our findings!" They ran a hand along the victim's quivering jaw. "It's common sense not to mix bleach with ammonia, considering how much damage it does to our lungs." The victim sobbed again, though it sounded strained, as if she had gasped for air. "But, since we're all wondering. . . . What happens when you swallow the solution?"

"No, please!" she squealed. Her voice cracked as she broke into another violent sob. "Please don't! Please, please -"

At the rather high-pitched pleading, the torturer forced her mouth open and shoved the mouth of the flask down her throat. She spluttered and gagged, but she still swallowed the solution, all the while thrashing in her seat. Finally, once the flask had been removed, she coughed and heaved, her breaths coming in heavy pants.

It took Eren all his strength not to cringe at the way the victim gagged and eventually threw up. A strangled moan left her lips as she sagged forward, a trail of vomit and saliva dribbling down her chin, until she started to heave again.

"As you can see, the results are pretty immediate!" They set the flask off to the side, just barely out of view, and returned with another one. Eren swallowed thickly at the sight of it. "But that's not the only thing you can do with chemicals. Have you ever wondered if bleach was an acid or base?"

They lightly swirled the liquid in the flask around, as if it were wine in a glass. The victim groaned under her breath, and judging by her shivering and labored gasps, she was close to fainting.

"We all know lemon juice is an acid, and we all know how much it hurts to get it in our eyes. Bleach, however, is a base," They reached out and tugged at the knot at the back of the woman's head, successfully undoing the blindfold. As the fabric fell to her soiled lap, her torturer cackled, "but that doesn't mean it hurts any less!"

They grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. She was taken by complete surprise as the bleach was emptied onto her bleary, unfocused eyes. A scream immediately tore through her throat, strained and deafeningly high, as she flailed and thrashed wildly in her seat. Small speckles of blood became evident on her lips as she shrieked – from her voice irritating her burned esophagus further, no doubt.

Eren abruptly exited the livestream, but her screams still echoed in his ears. It took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heartbeat.

In, out. . . That wasn't so bad. . . . In, out. . . . You've seen worse. . . . In, out. . . . Besides, that person taught you something new. . . . In, out. . . . Imagine all the other things they could show you. . . .

That voice played him like a damned instrument. He stood from his seat and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. Now that he thought about it, he was never capable of staying in one place for more than ten minutes without feeling the urge to get up and do something. Yet somehow, this sick, twisted part of the web kept him in check.

Eren returned feeling a lot better than when he left. With a bit more coaxing from his subconscious, he tentatively clicked back into that livestream which was, miraculously, still going. Was there a time limit to these 'shows'? Did they just go on until people lost interest?

Well, you'll just have to find out for yourself.


There was nothing Levi hated more than dealing with hemophiliacs. They just kept bleeding . . .

. . . and bleeding . . .

. . . and bleeding.

Killing was never hard. Maybe at first, it was, but after awhile, you get used to it. Sinking a blade into skin, emptying a magazine into a person's abdomen, slipping cyanide into a drink – it was all so easy, so simple. Or at least, to Levi, it was. Violence – homicide – was his second nature at this point, after years of experiencing little else.

Cleaning, however, was a pain, which was why he liked keeping things clean and organized from the start. But there are those nights where he didn't give a damn and decided to use a silenced gun, or a blade, or a hatchet. Tonight was one of those nights. Instead of smothering the man to death, he waited until the poor soul wandered out into the kitchen a little past one in the morning for a snack.

That's when he skulked through the darkness, like a cat in an alley, and dug the blade into the man's throat. He sheathed four inches of steel in the fleshy skin of his throat, twisted it deep within his jugular, and yanked it back out with a revoltingly wet rip. Blood immediately spurted out of the wound, the flow dangerously heavy, and spattered over the fridge door as he fell to the ground in a heap. His body twitched with low gurgles and coughs, all the while pumping out large bursts of warm blood.

It was never this messy. It was never this much to handle, or this much trouble to go through. The worst part about it is that the blood didn't clot. A lot more work was added to his plate. It was almost as bad as working with Hange.

The last time they worked together, they decided to answer a guest's question of; 'if you were to create a laceration from the naval to the groin and pull the two halves of skin and muscle apart, would the organs fall out?'

Thus, Levi sat out of Hange's little experiment. It was remarkable how meticulous they were with a blade, with each and every stroke of steel creating a smooth cut the shade of a deep, heavy crimson. The victim's cries were muffled by the cloth that had been shoved into his mouth. He was kept on an elevated surface (angled upwards at a sixty degree angle), strapped securely by the wrists and ankles with ropes that bit mercilessly into his skin.

"As you can see," they had told the audience with the enthusiasm that made Levi cringe, "the organs don't fall out!"

It was remarkable, really. Bloody – revolting – but remarkable. They had resorted to just removing the skin and muscle altogether rather than pinning the flaps aside. The cuts were impeccably precise – with the accuracy of a medical student who spent years studying the human body and graduated in the top five percent of their class – that, in Hange's eyes, was an aesthetic.

To them, it was a painting that took hours and hours of hard work and determination, with the plump, velvety wetness that glistened in the lighting and the veins that that stood out in dark contrast to the rose-pink organs.

To Levi, it was a waste of time and a bitch to clean up.

"The simplest way I could put it is; our organs are held in place like tents with biological ligature," He knew where Hange was going with it, so he stood to fetch the bleach. "But like the ropes that hold down our tents, a snip or two can send everything crashing down!"

That was when they abandoned their precision and carefulness. There was no snipping of certain connective tissue, no careful scraping of tendons. They dug the entire five inches of steel into the liver and hacked across the abdomen in one swift movement. A loud groan accompanied the wet sloshing of blood and peritoneum as the organs were ripped out of place.

It may have payed good, but it wasn't worth the clean up. (Well, to Hange it was.)

This also payed good – really damn good, actually – but sometimes, he was too tired to deal with it. Silver-blue eyes settled on the pitiful sight at his feet; the victim jerkily hacked out a disgusting mixture of saliva and blood as he writhed and clawed at the wound. If Levi knew he would be dealing with a hemophiliac, he would have chosen an alternative to save time.

Time was a valuable thing. It was nearing half past one in the morning now on a Monday. He planned on getting home by three. That left him an hour and a half to clean up. Gut spills may have been bitches to clean, but blood was a bitch and two whores to clean up, especially on white fucking tiles. With his misfortune, he'd be home by five.

From there, he planned. He'd have a little over an hour of sleep. Wake up by six-twenty. Shower. Eat a granola bar. Go to work. Get there by seven-thirty. Paperwork for a good ten, maybe eleven hours. Then he'll get home by seven. More paperwork. More phone calls. Dinner if he was lucky. A shower. Bed by ten. Awake by six-twenty the next day.

That was only if his boss didn't call him in. With that came numerous questions.

When was the last time he even fell asleep?

Did he even sleep last night?

Fucking hell, would he even be able to sleep?

Holy shit, did he hate disorder so much. Fixed schedules were easy to work with. They were easy to live with. What he hated even more than hemophiliacs and disorder were setbacks. This situation added a good two hours to his work. It was a fuck up on his part, technically, but oh well. It happened. No going back now.

By the time it was six-thirty, he was already up from bed after a sleepless hour and into the shower. Spent a minute or so shivering in the fucking cold because he forgot a damned towel. At thirty-five, he ate a granola bar – then ended up eating the entire box without realizing it - and made it to work a few minutes before seven-thirty. It pleased him to manage to finish everything he had planned and end up with a few minutes to spare.

Unfortunately, resting his eyes for those three minutes before seven-thirty ended up being a three hour nap.


At some point, Eren noticed that Petra didn't show up to work as often as she used to.

Her desk, as it had been the past few days, was empty. Her belongings were still there, with naught a pencil, folder, or knickknack out of place, but it still felt surprisingly . . . deserted. Like there was something very important missing – like she wasn't going to come back – and he just couldn't see it.

Maybe he was over exaggerating. Maybe he was just paranoid. Maybe you're just being stupid, a small voice suggested. Maybe it's all three.

The door to Levi's office was closed, as always, but there was no light leaking out of the cracks of the wood, nor was there any sign of life within the room. The only light was the sunlight that weakly found its way into the room through the small gaps between the curtains. Levi was never absent before – then again, he could just be at a meeting or something. Which would mean that, late or not, he'd expect Eren to go on his daily errands.

When he entered the room, he saw that Levi was at his desk, with his face buried into his folded arms. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, gentle sighs, his breath even with the faintest taint of a snore. Eren wasn't entirely sure if he should wake up his superior, try to tidy up as quietly as possible, or leave. It would be easy to just turn on the lights or open the curtains, but would it be easy dealing with a sleep-deprived Levi? He was already pissy enough as it was, full night of sleep or not.

Unfortunately for him, Levi was a light sleeper. As soon as he made one step a tad bit heavier than a tiptoe, the ravenet abruptly sat up and hastily glanced around him with dull, unfocused eyes. Those eyes then landed on Eren, and with a heavy sigh, he mumbled, "Knock next time, you fuckin' creep. . ."

"Oh. I'm . . . sorry?" Eren offered, but his apology was ignored as his superior left his seat to go open the curtains. As soon as the sunlight poured through the new opening, he flinched and hissed out a small profanity. "What's wrong, sir? Are you – er – hurt, or -?"

"I'm seeing Jesus right now, you dumb ass, the fuck do you think?"

Levi's tone wasn't as harsh as it had been a week ago, which Eren assumed was a good thing. He returned to his desk, one hand rubbing a tired eye while the other searched through a drawer. He pulled out a thin folder. As he handed it to Eren, the brunet noticed the light, reddened skin around his superior's fingernails. It stood out in contrast to his pale skin, especially as the faint red turned to a thick crimson around his nails.

Passing it to Eren, he murmured, "Take this to that one manager – I think she's . . . fuck, what's her name? That one bitch that always sounds like she just deep-throated a horse."

"Yeah, I think I know who you're talking about." It was a depressingly accurate description, really; said manager was an old woman with a harsh rasp in her voice. "The one with that poncho-looking thing?"

"The shawl, yes." At Eren's calculating look, he snapped, "Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna be useful for once?"

He fidgeted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. "I just noticed that Petra's been absent for a long time. Is she sick or something?"

Surprisingly, he didn't receive another insult or a snap to get back on task. Levi replied quietly, "She's doing just fine. Just a little busy with the things going on in her personal life."

For some reason, he seemed hesitant, as if he was meticulously walking down a path of thin ice, but Eren didn't comment on it. Whatever Petra may be handling in her personal life wasn't his concern, and he definitely wasn't in the place to pry regardless of how curious he was. He supposed that was the reason why Levi needed a new assistant.

The store was a bit more active lately. More customers, more children whining about wanting to go home, more employees being driven insane by the amount of bracelets and rings they had to take out of the display cases (only to be put back a few seconds later because it didn't fit the customer). The only thing that concerned Eren, however, was the policemen that stood in the break room with the manager he was looking for and a few employees.

Eren wasn't sure if he should turn right around and leave, but he didn't get the chance to decide; at the sight of him, the manager waved him over, and in turn, the policemen regarded him with calculating glances. With a polite smile, he handed the manager the folder Levi gave to him and turned on his heel to leave, but he was stopped by one of the policemen's inquiry.

"Eren Jaeger, right?"

He turned back to them with a hesitant answer; "Right."

"Well, Mr. Jaeger, we're currently investigating the disappearance of Jean Kirstein -" At this, Eren felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water. He sincerely hoped his face didn't show this. "- and we wanted to ask you a few questions regarding him."

"What a- about him?" He cursed himself for stuttering.

"A few employees told us that you and Kirstein had a few problems with one another. Tell me; when was the last time you saw him?"

Strapped to a chair, twitching as his eye was yanked out with pliers and shoved down his miserable throat. "Are you suggesting that, because I hated him with all my guts, I somehow know what happened to him?"

The policeman's eyes narrowed a bit. "Not at all. Mind answering my question?"

"I don't know." The words were like tin between his teeth. "I'm guessing . . . two weeks, maybe?"

He scrutinized Eren's demeanor, his gaze never leaving the brunet's face as he asked, "Didn't it seem suspicious to you that he was gone for half a month without saying a word to any of his co-workers?"

Eren shrugged. "He was always talking about quitting this job. He hated it here. I thought he just moved on, really."

"You look guilty, Jaeger."

His chest seemed to burn with each and every quickened heartbeat. "I- I do?"

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us before we go?" Eren didn't like the sickeningly gentle tone in his voice, nor the six pairs of eyes that regarded him. Watching him for any sign of a lie. Waiting for him to slip up. "You may not have liked your co-worker so much, but sooner or later, we'll get to the bottom of this and give you all closure."

It was sickening, knowing how the law worked. Knowing how manipulation, intimidation, and bribery were the three things people resorted to when it came to getting the information they wanted. Knowing that, if they wanted to, they could throw your sorry ass in jail for whatever bullshit reason they made up. But despite being full of shit, they somehow knew when someone was lying. Or maybe Eren was just paranoid due to the fear of the law. Maybe he was just a bad liar.

"Leave the kid alone, Ian, you're scaring him," the second policeman finally spoke up. Relief washed over Eren like the sensation of drinking warm tea on a rainy morning. "He didn't even know Kirstein went missing."

Dull, brown eyes regarded Eren with one last calculating look before he returned his attention to the manager. He took this as his cue to leave. He walked as calmly as he could, as if he had just came back from a restroom break rather than a mini interrogation session, but that nonchalant demeanor immediately crumbled as he made it to the hallway leading up to Levi's office.

He wrapped his hand around the doorknob, but he didn't dare open it. Not yet. Not when his heart was still racing and his mind was still processing. Then, and only then, did the guilt dawn upon him again, pressing down so heavily on his stomach that he felt nauseous. Jean was a human being, damn it. He had dreams. Friends. Family. A life.

And Eren took that life away with just a name and a workplace.

He took everything Jean could have been, took every single dream the man had tore them apart, just like the optic nerve had. Jean's death wasn't even merciful. He was still alive, even as he gagged on his own eye, even as he lost consciousness without the privilege of vision, even as blood trickled from his fingertips and crusted around the glass.

That woman, whose lungs were ruined with the toxicity of the fumes and esophagus and stomach was burned raw with the solution going down and the stomach acids coming right back up, had a life. A family. Maybe a spouse. Maybe a successful career. Maybe a family to look after. Maybe a close friend to someone who needs her in their life.

With a shaky breath, he let himself into the office.

Levi was flipping through a few papers, his silver eyes skimming through the text with impeccable fluidity. He looked up at the brunet before him, and with that same inscrutable mask of pure nonchalance, he pointed out, "You look like a drowned kitten. Did the chainsmoker offer you weed or something?"

Eren flushed with a ludicrous gasp; "What?! No!"

If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn that he saw a smile on Levi's lips as the man looked back down at his work, even if it was a mere ghost of one. Just as easily as that lighthearted mood seemed to settle into the atmosphere between the two, Eren found himself thinking. Contemplating. It wasn't something new, but . . . there was just one question he had that he wasn't quite sure how to answer, himself.

"Sir?" Levi glanced back up at him. "Have you ever wondered . . . what kind of lives people had before they died?"

For some time, his superior didn't say anything; he merely kept a mildly interested gaze, as if he were genuinely contemplating the answer. Eventually, he replied, "Whatever kind of life they had beforehand doesn't matter; if they're dead, they're dead. No amount of wondering can change that. So no, I don't."

Eren's brow furrowed. "Is it really that easy?" He almost sounded offended. "I mean, they're people. Don't you think it's – I don't know, unfair? – that people die before they even had the chance to live?"

Jean was, what, in his mid-twenties? He was young – too young – when he died, years and years before he even had the chance to experience the things in life that waited so patiently for him. Dear God, who was he to indirectly end someone's life as a last resort to somehow prove himself that the deep web existed? Eren felt a block of led drop into the pit of his stomach, weighing him down so painfully that it threatened to tear him apart.

"Sometimes, when you know what that person did before they died, you also know that them dying was for the better." He set his papers aside and leaned forward, and for once, he gave the brunet his undivided attention. "Tell me, Jaeger; would you sacrifice someone's life if it meant that it could potentially save dozens of other people in the future? Would you still think that those people dying, after all the horrible things they've done, is so unfair, even if they're young?"

His mind lingered on the memories of the people he's watched die; the sheer pain and terror they were in as they fought against their restraints, wondering why the hell they were there, why the hell these things were happening to them. They all seemed so innocent. . . .

But doesn't everyone, regardless of what they've done, act like the victim when they know they're going to die?

He inquired, "How would you know if the person did something horrible?"

His voice was naught more than a murmur, one that mirrored just how uneasy he was on the inside. For a second, Levi's eyes softened, as if he were piteous.

"You don't, not until you've seen it for yourself." There was the finality in his voice that left no room for further conversation. "And once you do, you'll start to value your life a lot more than you do now, because you'll realize just how fragile humans really are."

So Eren wasn't the only one, after all.