They say some memories never leave you. That if you carry them with you long enough, they become a part of you forever, haunting you until you can no longer remember who you were before them — if you were ever you at all.
As you draw your eyes open and feel the faint traces of your memories from that day still lingering through your mind like a dream refusing to fade, you entertain the element of truth behind such words.
You try to blink away your sleep, but fragmented images of that day continue to flash through your head. A blue, cloudless sky overlooking your eight year old self, purple bellflowers dancing against the breeze as you pick them out of your family garden's estate, armed men with police badges raiding your home, your mother's face morphed in horror as she runs to protect you, and her blood, splattered across the bellflowers in your garden as her unmoving body lands with a sickening thud at your feet.
Your memories of that day harbor only pain and heartache, yet you refuse to let them go.
As a child, they tormented your dreams. You'd wake up screaming, with tears in your eyes, calling for a mother who would never come.
But your father was quick to take care of that, refusing to let his first and only child succumb to such crippling behavior.
By the age of ten, he had taken all those tears of yours and turned them into rage. He had rid you of all your soft edges and forged you into a weapon, replacing your grief and sorrow with a hungry need for vengeance.
He'd armed you with purpose.
Your half-lidded eyes slide over to your gun waiting patiently for you on your bedside table, along with your knife and blades. All weapons he had gifted you over the years.
Throwing your covers aside, you move to get up, noticing how strong the sun's rays are already peeking behind the emerald green curtain from your window. You make it as far as the side of your bed before you are forced to hunch over with a groan.
"Fuck," you hiss as you press a hand against your head, the morning hangover finally settling in.
In honor of Sasha's birthday the day before, you'd treated her and the rest of your team and bought out one of the most luxurious restaurants in town for the night, where you'd divulged in more than your fair share of drinks with them in celebration.
You knew your cadre were still mourning for Marco, but this life didn't allow you time to grieve. You either carried on with it or you let it consume you. And your team was damaged enough as it was, so neither were acceptable choices for them. So you offered them an outlet to help drown their sorrows, ordering bottles and bottles of rum, whiskey, bourbon, vodka; and by joining along with them, they could not refuse.
You sit on your bed for a moment with your elbows resting on your knees and your head in the palm of your hands, waiting for the throbbing headache to subside.
For a brief moment, you feel the weight of exhaustion lie heavily over your shoulders. The temptation to rest against it, alluring and sweet like poison.
But that image of your mother's blood spread out all over the flowers in your garden still burns vividly in your mind and you raise your head. A steely look of determination visible in your eyes as you stand and reach for your gun.
You pop the barrel open and give it a spin as you check your bullets before locking it back in place with a satisfying click. You tuck it into the holster under your arm and move on to your blades, placing them discreetly throughout your person.
Every morning you revisit that day in your memories, sharpening them as you would your blades so they don't dull and fade. All the pain, and fear, and suffering they wake inside you, you latch onto like an anchor. You let it fuel you. Serving you as a reminder of what was done to you all those years ago. Never letting you forget that there would be no rest for you until you made every last one of those men responsible for your mother's death suffer the way you suffered.
This is how you carry your mother's memory of that day.
This is how you survive.
For ten long years you've let them feed your vengeance, keeping your seething rage burning and alive. But there are days — more frequently now than you care to admit — where you wish you could just wake up and not feel anything at all.
—
By the time you make it out your room, your headache still hasn't ceased, and that's as far as you're willing to put up with it.
Had Levi been home he would have made you one of his special tea's he prepares for you for mornings such as these, always leaving it at your bedside table for you to drink when you wake up. But seeing as how there was nothing there for you this morning is enough to tell you he isn't here.
So you go in search of the next best thing.
Making your way down the stairs, you remain grateful for the dark wood paneled walls and dimly lit hallways this place provides. Though it's nowhere near as grand as your family estate in the countryside, it's spacious enough to room Levi, his two most trusted guards, your cadre and you.
Originally, your father had gifted the place to you and your fiancée as an early wedding present. And, given the townhouses from Trost Lane were one of your father's many owned properties across town, he'd provided the house next door to Levi's men and yours as a means for them to keep a close eye on you both, while still granting you with a fair amount of privacy at home.
But with you and Levi always out conducting different business meetings for your father, you hardly ever see your fiancée. You spend more time with your cadre over the course of the day that they're the ones practically living here instead.
As you reach the bottom of the wooden stairs and pass the foyer, you overhear Sasha and Connie arguing from the main dining room table over the last piece of leftover cake from the night before.
Their bickering abruptly stops the second you step into the room, but when you pay them no attention they resume their squabbling.
Albeit, under more hushed tones.
Jean and Historia sit at the far end of the table, talking amongst themselves with — based on the overwhelming smell coming from the kitchen — a freshly brewed coffee in hand.
Jean notices the way your hand presses against your head and grins.
"Morning, sunshine," he teases.
You flip him off and walk past them to cut through to the adjacent room where your mini bar is located and where Mikasa stands on the lookout by the window.
"I need a drink," you grumble. "Where's Levi?"
"With your father," Mikasa informs you, leaving her position to report to you. "His meeting with the suppliers from Marley was this morning."
You hum under your breath as you faintly remember Levi mentioning something similar a few days ago, and of course, as CFO of Ymir & Co, his presence was mandatory.
You're about to take a step towards the bar when Historia appears from the other room carrying a cup of coffee in hand. She offers it to you with a warm, shy smile. "Drink this, you'll feel better."
You wrinkle your nose at the smell, and wave it away with a flick of your hand. The strong roasted smell of it upsets your stomach, but Historia hasn't been with you long enough to know that coffee is the last thing you'd ever drink to get over a hangover.
Turning back to the mini bar, you start rummaging through your collection of scotch, whiskey, and bourbon.
Only to find them all empty.
"Stupid brat had one job!" you exclaim in frustration, slamming the doors to the shelves shut with such force you're surprised they don't fall off their hinges.
You had told Sasha to find a kid adequate enough to keep tabs on your stash of alcohol and make sure it never ran low. Clearly that was too much to ask of them both.
"I better not see that kid's face here again, Sasha!" you shout over your shoulder, knowing full well that with Sasha's impeccable hearing, she knew exactly what you were talking about.
The clashing of kitchenware goes quiet at the dining table with a soft whimper at your warning.
"No, Miss!" comes her muffled voice from the other room, no doubt from the amount of food stuffed in her mouth.
Surely enough, seconds later, you hear Connie scolding her and patting her on the back as she starts choking. "Oi! Sasha! Chew your damn food first!"
Historia and Mikasa run to go check on them and you let out an exasperated sigh.
You don't have the energy to deal with them like this so early in the morning with the state you're in so you strut for the front door just as Jean walks into the room to join you.
"Where are you going?" he asks as you walk right past him.
"To get a bloody drink!" you exclaim, snatching your coat lying on a chair on your way out.
He follows you to the door. "It's nine thirty in the morning. Don't you think you had more than enough to drink last night?"
You ignore him and slide into your coat as you open the door to step out. You're about to shut it behind you when you meet resistance.
You turn with a frown and see Jean's hand holding back the door, preventing you from closing it.
You glare at him before releasing the doorknob. "I don't need a babysitter."
The pub you and your cadre like to frequent, Red Rose, is literally just around the corner. Everyone in town knows this, which is why many people steer clear of it, so as to avoid stirring any kind of trouble with you.
But Jean simply shrugs and gives you a grin. "Need to stretch my legs."
You notice his tone is chipper, but the light in his eyes is still not quite there, and you know, the grief he carries for his fallen friend, he'll carry forever.
Over his shoulder you see Mikasa silently adjusting her coat and closing the door behind her.
You roll your eyes, but know better than to waste your breath on them. The two of them were going to follow you anyway.
So you walk off with a huff, hating how since the moment you woke up this morning, things have not been going your way. It serves as a great indication; today is not going to be a good day.
—
"I still think you should have brought along the rest of them," Mikasa sulks behind you as you lead the way down the street in the direction of the pub.
You bark out a laugh, gesturing to the way the townsfolk are quick to clear a path for you at just the mere sight of you. "And tarnish my reputation as their beloved Reaper?"
Mikasa frowns at your flippancy, but you don't drop the smug grin from your face, because not even she can deny the strong reaction you elicit out of people.
You have a naturally piercing, siren-like gaze that evokes fear and intimidation with ease, but it is not the main reason the townsfolk cower at your presence.
People do not lay a finger on you because they fear what your father, the most dangerous crime boss in the underworld, would do to them.
They fear what you would do to them.
And given all the various nicknames the people of this town have coined you over the years — Dark Reaper, Angel of Death, Death's Messenger — and the rumors that preceded you, it was more than understandable.
The amount of times you've heard people whisper your name as you pass them by, wiping the blood of your enemies clean from your hands, saying you sold your soul away so you can't be killed... Or that you serve as Death's messenger, bringing death and destruction wherever you tread, with your guns, your blades, your bare hands.
They say you fear no one. That Death fears you.
As the daughter of a power-hungry and vicious man, who has trained you amongst the most lethal and ruthless of killers since you were a child, they're not too far off.
Unfortunately, Mikasa is immune to your threatening charm. Just as you're about to turn the corner, she steps in your way, forcing you to come to a halt.
You roll your tongue against the side of your cheek in open annoyance. People were really testing your patience today.
"Oi, Mikasa," Jean chides, tensing at her abrupt behavior. You rest a hand on your hip impatiently as he tries to pull her away, but she resists and holds her ground.
"You just declared war on two crime gangs less than forty eight hours ago," she reminds you under her breath, eyeing the people walking by suspiciously. "Not to mention the long list of enemies you already had before. You can't keep strolling across town out in the open like this."
"Mikasa," you caution carefully, idly scratching your brow, "you really don't want to be standing in front of me right now."
As much as you understand why she's on edge, you don't want the townsfolk to notice things are tense amongst the crime bosses of Paradis. The people here treat your family like royalty because they know there are worse people out there, and it's your family—not the Crown and its police force—willing to protect them from these dangerous outsiders. And the support of the people, as your father had once said, was imperative to his growing power and influence amongst the privileged and elite.
It's why you'd made such a show of the dealing with Bertholdt the other day. You wanted the people of this town to see that House Ymir remained as strong and untouchable as ever. That if anyone dared oppose you and your family, they would be punished accordingly and without mercy.
But either Mikasa does not hear the measured sound of your voice or she chooses to ignore it. "Everyone knows you favor this pub," she presses on. "At least go to Hart Sina for today while we assess any potential threats around town. There's more of your father's men stationed near that pub who can—"
You take a menacing step towards her.
"If you think I will cower away and hide from my enemies," you say with narrowed eyes, "than you don't know me at all."
You move to step past her.
"Anya —"
"Enough, Mikasa," Jean cuts her off in warning. "Stand down."
But the desperation in her voice makes you pause. "Every day I wake up with Death looming over my shoulder," you say without looking back. "Today is no different."
Sensing the amount of frustration radiating off Mikasa would have any sane person running, but you don't acknowledge her further and continue forward. You're in a foul mood as it is. You don't need her testing your patience with all her incessant worrying.
You hear her follow after you reluctantly a moment later and when you arrive in front of the pub, she eyes the rooftops above.
"I'll scout the area," she announces curtly before turning to Jean. Don't leave her side, her eyes seem to tell him before parting.
He nods in understanding and joins you close behind as you enter the Red Rose.
The buzzing ambience of the bar goes momentarily quiet at your arrival. It isn't until you make your way to the counter for a drink that conversations resume as the men drinking at their tables nod respectfully to you as you pass.
You hardly notice them, though. Your attention is drawn elsewhere.
A young man, not much older than you, with short brown hair and bright green eyes stands behind the counter. He appears overly smitten by you, following your every move like a love-struck school boy with his mouth partly open as you take a calculated seat in front of him.
He's a face you don't recognize. And neither does Jean, based on the way his body goes on alert the second he spots him. But it's the look beneath that infatuated gaze of his that unsettles you the most.
He's looking at you in a way you have never been looked at before. So tender and pure, like you can do no wrong. A look without fear or hatred. And it hits you harder than it should — the realization that he doesn't know who you are.
"A bottle of whiskey," you tell him as you look around for the owner of the pub. "Where's Hannes?"
When the bartender doesn't move or speak, your sharp gaze cuts to him dangerously. You've waited this long for a drink. Just how much more did you have to bloody wait?
Your piercing eyes are enough to snap him out of his daze, but he grows deeply flustered, most likely embarrassed that you have caught him staring at you so openly.
"Oh! Uh, sorry," he stumbles out. He fidgets with the cup of glass he had been holding, as if unsure what to do with it. "Um..."
You and Jean exchange dubious glances as you both watch him nearly drop it a couple times and then turn to run his eyes over the many bottles behind him.
You curse under your breath at his incompetence and rest your elbow on the counter to massage your temple, feeling the throbbing ache in your head return the longer you go without a numbing drink in your system.
"Whiskey, mate," Jean grits out impatiently. "She asked for whiskey."
"Whiskey, yes," the bartender repeats, reaching for the bottle you requested. He places the empty glass in front of you and pours the drink for you, though you don't miss the way his hand shakes nervously in front of you as he holds the bottle.
He sees you noticing. "I'm fairly new," he admits sheepishly. "This is my first week."
"You don't say," Jean comments dryly.
You down the drink in one go, feeling the burn run down your throat and letting it overpower the headache.
You gesture for the bartender to hand you the bottle, not at all satisfied yet, and you pour yourself another shot. You feel his eyes on you as you drink, completely mesmerized by your presence, before you catch him flickering his gaze over to Jean standing beside you, who has turned away to scan the crowd.
"Is your boyfriend —" the bartender begins gingerly, trying to identify your relationship with your male companion.
But at the word boyfriend, Jean turns to him with a frown and the bartender clears his throat, diverting his question.
"Can I get you anything?" he asks Jean instead.
Your guard scoffs and turns away, already annoyed with him. It's obvious this new bartender fancies you so Jean knows where this is going, and would much rather have you do the honors of putting this hopelessly love-sick boy in his place.
But there's enough alcohol in your system now. The agitation has worn off. You're all but mellowed out.
You trace a finger around the rim of your glass mindlessly, feeling playful.
"He's not my boyfriend," you tell the pretty green-eyed boy in front of you, watching as his shoulders sigh in relief at the news.
Beside you, Jean studies you curiously from the corner of his eye, but makes no comment about your behavior.
You don't usually entertain a man's interest in you, mostly because many are too afraid of you to even try. Or because they know you are already spoken for — Levi is as dangerous and intimidating as you, after all. But there's something about this boy that refuses to let you walk away just yet.
"What's your name?" you ask him.
His lips break out into a radiant smile that lights up his whole damn face. "Eren," he tells you. "Eren Yeager."
"Eren Yeager," you repeat, mulling over his name.
You serve yourself another glass, wanting to wash away the inexplicable amount of pain his wholesome presence is doing to you.
"Tell me, Eren Yeager, have you ever killed anyone?"
The smile on his face immediately fades, taken aback by your question. He wants to think you're joking so he lets out a nervous chuckle. But your face remains blank and a tense silence follows soon after.
You almost lament the moment it happens as he begins to realize there is something off about you as he glances over at Jean and finally notices the gun peaking out of his coat.
His wide eyes flicker back to you, noticing you're waiting for a response. He swallows.
"No..." he answers you warily.
"You an outlaw, then?"
Eren slowly shakes his head.
"A thief?"
He lets out another nervous chuckle, as if still wanting to believe you're just messing with him for some reason. "No."
"Perhaps he pissed off someone he shouldn't have?" Jean offers.
You shake your head ruefully and answer in Eren's stead. "No," you say as you take another swing at your drink, his answers only depressing you even more despite you having already predicted them. "No, he didn't."
Eren's eyes dart from you to Jean with apparent confusion. "I'm sorry? I don't —"
Just then a man with short blond hair and deeply defined lines across his forehead appears from the backroom. His eyes widen at the sight of you and quickly shoos Eren away, sending him off to clean some tables on the other side of the room.
Eren leaves, but not without stealing a glance back at you, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. It takes you by surprise. Was he that oblivious to the danger staring him in the face, or was he that intrigued by you, to refuse to acknowledge the amount of darkness practically dripping off you?
"Anya!" the man greets you over-enthusiastically. "You're um—you're here early."
Your expression is calm, but your voice is strained as you revert your attention back to the owner of the pub. "Who is he, Hannes?"
Hannes grimaces. "Was hoping you wouldn't notice him."
You give him a pointed look. Eren stuck out amongst the crowd like a lone hare inside a den of wolves. "He has no business working here."
Hannes scratches his head nervously. "I know, but I felt bad for the kid. He just moved into town and needed a job. No one else will hire him 'cus he doesn't really look like he's gonna last them very long—so I figured it wouldn't be so bad. I can keep an eye on him until then."
You play with your empty glass absentmindedly.
Hannes had been a close friend of your mother's growing up, and when she died, he'd looked after you when your father was away on business and you were too young to join him. To repay him for his trouble, your father had gifted him with this tavern a few years back. Hannes had declined at first, but when your father told him he wanted to name it after your mother, well, there was no going back for him then. He likes to tell you he only accepted because he wished to live his life comfortably. But the man had grown overly attached to you over the years, always telling you you reminded him a lot of your mother, and considering you were as deeply rooted in this line of work as your father, he knew this was the only way he could remain close to you.
It frustrated you sometimes. How soft-hearted he was.
"So now you're just hiring all the helpless strays that come scratching at your door?" you ask, beginning to take out a handful of bills to pay for your drink.
"No, no," Hannes protests quickly, shaking his hands in front of you to put the money away. "It's on the house."
You raise an eyebrow at him. Establishments like the Red Rose and other shop owners around town are grateful for your business because they know that as long as they abide by your rules and remain loyal to your family, they remain under your protection. And under a country with such an unstable future, protection from strong and powerful people like that of House Ymir is a way for them to keep their businesses from falling into ruin. Thus, many of them tend to express their gratitude by not charging you and your company for their services.
But no matter where you go, or for however brief a service, you always pay your share.
Jean suddenly leans forward to whisper in your ear, his voice tight. "We should go. Something's not right. Mikasa doesn't usually take this long," he points out, looking around for her. "She should have been back by now."
You obey without protest and stand up to go and grab the bottle of whiskey—which is still more than half full—for your empty stash back home.
You raise the bottle to Hannes to show him it's coming with you and leave a roll of bills on the counter that count for more than what your drink is worth.
"Get rid of him," you order Hannes with finality before heading out.
Dismay runs through his face and he quickly tries to dissuade you. "But I can't just—The kid's got nowhere to go. What am I supposed to say to him?"
You throw him a warning look and point in the newbie's direction. "Get rid of him." You point to Hannes. "Or I get rid of you."
Hannes shuts up after that and you let Jean, who is looking rather tense and on high alert beside you, take the lead.
But then, from the corner of your eye, you catch movement from across the bar. Eren is making his way towards you.
"Wait!" he calls after you. "I didn't—"
But Jean quickly steps in before he can reach you and keeps him a safe distance away so he can't get any closer.
"I didn't catch your name..." Eren finishes faintly, taken aback by Jean's defensive stance.
At hearing Eren's benign reason for approaching you, Jean's shoulders relax as he rolls his eyes in exasperation at the same time you hear Hannes behind you slap his hand to his face incredulously.
Only you are capable of keeping your face free of emotion despite the strange wave of sadness gnawing at your chest as Eren looks to you. You can't remember the last time you ever saw someone look like that, so full of hope and with that much light in his eyes, as if life hadn't quite broken him yet.
If he stays here any longer, that would most likely change, and the reality of it is more than you are willing to bare.
Your next words come out cold and cruel.
"You don't belong here," you say to him dismissively before turning away. "Leave this town while you still have the chance."
What happens next is a blur. Partially blaming the alcohol in your system for dulling your senses. And partially blaming the pretty bartender for holding your attention longer than you should have allowed.
One second you're turning in the direction of the door, ready to follow after Jean, and the next you're being pulled to the ground from behind by Eren as the glass window to your right shatters, and the sound of gunshots firing in the distance is heard in retaliation.
Broken glass falls around you, and you raise your hand to shield your face, but small shards of glass make it past and cut the side of your cheek and eyebrow facing the window. You're disoriented for a split second, but one look in Jean's direction as he hovers nearby with his gun out, pointing and shouting to all the armed men at the pub to follow and pursue, and you quickly deduce with mild nuisance: you were just the target of an attempted hit.
You glance beside you where the boy who just saved your life is staring at you with a pale face and eyes wide in shock.
Staring, not at you. But at your arm. The one you raised to shield your face from the broken glass.
Your sleeve has lifted, revealing the tattoo of the centipede, your family emblem, across your forearm. And you know. As soon as he locks eyes with you, you know he's figured out who you are.
But before he can say or do anything else, Jean stands over him and yanks Eren by his collar before knocking him out with the side of his gun.
You groan and lay your head on the floor, closing your eyes and covering them with your arm.
Curse this wretched day to hell.