Time had lost all meaning.
To Annie, there was no measure anymore—no daylight through the windows, no ticking of a clock—only the suffocating darkness and the unbearable pressure bearing down on her, second after second, breath after broken breath.
Her limbs twitched reflexively, then sluggishly, then barely at all. What strength remained in her had been sapped by the crushing weight of Armin’s calm, seated form. His indifference was what struck her most—not rage, not vengeance, not even interest—just quiet, clinical persistence. Like an observation. Like she was nothing more than a variable in a long-overdue equation.
Her mind teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, scattered with fractured thoughts and distant memories. The cadet training grounds. The frozen field. Her father’s promise. All of it bled together in a haze as the pain overwhelmed her ability to make sense of anything else.
And then there was light.
Not real light, but relief. Air. A breeze, weak as it was, brushed her face.
The weight lifted.
Armin’s hand had slid under his side, raising one half of his seated position, and Annie’s head was freed between the soft press of the colossal shape above her. Her body remained trapped beneath, contorted and pinned by the sheer mass, but her lungs could at last wheeze in a shallow breath.
Her face was slick with sweat, her lips cracked. She blinked slowly, her eye catching a glimpse of Armin’s face peering over his shoulder.
He was smiling.
“How about now…?” he asked quietly, his tone oddly cheerful.
She couldn’t answer. Her tongue was too dry, her voice too far gone. But he seemed satisfied with the silence—or rather, with the faint flutter of her breath.
“Oh… Still Alive…?
Without hesitation, he released his grip and let gravity do the rest.
THUD.
The sound was deep and final. Annie’s vision flashed white as the pressure returned full-force. Her ribs groaned. Her muscles gave no response to her screaming mind.
“Mmm… not quite there yet, huh?” Armin said aloud to himself, shifting slightly in his seat as though trying to find a more comfortable position.
“Let’s try again.”
He reached behind himself again, fingers casually gripping the fabric of his uniform, raising his weight. Annie’s tiny, twisted body clung to the smallest semblance of form.
SLAM.
A choked gasp. Pain bloomed like fire behind her eyes.
Again.
SLAM.
And again.
SLAM.
Each drop was deliberate, rhythmic—like a metronome ticking down the end of a song. Annie’s consciousness flickered like a candle in a storm. Her mind no longer fought for escape; it struggled only to exist.
“I wonder how much more you’ve got in you…”
He raised himself again.
CRUNCH!
