Elmiha District, inside Allen's house—
"Lock, you finally came back. If you hadn't come back, I'd have thought you were dead out there!"
The moment he stepped through the door, Uncle Harry's booming voice filled the room.
A faint system chime seemed to echo in Lock's head for a beat—"Ding: host resists sonic assault; sonic defense +1." He suppressed a smile, shrugged it off, and moved forward to hug Uncle Harry.
"Can't help it. There's too much to handle at the Corps," Lock said with an apologetic grin. "I've been busy—haven't had much time at home recently."
"You were back days ago, weren't you? The news I heard said you'd been here already!" Uncle Harry insisted, not letting the matter drop.
Lock exchanged a look with Aunt Martha and offered a sheepish smile.
"Brat, you only know how to ask for favors. You were back for days and didn't come see us," Martha scolded good-naturedly.
Harry shut up at once—he was the kind of husband who listened when Martha spoke—and Lock felt a rush of relief. He glanced around the warm, cluttered room.
"Where is everyone?" he asked.
"Grisha left a note and then disappeared," Harry said. "Karal's been beside herself. Dina's taking Alan out for a walk to calm him."
At the mention of Karal, both Martha and Harry grew serious. Lock's lips tightened. From what he knew of Grisha, it was likely that he had passed the Attack Titan's power on to Alan. They'd discussed the possibility; it would be a cruel burden for a twelve-year-old.
"Has anything happened to Alan?" Lock asked carefully.
Karal and Harry exchanged worried looks. Karal explained, voice small: "The day before Grisha left, he found Alan fainted by a farm. A Survey Corps patrol found him and brought him back. He's been in a daze since. He can't remember much. It's tearing Karal apart."
Lock closed his eyes for a second, forcing calm into his chest. "Alan will be all right. Grisha probably went to help with something at the beach. He should be safe—doctors are needed there."
"The beach?" Allen's eyes widened with excitement. He hurried forward, almost tripping over the rug. "Brother Lock—you mean the sea is real? Does the ocean exist?"
At the word "sea," everyone in the room but Dina froze. The idea was foreign to them; the word carried the weight of another world. Lock felt the weight of having to shelter truths. He couldn't tell them everything yet.
He softened his voice and put a steady hand on Karal's shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll explain things when she's ready. For now, let's keep her calm."
After a few coaxing sentences, Karal's breathing eased; the family slowly settled into a fragile peace. Lock helped Aunt Martha finish cooking, and soon the house filled with the clatter and warmth of dinner preparations.
Outside the window, dusk slid across the district. Lock watched his hands move through familiar motions—peeling vegetables, stirring a pot—and felt a strange ache for a simpler life. For a moment, images crowded his mind: a room with two people, three meals a day, four seasons together. He smiled and shook his head; those were dangerous daydreams. Not now.
Petra and Ymir, back at the Survey Corps base, both sneezed at the same instant. They exchanged a look—Cocky, conspiratorial—and Christa, who sat nearby, glanced up with a tiny smile. All three said at once, half-teasing, half-affectionate:
"Lock!"
Night fell. When Lock set the last dish on the table, footsteps sounded outside. Karal and the others returned. The disappointment on their faces melted into surprised relief when they saw him.
"Lock, you're back," Karal said, voice trembling. "Have you heard anything about Grisha? He vanished after leaving that note. He's been gone more than a week. He left when things calmed down—why would he risk himself now? You must help us find him."
Lock felt the squeeze in his chest—he had more secrets than he could tell. He had to guard some truths; not everyone was ready for them. He chose his words carefully.
"Grisha went to help with something at the coast. He thought doctors were needed there. He'll be all right—we'll make sure of that."
Karal's expression shifted from panic to a fragile hope. Allen and Mikasa were wide-eyed and restless. Even Martha had tears she brushed away.
Dinner passed with a tense calm. After the dishes were cleared, Lock and Dina stepped outside into the yard. The night sky was clear, stars freckling the dark. The crickets chirped; the air smelled faintly of smoke and cooking embers.
Dina stood close, the lines on her face softened by the lamplight. "He left a note," she said quietly. "He said he had to do it himself."
Lock looked at her, searching. "You think he went alone?"
She nodded. "Grisha has always been like that—takes responsibility. He would not tell Karal and only left when he thought it was necessary."
Lock folded his hands behind his back, staring at the gate that led to the street beyond. "We'll find him," he said. "And when Alan wakes properly, we'll tell him the truth in a way he can bear."
Dina's eyes glistened. A small, grateful smile touched her lips.
They stayed standing in the yard a while longer, listening to the quiet of the district—children's shutters closing, distant laughter, the soft, steady breathing of a town that had learned to sleep despite the shadows outside the walls. Lock let the ordinary sounds steady him, then turned to go back inside.
Inside, Uncle Harry had begun to fidget—he could not be still when family was near. He clapped Lock on the shoulder. "You've been doing well out there, lad. Everyone's talking about you."
Lock allowed himself to blush a little at the praise. He had come to accept admiration as another responsibility.
Later, when Karal finally retired to bed and the household settled, Lock climbed the stairs to the small room he had been given. He paused at the threshold, listening to the muffled breathing on the other side of the door. For a moment, the weight of command and the lonely edge of leadership pressed in—every plan, every order, every life affected by his decisions.
He sat by the window, the night pressing cool against the panes. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea curled and broke, a sound he could almost remember from other memories. He closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him—if only to remind himself of the world he was fighting to bring his people into.
Tomorrow would demand more of him. There were plans to finalize, people to protect, and a fragile peace to keep. He rose from the chair and, before sleep took him, whispered into the quiet:
"For the island. For them."
A soft breeze moved through the curtains as if in answer.
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