Bodies lay scattered in the courtyard below—enemy insurgents, gear strewn like broken toys across the stone. A few Survey Corps soldiers were moving carefully, weapons lowered but eyes scanning every corner.
One of them spotted Mikasa and jogged up. "She's hit!" Alex called, waving him over. "Where are the medics?"
The soldier took one look at Mikasa and nodded. "Triage point's in the west wing. Come on."
Alex moved to help her again, but Mikasa brushed his hand away. "I can walk."
She did, slowly, favoring her side, but upright—always upright. Alex kept pace beside her. No one tried to stop him.
The palace halls had been cleared, though the floors were streaked with blood and the occasional crack echoed through the broken stone like an aftershock.
The tension was still there, coiled and quiet, like everyone was waiting for something else to go wrong.
The west wing had been converted into a makeshift field hospital. Cots lined the hallway, medics kneeling over wounded soldiers, barked orders echoing between rooms.
Mikasa slowed as they reached the door, the color drained from her face.
A corporal stepped out of the triage room. His eyes widened. "Mikasa—shit, get her inside. Now."
"I'm fine," she muttered.
"You're bleeding through your arm."
"Just a graze."
The corporal turned to Alex. "What happened?"
"She took a shot clearing the lower tunnels," Alex said. "I stopped the bleeding, kind of. She needs stitches."
The medic didn't waste another second. He gestured sharply to a pair of orderlies. "Get her in. Left side, third bed."
As she was guided inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.
Not a thank you. Not a smile.
But her eyes lingered for a second longer than they needed to.
Alex stood outside the room, catching his breath, hands finally shaking now that it was over. Blood smeared across his palms, some of it still warm. He realized he'd dropped the wrench somewhere along the way.
A different soldier walked past, glanced at him. "You with her?"
Alex nodded. "Kind of."
The man gave him a look—something between respect and curiosity—but didn't ask anything else. He moved on.
Alex leaned back against the wall, sinking down slowly. The adrenaline was gone now, and the weight of everything hit all at once. He rested his head against the stone, eyes half-closed.
A nurse walked by with a tray of bandages, paused when she saw him. "You hurt?"
"No," he said, voice hoarse. "Not really."
She moved on.
A few minutes passed.
Then, a medic stepped out of the room Mikasa had gone into. He glanced around, spotted Alex, and nodded slightly. "She's stable. Stitched up."
Alex stood.
"She'll be out for a bit," the medic added. "Gave her something for the pain. You can sit with her if you want. Just don't make noise."
Alex nodded and stepped inside.
He sat in the chair beside her. Quiet. Still.
She didn't wake. But her hand, resting on the blanket, shifted slightly. Not reaching for him. Not even aware, probably.
He stayed like that—barely breathing—for a long while. Just listening to the low murmurs of the medics outside, the creak of stretcher wheels, the distant groan of a collapsing wall somewhere in the ruined city.
She shifted once in her sleep, brow furrowed. Even unconscious, she looked ready for a fight.
At some point, he must've dozed off.
It was dark outside the window when she stirred.
Alex blinked awake to the sound of movement—barely audible. Mikasa's eyes were open, faintly unfocused in the dim room.
He straightened. "Hey."
She turned her head toward him, slow and careful. "You're still here," she murmured.
It wasn't accusatory. Just... surprised.
"I figured I'd wait," he said. "Didn't seem right to leave you alone."
She didn't respond right away. Then: "They said you stopped the bleeding."
He nodded. "I winged it. Not exactly field medic certified."
She exhaled, the closest thing to a laugh he'd ever heard from her. "Could've fooled me."
Alex allowed himself a small smile. "You're not easy to patch up, you know. You glare like you're about to stab me the whole time."
"You were slow," she said, eyes half-lidded.
"You were bleeding. Sorry for trying not to kill you with the tape."
She didn't smile, but her expression relaxed. A beat passed.
Then, quieter: "Thanks."
The word landed heavier than he expected. Not because of how she said it—but because she said it at all.
He shrugged, trying to keep it light. "Anytime. Though let's avoid gunfights next time, yeah?"
Mikasa didn't argue.
Instead, she shifted, testing her bandaged side. A wince. Then she asked, "Did anyone else make it out?"
"Yeah. A few squads. Most of the attackers are dead. Palace is secure. Historia's okay."
She closed her eyes for a moment. "Good."
Silence stretched between them again—but it wasn't strained now. Just tired.
"I thought you were stupid for following me," she said eventually, voice low.
Alex looked at her. "I was."
"But not useless."
He let out a quiet breath. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She rested her head back, eyes fluttering shut.
Alex leaned back, watching her breathing steady again. He didn't know how long he sat there. Long enough for the hum of voices outside to fade into something calmer—less urgent, more administrative.
Eventually, he stood and stepped out of the room.
The hallway smelled like blood and disinfectant. Some of the wounded had been moved out already. Bandages, broken gear, and bloodied uniforms lay piled on carts. The air was heavy—too heavy for how quiet it had become.
He headed toward the front wing, retracing the path through cracked stone corridors and overturned chairs. Along the way, soldiers moved in hushed groups, some with clipboards, others with rifles still slung across their backs. Eyes were tired. Everyone looked older than they had yesterday.
At the next junction, a lieutenant stood posted near a folding table covered in scattered reports. Her jacket bore the insignia of the royal guard.