After the Survey officers had left, Eren became relatively accustomed to soldiers coming to stare at him, though it grew no less uncomfortable. At first he tried desperately to reassure each one that he wasn't a threat, that he'd be no trouble, but that had only gotten him blank and hostile stares. One man, wearing the roses of Garrison, had spit at him, so violently that Eren had been forced to scramble back from the bars as far as his chains would allow him to go. He'd huddled, shaking, in the corner of his tiny cell, his mind whirling, warring between fury at his treatment and terror that the next person to come along would simply decide that they'd all be better off if he died, here and now.