𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐘| Attack on Titan [fem reader!]

【"ＲＡＴＳ"】

There's a certain way the world looks from down here, in the depths of the underground where the shadows play their twisted games. I'm eight years old, though sometimes I feel older, much older. Age isn't measured by years alone, not in these dark alleys where survival teaches us lessons that can't be found in any classroom.

My world is made of cobblestones slick with grime and dimly lit corners where secrets thrive. It's a world where the echoes of footsteps never linger, for we're all just passing through, trying to outrun our own shadows.

Today, like every other day, begins with a ritual. I scavenge, my tiny hands darting into crevices and gaps, searching for whatever morsels the rats haven't yet claimed. They're my comrades, these rats. Together, we share the scraps of this unforgiving world.

I tear off a piece of bread from my stash, my heart swelling with a peculiar mix of triumph and compassion. With the bread in hand, I approach the huddle of fellow street rats. They're hunched over, feasting on their finds. Their sharp eyes flick up as I draw near, and there's a collective pause, an unspoken tension that hangs in the air.

My voice trembles as I extend the offering. "Hey, I found some extra. Here, take it."

But they don't receive my gesture with gratitude.

Their beady eyes narrow, and suddenly, the rats become more than just creatures in the alley; they're judges, weighing my intentions. One of them, a wiry gray rat, sniffs the air dismissively.*

"What's your game, kid?" the gray rat sneers, its whiskers twitching with suspicion. "You think you're better than us?"

My heart clenches. I'm not better, not at all. I just thought... I just wanted to share. But in the world of the underground, where survival is a ruthless art, even the act of giving can be misconstrued as a weakness.

Yes. I'm the epitome of weakness.

"I'm not trying to be better," I mumble, my voice barely audible over the whispers of the alley. "I just thought you might be hungry."

Laughter erupts, but it's not the warm, jovial kind. It's a cold, mocking sound that sends shivers down my spine.

"Look at her, thinking she's some sort of savior," another rat chimes in, its voice dripping with scorn. "She's just a phony, playing at being kind because she thinks it'll make her feel better about herself."

Phony.

The word slithers through the air like a snake, and for a moment, I feel like I've been struck. I'm not a phony, I'm not pretending. I just... I just wanted to share a piece of bread.

But in the twisted ideology of the underground, even gestures of kindness are suspect. Survival requires a hardness, a coldness that keeps you from getting attached, from giving in to sentimentality.

I back away, blinking back the sting of tears. I should have known better. We're all rats in this twisted labyrinth, driven by our hunger, our greed. And maybe, just maybe, they're right. Maybe I'm a phony for believing that a bit of compassion could change anything in this cruel, unforgiving world.*

As I retreat into the shadows, I remind myself of the only rule that truly matters down here: Trust no one. The alleys are treacherous, and innocence is a luxury we can't afford.

I remember the day she cast me aside like a discarded toy, the weight of her rejection etched into my young heart. She was my mother once, or at least that's what I've been told.

She looked at me with eyes that were once warm but now held a coldness I couldn't fathom. "You're not my child," she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a spawn of that fucking devil, a cursed reminder of my mistakes."

The world outside the door was vast and unforgiving, a realm where I was no longer welcome. She pushed me into it, her hand a forceful shove that sent me stumbling into the unknown. It was a turning point, a moment that would forever shape the path I tread.

In the beginning, I saw it as an opportunity. A chance to prove her wrong, to show her that even in the face of her rejection, I could be a beacon of light. I thought that maybe, just maybe, my kindness could pierce through the shadows she cast over me.

And so, I tried. I stole for her, gathering trinkets and small treasures in the hope that they would ignite a spark of recognition in her eyes. I gave her a piece of bread, hoping to fill the void that had formed between us. But every gesture, every stolen moment of compassion, was met with the same accusation.

"Why are you being fake?" she sneered, her voice laced with bitterness. "After all I've done to you, why would you even try to help me?"

The words stung, like a slap across the face. How could she think that my attempts at kindness were fake? Didn't she realize how badly I craved her affection, her acknowledgment?

But her words were like the echoes of the underground, a reflection of the world that raised me. In this realm of shadows, kindness is currency, and trust is an elusive prize.

A child who smiles through pain is often seen as a phony, a charade to be mistrusted.

The pain of her rejection mixed with the bitterness of my efforts being dismissed, and it churned within me like a storm. It was a storm I couldn't control, an emotion I couldn't fully understand. And so, one day, with tears in my eyes and a heart heavy with anguish, I held a knife to my own throat.

So I smiled.

"If I were to die," I whispered, my voice trembling, "would you please smile for me?"

My mother's eyes widened in shock, her veneer of superiority shattered by the desperation in my voice. She had never expected me to go to such lengths, to fight for her affection with a knife at my own throat. But even then, her gaze held a glimmer of cold amusement.

"Oh, how dramatic," she chuckled, her voice dripping with condescension. "If you want to die, go ahead. It wouldn't change a thing."

It was then that I realized how far gone she was, how unreachable her heart had become. I lowered the knife, feeling the sting of tears as I realized that the mother I yearned for was nothing more than a ghost of the past. A ghost named Gilda.

how..amusing.

Before I left that house, before I turned my back on the mother who had forsaken me, I made sure to utter words that were not meant to sting. "I'm leaving," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart. "I hope you find happiness, your highness." It was my way of saying goodbye, a farewell that held no bitterness, only a wish for her to find her own peace.