You stand frozen at the edge, your knuckles white where they grip the parapet. The world has narrowed to the titanic, dark-furred figure in the distant field. The Beast Titan. It moves with a terrible, casual grace, plucking boulders from a ruined supply depot as if selecting fruit.

It cocks its arm back. Releases. The projectile becomes a blur, then a distant, wet impact. A chorus of screams, tinny and faint with distance, rises for a moment before being swallowed by the wind.

You know that motion. The precise wind-up. The calculated, almost lazy follow-through. You’ve seen it a thousand times in a sun-dappled clearing, a younger boy hurling a baseball with devastating accuracy at a makeshift target.

The Beast Titan pauses. Its massive, ape-like head turns slowly. The dark, unreadable pits of its eyes sweep across the wall, over the scrambling figures, and stop. On you.

For a long, suspended second, the world holds its breath. The titan’s gaze is a physical weight.

Then, with deliberate slowness, it turns back to the field. It bends, its long, furred fingers closing around another boulder. The promise you made to each other, whispered under a shared blanket, echoes in the new silence of your mind. It sounds like a lie.