A scientist stood by her work, even when it stung. Still, she meant to show him - she saw clearly. Not foolish, never childlike, nothing like the dazed prisoner he hoped for. Thought ran deep in her veins; facts shaped her world. With quiet precision, she studied every corner of confinement, just as she once dissected theories in lecture halls. Her mind did not stall. What came out was sharp: I see your moves.
A flicker crossed his face - just a small shift, maybe respect, perhaps surprise, even the look a hunter gets when the hunted suddenly shows cleverness. It wasn't loud, but it was there.
"The castle is old," he said, his voice neutral, conversational. "It has been here for a very long time. It has developed - habits. Preferences. A sense of - shall we say - hospitality."
Hospitality," Historia said again, her voice carrying a weight that wasn't rage - not exactly - but something tighter, more controlled than her usual quiet acceptance. A kind of welcome that holds you in place whether you wish to stay or not
"Hospitality that ensures the guest is safe," he corrected, gently - so gently that the correction felt like a caress rather than a rebuke. "The forest is dangerous, Historia. You know this. You nearly died in it. The castle - " He paused, choosing his words with the same care he always applied. "The castle protects what is precious to it."
Value meant something else entirely. Who didn't matter. Only what did. In his words, she became an item - held close like silverware stored too long in a drawer, kept but never asked if she wanted to stay.
Filing came first, pointing never followed. This she kept silent.
---
Seventeen days passed before she sat down again, eyes fixed on walls only she seemed to notice. From the garden's edge, those stone towers looked different each morning, shifting like thoughts mid-sentence. Hours slipped by while she traced lines meant to match what lived behind thick masonry. A notebook appeared - one with clean pages, solid spine - not pulled from some crumbling archive but lifted from under piano keys where dust collects. Was it always hidden there? Did someone leave it? Questions faded fast; answers mattered less than need. Paper became ground for proof, something sight could confirm without guessing. Memory wobbles. Ink holds still. So she drew, not because it was wise - but because silence fills when nothing is left outside your head.
A blank page stared back. From the hearth came a broken shard of blackened wood - she picked it up instead. Lines began to form under her hand, uneven but clear. Shapes grew across the paper: paths, chambers, turns taken during quiet walks through stone halls. At each corner, marks appeared, made up just then, known only to her. Direction was tricky; walls twisted where they should not, so arrows pointed wherever felt right. A circle meant a door. Always. Lines that slash back and forth show the stairs. Crosses appear where paths stop.
Down near the base of a hallway, she leaned on the cool surface behind her, legs stretched out, the book resting where it landed when placed gently upon her lap. Her eyes moved fast between lines sketched earlier and the turn just ahead, comparing shapes like matching pieces that refuse to fit. Focused hard enough that time slipped - just briefly - from its usual grip. The place around her faded while thoughts stacked up, one after another, chasing logic through a maze built to confuse. Only silence reminded her, later, that she still sat in stone halls shaped by someone else's rules.
That lapse could have cost her everything. Yet later, she saw it as the most free she'd felt since they took her. In those brief moments, captivity faded. Curiosity returned. Her mind followed old habits - watching details, noting patterns, piecing together how things worked, one observation at a time. Understanding might come, if she kept going.
Only when the dark shape touched her papers did she look up. The moment had slipped by before her mind caught on.
She looked up.
Her gaze lifted to meet Jin Yeager's. He loomed near, so near her neck bent backward just to hold his eyes, his shape swallowing the light around her like a silent eclipse. His presence carried traces of soil, rock, iron, darkness - each note hanging low in the air between them.
Was it minutes or hours since he arrived? Stood silent while she sketched, traced lines, pieced together shapes - how much time slipped by unnoticed? No way for her to know. His face stayed blank, offering no clues. Just a steady gaze fixed on her hands, the smudges of black dust across them, the furrow between her eyes softening into something sharper, edged now with unease.
Down went his hand - measured, unhurried - as it stretched for the notebook resting on her lap. No move came from her. Resistance wasn't possible, though strength wasn't the issue. Pulling it close, guarding it like treasure, would mean admitting those sketches held weight. That they weren't doodles but plans. Not idle marks, but steps toward getting out. That truth had to stay hidden. Letting him believe it meant nothing - that it was just mental play, something to fill empty hours - was necessary. A way to keep thought from turning into threat. Her stillness spoke louder than motion ever could.
The notebook landed in his hands. Not once did he blink as those deep-set eyes raced across sketches - zipping through symbols like someone wired to decode images faster than breath, leaving her painstaking notes feeling ancient. Page after page flipped under steady fingers, every mark, margin note, connection held under silent inspection. Emotion stayed locked behind still features. Reading unfolded without show: intake, clarity, completion.
His eyes met hers. Out came a low laugh - warm, almost teasing - and it clashed completely with everything around them. That small sound sparked sudden anger in Historia, sharp and out of place, though she quieted it fast.
A look crossed his face," he added, his voice laced with quiet laughter - soft, almost kind, which somehow made it worse, since it showed without force that what she did meant nothing to him. Not a risk. Barely noticeable at all. Just sweet. Like watching something small push against something endless, not with strength but with innocence, like a breeze pretending it could stop a mountain.
Back came the notebook into her hands. It landed softly against her palms. A touch happened then - skin meeting skin - as if a spark jumped, racing up through her bones without warning. The moment passed fast but stayed sharp.
Yet the castle…" He stopped short, eyes drifting off her face toward the stones encircling them, then up to the arched roof, down to the worn tiles underfoot - taking it all in like someone who belongs to the place just as much as it belongs to him. "Acts on its own will. Keeps whatever it decides should stay."
Back at her he stared. Dark eyes narrowing, the grin fading into weight - this was his face before words stuck deep, pricked thoughts, stayed lodged without permission. She knew it well by now.
A quiet moment passed when his hand moved. Not quite touching, just near - like breath on glass - he brought a fingertip to her head. That spot on the left side, delicate and faintly alive, felt the coolness first. Where blood moves under paper-thin skin, there it happened. Bone so narrow it might vanish, pressed by nothing heavier than air. Beneath, the mind sat waiting, inches from everything.
It understands," he said, lowering his voice into a hushed, sharp tone, "the things I want to keep close
A breath hung still. His fingers left, yet chill stayed behind - pressed into her flesh without leaving a trace except memory fixed at that spot