It 's a bleak night, a quiet one. Colder than most Octobers are, and darker too, somehow. Camp must be as busy as it usually is, but to Erwin, it feels less, somehow. It feels as though there is too much space. Too much time. Creaking floorboards and whispers, like a rot has set in, or maybe a slow, long death.

Maybe Erwin imagines it. It is not likely that everyone feels Levi 's absence as keenly as he does. But does Erwin misinterpret the listlessness in the mess hall, on the field, in the meadow, the stable; a sense that someone has reached into their ranks and pulled out their beating heart, perhaps. Or taken one of their lungs.

The damned clock is ticking too loudly. Erwin watches the hands. Ten minutes to midnight. No ' nine minutes, now. Nine minutes left of his twenty-ninth year alive. A whole new decade awaits.