"Jean. Jean! Wake up!"

He groaned, pulling the covers from over his head. He glared at the other male sitting on his bed. "What the fuck, Thomas. It's like, what? Three in the damn morning? I have school tomorrow!"

Thomas grinned down at him, elbowing him in the stomach. "Quit whining, Jean."

"Why are you out so late? Did you only get in now? Oh, my god, Mom's gonna kill you-"

"I know." The grin melted off of his brother's features. "That's why you need to cover for me."

"What?"

"If she asks, say I came in a few hours ago?"

Jean glared at his older brother. "Why would I do that? What's in it for me?"

Thomas laughed, pushing at his shoulder. "I'll buy you a pizza."

Sold. "Deal."

Shaking his head, Thomas stood up. "You're so predictable, Jean," he said, moving over to the other bed in the room.

"Oi!" Jean called, sitting up and frowning.

Thomas ignored him, all but falling into his own bed. "Goodnight, Jean."

"Hmph. More like good fucking morning."

It began to happen a lot. Thomas coming home late, that was. But Thomas was his older brother, Jean covered for him. On the nights Jean snuck out late, or came home late, he would do the same.

It helped that their mother was a heavy sleeper. It also helped that they had been able to climb up to the bedroom window and get in since they were eight years old.

Jean wouldn't question it; the lie that Thomas came in before he went to sleep became normality, slipping off his tongue whenever he needed it. Still; he couldn't help but think it unusual. Thomas wasn't exactly a goody-two-shoes, but he had never been the type to sneak out late nearly every night.

Thomas was three years older than him, attending college in Karanese. Because his college was within walking distance, he still lived at home; still bunking with Jean to save money on living expenses (Jean had pinned his hopes on Thomas going to college away, so he would finally have his own room).

Whatever his reasons were, he wasn't going to get involved. It wasn't as if it affected him too much anyway. His parents didn't question the lies claiming he had been home before midnight. No – they were too busy yelling at each other to take much notice of their sons.

It was one of those nights; one of the nights when his cookie-cutter parents broke their usual patterns, staying up late into the night. Jean was lying awake, trying to block them out. Seriously – did they think he couldn't hear them? He could hear every word they were yelling.

He wished his brother was there.

Not being able to take it any longer, Jean threw the covers off of himself, pulling on a pair of jeans and his running shoes. Moving to the window, he clicked it open, climbing out silently. He needed some air, he needed to get somewhere where he couldn't hear his mom yelling at her husband.

Thomas had shown him how to climb in through the bedroom window when he was eight years old. It had always been their little secret, and he was able to climb down with ease. Sit out on the windowsill, one hand on the drainpipe, swing out onto it. He knew the little crevices where he could put his feet like the back of his hand. At first, climbing in and out had been terrifying to him; now, he could do it blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.

He landed lightly on the damp grass of his lawn, shivering slightly in the cooler air. Immediately, he walked out of his garden, and set off down the street. It was late now; streetlights being the only light illuminating the dark street. He walked through his street, turning two corners before he saw it.

A dark, sleek car pulling up to the pavement. Two men got out.

One was taller, with light hair. He was what – a few years older than his brother, maybe? And the second man was-

Thomas?

They were in deep conversation, both grinning. The other man handed something to Thomas, Jean couldn't see what it was. "Hey, Thomas!" he called.

Thomas turned around, surprised to see him. A sheepish look fell over his features. "Oh, Jean!" he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. The other man raised an eyebrow, and Jean got the feeling that he had intruded on a private moment. He walked over to Thomas, an eyebrow raised as he glanced at the other man.

"This is Boris," Thomas introduced, still looking sheepish and slightly uneasy. "This is my little brother, Jean."

"Ah, the one you've told me about." Boris smiled. Jean began to relax a little. Boris looked from him, to Thomas, to him again. "I'd best be going," he said. His voice was quiet, but smooth.

Thomas nodded. "Of course! I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Boris nodded. "Be on time. Oh, and hey kid – if you ever want to make some money, get your brother to give you my number." He winked, before turning away, about to climb back into the backseat of his car.

Jean wasn't sure what to say for a moment. "Hey!" he said, just as Boris was about to close the door.

Eyebrows raised, the older looked to him. "I-I'm not a kid," Jean said, crossing his arms. Boris laughed, closing his car door. The car took off almost immediately.

Once the car was out of sight, Thomas gripped his arm tightly, immediately guiding him back the way we came. Jean winced. "Ow, man, what the fuck?"

Thomas' face was tight. "Stay out of my business," he said quietly.

Jean frowned. "I just happened to run into you guys! Huh, so, is that where you've been every night? With him?"

"None of your business." His brother's fingers tightened around his arm, leading him back home.

"Hell no," Jean retorted, wrenching his arm free from his grasp. Thomas looked at him, about to snap something, but Jean took a few steps away. "They're arguing. I'm going to Eren's."

Thomas glowered at him. "Don't say a word to anyone about this."

Jean rolled his eyes. "Obviously not. That's what you're worried about?"

Thomas's expression softened a little. "I guess you're right. Don't be home too late."

Jean mumbled a curse as he made his way to Eren's place. What had that been about? Sure, he knew Thomas's grumpy side pretty well, but that had been a complete mood swing. He had seemed happy enough with Boris, but after he left, his mood had completely dropped. He couldn't get his head around it.

He soon came outside Eren's house. Looking down, he picked up a few small twigs from the base of the big tree in his lawn. He threw them, watching them hit the window to Eren's bedroom. No doubt, he would still be awake. Kid had a fucked up sleeping pattern; he stayed up all night gaming. And sure enough, a minute or two later, and Eren was coming out of the front door.

"What do you want, asshole?" he asked, pulling the hood of his hoodie up.

Jean gave him a shrug. Eren got it, coming around to lean on his garden wall.

Jean and Eren weren't good friends. They fought a lot, they argued a lot, they rarely got on when they were in a group of people. But as Armin said, they were very similar (Armin also often said that they were too similar; being the reason for their constant arguments).

But because of that? They got each other. They weren't best friends, or anything, but when they needed someone to talk with, or yell at, or just to avoid things with, they always ended up with each other.

Jean told him about his parents, about Thomas and about Boris. Yeah, he had told Thomas he wouldn't tell anyone, but he presumed Thomas meant the likes of their parents.

Eren told him about the fancy scholarship Mikasa had gotten for Trost University. "Y'know her, man. A damn prodigy. Trost are practically paying her way through college, just so she'll be on their volleyball team." He laughed a little. "Typical Mikasa. Senior year has barely begun and she already has college practically sorted."

"What about you?"

Eren gave a shrug. "Hell if I know. I'm gonna apply for some scholarships, I guess. Who knows?"

Jean nodded, he was planning on doing the same thing. "At least if Mikasa's sorted, your parents have to pay less, right?"

Eren nodded, but said nothing.

Jean frowned. He knew Eren too well to not pick up on it; the feeling that something was wrong. "Hey." He nudged Eren.

"She's getting worse," he said quietly. Eren was a guy who was so full of energy and determination, that he always had a big presence. Now, though? He just seemed small.

Jean bit his lip. "Shit." Eren's mother, Carla, had been sick for years now. Jean didn't know the details of it – Eren never said, he wasn't going to fucking ask – he knew that her health fluctuated a lot. She had been in hospital a lot, required a few surgeries, and had been more or less tied to the house for years. Eren's dad was a doctor, who often cared for her at home, but health bills were still quite substantial.

"Yeah. Shit." Eren laughed, but it was shaky.

"It'll be alright," Jean said, trying to sound more positive. He always had been shit at this comforting thing. He felt so awkward; he didn't know what to do, or say. What could he say, to make it seem better? Should he pat Eren's shoulder or some shit? With a sigh, he decided on doing nothing.

Eren was the type of guy who could pull an all-nighter, and would seem bright-eyed and fully alert the next day. Right now, he seemed weary, and exhausted. "I hope so," was all he said.

"I got a job," Thomas said proudly at the dinner table one day.

"Oh?" Jean's mother asked. "That's great, sweetie. Where?"

"Well, it's more of a …paid internship," Thomas said. "With this businessman, Boris Feulner." Jean frowned, looking at his older brother. He was using that voice, the voice he used when he wasn't telling the whole truth. Jean knew him well enough by now to know there was more to the story than a paid internship.

Besides, was that Boris Feulner the same Boris he had met a few nights ago? If that was who Thomas had been staying out late with, what type of business was he doing with him?"

"Can't say I've heard of him," his mother said.

Thomas smiled. "He's just starting up, not many people have."

The front door opened with a click, Jean could hear his father come in. He walked into the hall, sounds of him hanging up his jacket were heard, and then he entered the kitchen. "Sorry I'm late," he said, moving to pat Jean's shoulder. "Got held up at the station." He noticed that his dad didn't as much as look at his mom.

He sighed heavily.

A few months later, his parents got a divorce. His mom moved back to where she was from, Stohess City. He stayed with his dad. Thomas stayed too; finishing up his last year at college, and working with the mysterious Boris Feulner.

Jean couldn't help be suspicious – although he worked during the day with Boris, he had been very vague about what it was he was doing, and he still ended up out late most nights.

More odd was how much this job seemed to pay; Jean began to notice new clothes, an expensive new watch, fancy shoes – whatever he was doing, was paying well.

A job that paid incredibly well, a job he didn't talk much about, and a job that Jean knew required him to stay out late at night.

Jean tried his best to ignore it. Whatever shit Thomas was doing, it wasn't his problem. It was his last year of high school; he needed to focus on graduating and getting the hell out of here. He stayed out of his brother's business, covering for him, but never prying like he had used to. When he climbed in the window late at night, he pretended to be asleep.

Whatever was going on, it wasn't his business. And he didn't want Thomas freaking out at him again, so he stayed out of it.

That was, until Thomas came home bloody one night.

Jean's father had begun to spend more and more time at the station. Thankfully, this was one of those nights where he had to spend most of the night there. Jean was grateful for that because he knew something was wrong the moment Thomas came in through the front door instead of the bedroom window.

He had stayed in bed, hearing his brother clattering about downstairs. Stubborn as he was, he tried to ignore him; he tried to fall asleep now that he knew he was home. But curiosity won out, and he ended up padding across the room and to the stairs, looking down into the hallway.

"Holy shit," he said, hazel eyes widening. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Thomas looked up with a sigh. One eye was swollen shut, his lip bust open, and his nose bloody. He looked like he had been in a fist fight. "Nothing. Go back to bed."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"Jean, go back to sleep-"

"Shut the fuck up Thomas." He sounded a lot calmer than he felt. It was odd, really.

But how could anyone feel calm when their older sibling came in with their face a bloody mess?

Jean felt a little sick, in all honesty. But he ignored that now; walking down the stairs to lead his brother into the kitchen. Thomas said nothing, just followed him silently and slumped in one of the kitchen chairs while Jean grabbed the first-aid kit.

"You should be asleep," he muttered after a while, after Jean began wiping the blood off of his face. "Don't you have school in the morning? It's an important year for you-"

"Tomorrow's Saturday," Jean said, frowning. His hands were bloody too, cut and grazed. "Besides, you never cared about that before. What happened to your hands?"

"Fell," Thomas answered, looking through one eye at Jean. "After the dickbag punched me I fell back. Used them to break my fall but they got all cutup."

"Right. Perfect." Jean closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "And why did that dickbag punch you?"

Silence.

Okay, try again. "Were you with Boris when it happened?"

"Jean. This is none of your business."

"Isn't it?" His voice was louder now. "You get a new job with this Boris, but don't give us any proper damn details. Mom and Dad are too distracted to even notice that, but you've barely told us anything about him. The last job you had? At that restaurant? I used to go in and see you all the time, but I don't even know where you're working right now; you're being so fucking vague. And you're coming in with all this fucking money – where did you even get it? Why are you out so late, with your supposed boss? And why have you been punched in the face?"

Jean turned away, taking out a glass and filling it with water. He didn't try to speak again until he had taken a long drink. "Listen," he said, eventually, voice much lower. "I don't care – I mean, I don't give a shit what the fuck you're doing. My moral compass doesn't exactly point north. I just wish you'd be honest with me. And I don't want you to get fuckin' punched in the face again, alright?"

Thomas sighed as he let Jean disinfect the tiny cuts and grazes on his hand. "Yeah," he breathed. "I mean, it's not like you'd care that much anyway – you've always been that sort of guy."

He raised an eyebrow. "What sort of guy?"

"The sort of guy that puts his own needs before vague morals that barely anybody lives by nowadays. It's a compliment."

Aforementioned raised eyebrow lowered as he frowned. "That doesn't sound like a compliment. Get to the point."

Thomas grinned a little. "Promise you won't tell?"

Jean sighed. "Fine."

"No, really Jean; you can't tell anyone. Especially not Dad."

"Fine! I promise."

"Alright." Thomas took a deep breath, once again gaining that sheepish expression. "You've heard of the Titans, right?"

Jean stared.

Of fucking course he had heard of the Titans; everyone had. The Titans were one a huge, supposedly underground gang. They were huge, and they were everywhere. In practically every city, it was said there were Titans. They accounted for many of the larger crimes in the nation; from drug smuggling to…much worse crimes. The police were always on their case, but the Titans were like smoke; impossible to catch.

Every now and then the police would arrest a few, but they were so many, and nobody even knew who the head honcho was. There were lots of rumors and conspiracy theories about the main leader; some said he was the president, some said he was this or that politician, some said he was the chief of police. At the end of the day, nobody really knew.

His father had often come home, stressed and frustrated and ranting about them. If there was one thing Jean knew, they were a forced to be reckoned with.

He was still staring at his brother. "The Titans. You're a fucking member of the Titans. Holy Shit."

Thomas shook his head quickly. "No – no, I'm not that bad. I'm not like, in with them or anything. I just deliver for them."

Jean was so stunned, he really wasn't sure what else to feel. "Deliver what?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "What the fuck do you think? Drugs. Like, I'm not doing them. They give me a package, a meeting point, I go, pick up the money and bring it back to them – well, apart from Boris and a few others, I don't know very many of them."

Jean was still staring. Slowly, he grinned. "Our dad," he began, "is a fucking cop. And you've been delivering drugs for the biggest criminal organization in the country for months."

It was so fucking ridiculous, despite himself, he began laughing.

Thomas grinned wolfishly. "It pays very well," he said. "And usually goes without a hitch. Tonight was an exception."

"No fucking shit. So that's where you've been every night? And oh god, Boris Feulner isn't a business man, is he?"

Thomas gave a slight shake of his head. "Not every night. Well, he is technically a business man. His business is dealing drugs."

Jean closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly. "I don't even know what to say."

"I do," Thomas said after a moment. Jean opened his eyes; Thomas had a strange look on his face. "They've been looking for more people to deliver, Jean."

Oh.

Thomas bit his lip, searching for the right words. "They pay a lot of money for this, Jean. The longer you're there, the more you make. It's easy; you'll rarely have any trouble with it. As long as you're not caught, you could make big money. Seriously Jean; you could walk into any college you wanted. You could live that comfortable live you've always wanted to live. Besides, you remember what Boris said that night? He said if you ever wanted to make money, give him a call! And because I'm already in with them, they'd let you right in." He took a breath, taking Jean's glass and taking a sip from it. "Besides, this shit? You're not really a member. You're not doing any of the big shit, just passing on packages. It's simple."

Jean was silent for a moment, rather shocked by the proposition.

Money had always called out to Jean.

Their family had always been pretty well off – especially on his mother's side. But living a life of wealth and prosperity was something that always called to Jean. Eren was planning to follow his passion, study film in college. Many of his friends were like that. Jean? No way. He was planning on doing law. Become a lawyer, become rich, move to one of the nice towns in Sina and live a comfortable and easy life. It was all he had wanted.

It would take a lot of hard work to get there though. And this…this was money and wealth, without the years of studying or trying to make it in the business.

A shortcut to success, one might say.

"What do you think?" Thomas asked.

"Give me his number," Jean responded.

The next few weeks passed by quickly.

Jean had been introduced properly to Boris, and some of the other Titans working with him. It had been intimidating to say the least, but Jean had put on a brave face. He didn't want them to know he was scared shitless.

It became a simple routine; the nights he was needed he would turn up at one of the Titan's makeshift bases in Karanese; in the back of a nightclub owned by Boris. The bouncers had long since become familiar with Jean's face and would let him in. He would go straight to the back rooms, where he would be briefed.

It was terrifying, his first assignment. He didn't even know what he was carrying; not really. But he had an address; somewhere in the shadier part of town. As he walked through the night, he had clutched the knife Boris had given him, as a "welcome present." It was expensive, no doubt, stupidly ornate, but deadly.

He tried not to seem conspicuous, tried to walk as if he belonged there. It was hard to seem natural; he found himself either holding eye contact for too long, or avoiding it altogether. He seemed awkward and clunky, and was sure the moment he stepped out of the club he would be arrested by some random cop – or worse, his father.

Swallowing his fear, he kept walking, until he got to the end of the street he was meeting the buyer at. He was a large guy, way bigger than Jean. He swallowed his fear.

It had been a surprisingly simple transaction; Jean had given him the package, he had given Jean a thick envelope. Jean went back to the club, gave the envelope to Boris, who opened it up to reveal a thick wad of cash. Grinning, Boris had handed some of that cash to Jean, praised him for a job well done, and sent him on his way, reminding him to be here again on Monday night.

After that it became much easier. Jean gained confidence, and more praise from Boris. Sometimes he hung around in the backrooms, with the others there. He became friendly with some of them, especially Marlowe and Hitch. Marlowe was close with Boris, rigid and serious, while Hitch was a smart-mouthed tech whiz. Jean enjoyed hanging out with them, despite being criminals; they seemed like fairly cool people.

And the money was great; suddenly, he had more disposable money than he had ever had. He began to buy luxuries which he hadn't been able to afford before now. It was great! Schoolwork took a backseat; high school was only to prepare for college, right? And college was so he could get a good job and make money, right?

But he was already making money…

Sometimes he felt guilty, but he dismissed those thoughts. After all, if he wasn't the one delivering, it would only be someone else doing it instead. It's not like he was doing any real harm, right?

(right?)

He was hanging out with Eren for the first time in a while, leaning against the park gate and smoking a cigarette. The cigarettes were a new addition; he had started smoking recently. One of the Titans, Marlowe, had given him his first cigarette.

Eren didn't like it, judging by the way he was frowning at him. "What happened to you?"

Jean raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. The last month or two? Grades have been dropping, you look way more tired than you usually do. But you look smugger, cockier, too. What's with all the new clothes?"

Jean rolled his eyes. "What's it to you, Jaeger?"

Suddenly, Eren's fist was gripping his shirt. "Shut up, Jean," he growled. "You're my friend, so spill before I break your nose."

Wow, someone was even more temperamental than usual.

Jean pulled away from Eren, frowning as he stamped out his cigarette. "What the fuck's with you, man? You're in an even worse mood than usual."

Eren sighed, and it was like a wave of exhaustion had just punched him in the stomach. He rubbed a hand over his face, sitting down and leaning against the gate. "Sorry," he muttered, and that was a surprise in itself. It was unusual for him to apologize. "I just. Fuck, Jean, it's my mom. She's gotten worse – again – and she needs another surgery."

Jean suddenly felt bad for snapping out at him. He sat down beside the brunette, once again at a loss on how to comfort him. "I'm sure it'll be alright," he offered.

"No, you don't understand," Eren continued wearily. "This surgery she needs? It's pricy. Very pricy. We can't afford it. Dad's working overtime and Mikasa and I have picked up part time jobs, but I don't know if we'll be able to afford it."

Jean bit his lip. Money was the problem, here. He felt suddenly guilty about throwing money around, when Eren was working hard to try and make enough for his mother's surgery. He was tempted to offer him some; he could always earn it back, pretty easily. But no; Eren was too proud. Neither Eren nor Carla would accept Jean's money.

An idea lit a figurative light bulb over Jean's head.

"Hey Eren…if I let you in on something, will you promise not to tell?"

"Are you fucking serious? They're criminals, Jean!"

"You don't think I know that?"

"I should report you."

"You won't. You better not, I'd get in so much shit-"

"Maybe that's what you deserve."

"Shut up, Eren! I didn't tell you so you could lecture me. My point is that, if they let you in, you'd be making money quicker than working part time at a supermarket. You'd be able to pay for your mom's surgery."

Silence.

"I'm in. But once we've enough, we're calling the police on their asses."

A sigh.

"Fine. As long as you leave me and Thomas out of it."

"Agreed."

In the end, Eren was accepted in as well. He hated it, which almost made Jean feel guilty, but he did it, just to get the job done. The more jobs he got done, the more money he would earn, which meant his mom would be able to receive the healthcare she needed, sooner.

Things went well, for a while; his bizarre new lifestyle becoming a normal routine.

He should have known it was the calm before the storm.

When he went into the back room of the club one night, where he was supposed to meet Boris as usual, he was surprised to see Thomas there. He wasn't due in tonight. Frowning, he exchanged a worried glance with Eren. The atmosphere in the room was much more tense than usual; Boris's eyes cold and unforgiving, while Thomas stood awkwardly.

"You do realize," Boris said, his voice cool. "How much money you've lost us, because of that slip up? Do you know how much those goods were worth?"

Thomas nodded, croaking out a yeah.

It was scary, Jean noted, the tone of Boris's voice. He had only ever experienced him as being light and playful, teasing while still having authority. Now, it was all ice cold anger, barely contained rage bubbling behind it. A chill went down his spine.

"I'm not a man who takes kindly to lost money. You're to pay back every cent."

Thomas gulped. "I don't have that money. Can't I just work it back?"

Boris laughed, the sound was chilling. "What happened to all that money you've made? And do you really think we're going to keep you with us, after a fuck-up like that?"

Jean could practically feel the trickle of sweat creeping down his neck. "W-what? I spent it. If you could let me keep working, I could earn it back for you!"

"I don't think so. But believe me; you'll need to find a way to pay me back. If you don't, I'll-"

"Sir." Jean coughed a little awkwardly, stepping forward. He didn't like the look in Boris's eyes, or the danger in his voice. Every instinct was telling him to run away. "Thomas is my brother. I could earn the money back for you."

"Jean," hissed Eren.

Boris's cold eyes moved from Thomas to Jean; and for a long while, he just stared. It was as if he was trying to pierce into Jean's mind, and read him like a book. Jean felt the nerves in his stomach coil under the intense gaze. For the first time since he first started up here, he felt as if he was in danger.

And just like that, the tense moment broke. "Excellent," Boris said, voice going back to the light playful tone. "That's the spirit, Jean. Standing up, he stalked over to Jean, coming over to pat him lightly on the cheek. Jean felt the nerves dissolve in his stomach.

Boris turned to Thomas. "You. Get out of my sight, now," he hissed. Thomas quickly followed orders, sending Jean a thankful look before scrambling out the door.

Boris switched his attention back to Jean. "You seem reliable," he noted, an eyebrow raised. "Just make sure you pay everything back; I never forget a debt."

Eren cleared his throat. "I know I haven't been with you for very long, but I really need this money," he said. His eyes were blazing in that determination. Jean liked seeing it back, but he couldn't help but to worry as he watched him, sitting down on one of the couches in the back room.

Boris raised an eyebrow. "What, you want a loan?"

Eren nodded.

"How much?"

Eren bit his lip, before saying his price. Jean winced at the amount. Boris barely batted an eyelid. "You've been good with us, kid," Boris said after a moment. "Consider it done. But remember; if you don't pay back every cent, there will be dire consequences. Understood?"

Eren looked like his knees were about to buckle in relief. "Understood."

"Excellent. Dismissed."

Jean waited a few minutes after Eren had left. He had a bad feeling in his stomach. Nothing physical, of course; it was all in his head. But his gut instinct was telling him something bad was up.

"Sir," he began. Boris lounged across the couch beside him. "I'd like to pay off some of Eren's loan, too."

Boris raised an eyebrow. "That's awfully generous," he said, "considering you're already working to pay back your brother's debt."

Jean nodded. "I know. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but Eren's a good kid, and has a good reason for the money. I want to do what I can to help."

Boris simply nodded. "Have it your way then, kiddo. But remember;"

"I know, make sure I pay back every cent, or else." Jean forgot himself, speaking out of turn. For a moment, he feared Boris would turn on him. Instead, the older man just laughed.

"You learn fast, kid." He leaned in closer, close enough that Jean could smell his pricy cologne. "I like you."

Despite himself, he grinned.

It didn't feel like he was in debt. He still went on the same jobs (more though, now that he took over Thomas's jobs too). And at the end of each job, Boris would hand him a wad of cash. The only difference now was that Jean ended up handing most of that cash back.

It was easy. It was manageable. He'd get through it.

When Mikasa found out, all hell broke loose.

She was determined to call the police, to get them to stop somehow. She even considered joining herself, to keep an eye on her brother.

After many attempts at calming her down, Eren managed to convince her not to do anything. It had been the only way to pay for Carla's surgery, after all, and now he had to clear that debt.

Mikasa remembered how kind Carla had been, immediately accepting her into their home and making her feel loved again. With a sigh, she agreed. Eren could look after himself, she knew, but she couldn't help fretting over him. Every night that he was out, she would wait up, to make sure he got home safe and sound.

"You're playing with fire, here," she had warned him countless times. "Please don't let yourself get burned."

Eren always nodded, promising to get out of it once he cleared his debt. He hated it, but he kept Boris's words close to heart. If he tried to walk out with a massive debt, who knew what would happen? But once he had paid it, he should be able to walk away.

He couldn't wait for that day.

"So." Jean took a long drag of his cigarette. It felt so surreal to be talking about school stuff, college stuff with Eren again. It made him feel like his old self, the old self who didn't owe a lot of money to a dangerous man in an even more dangerous gang, the old self who didn't deliver drugs for said gang. "We both got scholarships. To Trost." It was exactly where he had wanted to go, before he started with the Titans.

He just felt somewhat bitter, now.

Eren felt the same way, sighing deeply. "We got scholarships, and neither of us can go. We both still owe Boris a fuckload of money."

"We've no choice but to stay then." Another long drag. "It's not too bad though; stay here for another while, and we can go to college in a few years."

"Mom's gonna kill me if I don't go," Eren muttered.

Jean nodded. "Same with Dad. I mean, he's oblivious to this whole thing, but if I stay, he's going to know something's up. And if he finds out about this whole thing…" Jean shuddered. As well as getting into a fuckton of trouble himself, people could be arrested. Potentially the people he actually liked, like Marlowe and Hitch. But also, he knew the Titans were much bigger than the small few he saw at the back of the night club. If arrests were made, others would presume he had ratted them out, and surely there would be consequences. Jean shuddered again.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"What if," Eren began. "What if we faked it?"

"Faked what?"

"Going to Trost! Like, Mikasa and Armin are going; they could cover us from that end. And I'm sure Hitch would be able to forge documents for us, saying we're attending and that bullshit. In fact, I'm sure she'd practically be able to recreate the whole process. And any money they pay, we can just slip back into their accounts eventually!"

The idea was bitter in his mouth.

"We'll buy our own place here, make sure to stay out of sight, while really-"

"We're staying with the Titans." Jean took another drag. "This is fucking crazy. It'll never work."

Eren sighed. "Delivering drugs for the biggest criminal organization in the country is also fucking crazy. We have no choice."

Faking going to college was surprisingly easy, when you had support from the likes of Hitch, and other renowned criminals. Mikasa and Armin had taken a lot of convincing, but they managed to pull it off in the end. Jean couldn't believe it how easy it had been.

He also couldn't believe that this was his life now; lying to his parents, pretending he was going to college when really, he was working for a fucking gang.

By the time September had rolled around, The Kirschtein and Jaeger families both believed their sons were attending Trost University. In reality, they were sharing a shitty apartment in the bad side of Karanese city; where they were less likely to run into their parents, or somebody they knew.

Jean constantly texted his parents, making up shit about college. He skyped and called them on the weekends too, and felt so sick about lying he thought he would puke. Thomas knew full well what was happening, but kept his cover. That's what brothers did, and besides; Jean was stuck here paying off his debt, after all.

Of course, it meant staying in a lot more, too. The more they stayed out of sight, the more chance there was that they would stay unseen by someone they knew, someone who thought they were at Trost. It was a fine line they were walking, and Jean was often tense. It led to even more fights with Eren, of course.

They tended to stay in for most of the mornings, heading to the nightclub in the evenings, and working. At this stage, the only money they kept was the money they needed for rent and bills – the rest went to their massive debts.

They spent a lot more time at the nightclub too; it was a place where they were positive nobody would find them away from their fake like at Trost University.

Currently Jean was there now, lounging in the nightclub while Eren was out on a job. One of the benefits of being with the Titans was that everyone working in the club knew him, and never questioned him or asked for an I.D. Boris owned the club, and anyone with Boris was automatically a VIP.

Currently the light-haired man was sitting beside Jean, a hand on his thigh. Jean hadn't been drinking much; just enough to numb everything out; enough to help him forget about the guilt of lying to everyone, to forget about the stress and pressure of leading two lives.

Boris leaned forward, lips brushing against the husk of Jean's ear. He'd had just enough alcohol to let him lean into the touch, not flinch from the older man. "Y'know Jean," he said, his voice low, but still loud enough to be heard over the blaring music. "I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?" Jean asked, tipsy grin forming.

"One could call it a…promotion," Boris said. "Pretty much the same work, a few extra tasks and more pay."

Even in his tipsy state, Jean connected the dots. More pay meant he could pay off his debt to Boris quicker.

"I mean, you have been such a good underling, and you do have an awfully large debt…consider it a thank you, for working so hard. What do you say to that?"

"Of course," Jean said, grinning stupidly. Had he been sober, he might have noticed the sly edge to Boris's grin.

When he agreed to a promotion, this had not been what he had signed up for.

He still had his delivery jobs. The first other task, had been that night. He had been called by Boris, brought with on a trip downtown. There were two other guys with them, making their number four in total; he wasn't sure of their names.

He had no idea where they were going, or what they were doing, so he just went along with their orders.

One of the others drove them in that sleek black car (the same Jean had met Boris outside) downtown. Silently, they entered an apartment block. Boris walked confidently, almost strutting up the dingy stairs, looking out of place in his crisp suit. The others followed obediently. Jean felt sick to his stomach, but swallowed his nerves. He wished Eren was with him. He forced himself to think of the pay; the debt it would help clear. He forced himself to think of Thomas and sickly Carla Jaeger, who was much healthier of late. It helped him focus.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when the two men accompanying them began beating on one of the apartment doors. "Open up," Boris called, tone light and smile in place.

Whoever was behind the door did not open up.

Under the strain of the two men, it didn't last long. Jean heard a muffled shout as they entered quickly. Paling, Jean tried to stop his hands from shaking as Boris gestured for him to follow.

They already had the man inside pinned. He was forced on his knees, either arm held tightly by one of them. He looked terrified; wide eyes flitting around, searching for a means of escape. Jean's feeling of dread was growing by the minute. It only increased when he realized he recognized the man; he had delivered to him on more than one occasion.

Boris went down on one knee, smiling amiably. "Hello, my good man!" he said cheerfully. "Long time, no see. I was wondering where my money was."

The man struggled. "P-please! Please let me go!"

Boris tutted. "Afraid I can't. Not yet – give me the money you owe me, and I'll reconsider."

Jean felt dizzy. "I don't have the money!" the man said, "but please, give me more time! I-I'll have it soon, I promise!"

Boris sighed. "Looks like you need a reminder," he said, standing up. "You have one more week, but we're leaving you with a warning." The man let out a frightened gasp. The man holding his right arm made to move, but Boris stopped him with a raised hand.

"Not you," he said his voice still light. "I want Jean to do it."

Jean's eyes widened. "W-what?" His hands really were shaking now.

Boris grinned at him, the smile resembling a shark's. "Think of it as a challenge; a test of your loyalty, to see if you really are up for this job."

Jean felt like he was going to be sick. Cool sweat trickled down his neck as he looked at the man in front of him. "Hit him," Boris commanded.

Jean had hit plenty of guys in his lifetime, but not pinned down, like this. He didn't even know the guy; for all he knew, he could be just another guy down on his luck, trying to make a change and start again. He mightn't deserve this.

"No," he breathed.

Boris's smiled dropped. He took a few steps toward Jean, hands coming up to his hair and pulling his head back so he could hiss in his ear. "Don't you dare disobey me, Jean," he hissed. Jean could feel tears prick at his eyes from the stinging sensation on his scalp. "You're going to hit him, and you're going to hit him more than once. You're going to make him bleed; you're going to feel his blood on your hands. And you know why you're going to do it?" He punctuated this with a sharp tug of his hair.

"Because you're a coward, and you don't want any harm to come to yourself, or your friend or your pathetic, good-for-nothing brother." He stepped away again, but the sick feeling of dread didn't leave.

"Now," Boris said, with a smug note in his voice. "Hit him."

Jean looked at the man. It could have been Thomas, if things hadn't gone the way they did. He tried to send him an apologetic look. Clenching his fist, he brought his arm back, before sending it into the man's face as hard as he could. The man gave a pained cry, and Jean bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from tearing up.

"Good," Boris said. "Again."

By the time they left, the man's blood was all over Jean's hands.

He got home to the apartment, and barely made it into the bathroom before he got sick.

Eren held his hair back, and for once, didn't open his big mouth.

Jean was very grateful.

In any case, Boris was pleased with Jean's work. The next day, he had one of his men take Jean to a field out of the city, where he was taught how to use again. A week later, after his second job like that, Boris presented him with another gift; a handgun.

It said heavy in its holster, a constant reminder for Jean. That weight would enable him to take someone's life, should he wish it.

He was in too deep.

He had started to make money, delivering drugs.

Now, he was beating people up, he was being taught how to kill, he still had a massive debt, he was lying to all of his old friends and family, pretending to be living a happy life in a different city.

Where had it all gone wrong?

He was in too deep. Way over his head.

He wanted out but there was no way out.

Jean was going crazy.

He didn't know the girl, but Boris was being particularly vicious towards her. Jean felt the regret and guilt wash over him as he sent another kick to her ribs. She cried out, her head knocking back against the wall of the building, and she slumped in the street again.

Boris looked coldly at her. He turned his gaze to Jean. "I've had enough," he told the younger. "Finish the job. Then report back at the club." He turned to walk away, back to his car.

Jean's eyes widened, fear clenching up his insides. The girl let out a whimper from the ground. "Sir?"

He couldn't see it, but he could feel Boris's smirk. "You have your gun. Use it. I'll be listening for the shot. Oh, and make sure you dump the body in the river, okay?"

Jean didn't move as he heard his footsteps click away.

The girl began to cry as he took out his gun.

Strangely heavy things, guns. Especially when they were loaded.

He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. This didn't feel real – it was a dream, right? This couldn't be happening, not really. The ground felt unsteady under his feet, but damn – Jean wasn't a murderer. All he wanted was a comfortable life, he didn't ask for any of this.

"Please," the girl sobbed as he clicked the safety off.

He raised the gun like how he had been shown, aiming carefully, hands surprisingly steady, finger on the trigger.

Murderer.

He was going to kill somebody.

Beating someone was bad enough, but this?

He didn't even know her, didn't know her name, anything about her. She looked around his age – pretty enough, with beautiful blonde curls and big brown eyes. She could have loving parents, looking forward to their next call. She could have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, wondering where she was at this hour of the night, growing anxious and wondering should they call the police. She could have hopes, dreams, a future; all which would be shattered by the simple movement of Jean pulling the trigger.

All of the people who she loved, all of the people who loved her wouldn't know what had happened. She would be reported as missing, first, and then eventually her body would be found; dumped in the river with a bullet in her brain. Police would investigate, and unearth whatever she had done to cross Boris. "Another murder by the Titans," the newspapers would say, and Karanese would mourn the death of a young girl with a bright future. The police would strive to bring those responsible to justice. No doubt Officer Kirschtein would be involved in the case, completely unaware that his own son, the one he thought was miles away, had been the one to pull the trigger.

It felt like his heart was straining against his chest, beating hard at his ribcage, threatening to burst free.

"What's your name?" he croaked, his mouth dry.

"Melissa," she responded. She wasn't crying anymore, but the streetlights shone off the tear tracks on her face.

"Melissa," he muttered.

This was it.

Murderer.

Jean raised the gun into the air, firing a single shot into the sky. They both flinched at the loud bang.

"What?" Melissa asked, confusion written all over her face.

"Go," Jean said, his voice hard. "Pack up your belongings, take your loved ones, but get out of Karanese. Now."

She lay on the ground, looking startled at him. "Why?"

"Because," Jean wiped the tears squeezing from his eyes. "I can't kill you. Go before someone comes, and they realize you're not dead."

Melissa didn't move, frozen in stunned silence.

"Go!"

As if waking up, she got to her feet, wincing as pain flooded from her previous injuries. She pressed her lips to Jean's cheek, muttering a tearful thank you, before hobbling off as fast as she could go.

Jean ran away as fast as he could.

It was a few days later when it happened.

He reported to the club as always, at his usual time.

Boris greeted him with a smile, as always. "Ah, Jean!" he greeted, with his predator's smile. "A word, please? Alone?"

Jean nodded, following Boris as he led him to one of the rooms at the very back, far away from the others. Jean hadn't been in this one before; it was sparse and bare, and much smaller than any of the others.

Despite asking for a talk in private, there was somebody already there. He was taller, and bulkier than Boris, but between the same steely eyes and light hair, Jean presumed they were related.

"I don't think you've met my brother," he said, gesturing to him.

The brother smiled, extending a hand. Jean felt a little wary – why drag him all the way here to meet his brother? Forcing his own smile, he shook his hand.

Boris's brother squeezed his hand tightly, yanking Jean forward. Jean barely had time to react before his fist was in his face. The impact dazed him, and he stumbled. A sharp kick to his legs, and he was on the ground, crying out in pain.

It didn't end; kicks rained down upon him, and Jean didn't have time to recover and strike out himself.

He was hauled to his feet, thick hands forcing him to face Boris. He was wearing his sickly sweet smile again, and reached up to gently pat Jean's bloody face. Jean spat at him, and he laughed, taking his smartphone out of his pocket. He brought an image up, and then turned it so Jean could view it. His breath caught in his throat.

"Melissa," he muttered.

"You really thought you could trick us? How cute." Boris chuckled again. "I should have known that you wouldn't have the guts to kill her. One of my contacts spotted her at the train station."

At least she had gotten away. Despite everything, Jean grinned.

That angered Boris. Boris was the type of man that liked to have every little thing under his control; he was like a chess player, and those around him were just pawns. But Jean wasn't completely under his control, and he never was; he could control his actions, but never his thoughts.

Boris wanted Jean to feel terrified.

Jean was terrified.

But he wasn't going to let Boris know that.

Boris could punch better than Jean thought. He bit his bloody lip hard to stop himself from crying out, and grimaced at the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

"I'm going to kill you," Boris growled, his cheery, easy façade finally gone. "I'm going to find a way to get my money back off of you, and then I'm going to kill you. Do you understand?"

Jean said nothing.

"I asked you do you understand?!"

It was the first time he had heard Boris shout.

"Fuckin' crystal clear, boss," Jean managed, blood dribbling from his lip.

Boris glared at him, an ice-cold glare that had shivers running down his spine. He turned, stalking out of the door, and turning to his brother. "If he tries to escape, kill him," he said. "He's going to die sooner or later."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He had fucked up. He lay slumped in the corner, blood trickling lazily from his nose and lip, curled up over his bruised body, trying not to get sick from the fear making his stomach churn.

He was going to die. Worse, they might get Eren after this.

Jean didn't want anyone to get hurt because of him.

He didn't want to die.

Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god

Maybe he deserved this, for beating up all of those people. He had nearly killed someone, after all. Maybe he deserved this.

Maybe he didn't.

Jean wiped the blood away from his lip with his sleeve, shifting slightly.

He felt something press against his thigh in his pocket.

His pocket knife.

Things seemed to slow down, for a moment.

Boris's brother was guarding the door, glaring at Jean, always watching.

Could he do it? If he had to, could he do it? Could he kill another human being?

Jean realized with a sinking feeling that his choices were kill, or be killed.

He didn't want to die.

He'd have one shot, and one shot only.

Jean took a deep breath. Ignoring the pain in his bruised body, he hauled himself to his feet, hand darting to his pocket and taking out the knife. At the same time, he began to charge towards the door, unfolding the blade. It was the ornate knife Boris had given him when he joined.

Slashing wildly at Boris's brother, he had hoped that the threat of the blade would be enough to make him back off. Laughing, the bigger man dodged the slash easily, massive hands coming up to tighten around Jean's throat.

Everything went blurry.

Jean struggled, gasping for air but with the pressure on his throat, he couldn't breathe. He tried twisting, kicking, but nothing was working; the grip on him was too strong. All he could hear was this man's laughter, the blood pumping in his ears.

Was this how he was going to die? His parents wouldn't know for weeks. Eventually when they hadn't heard from him they would contact Trost University, and find out he had never attended. He was going to die as a pathetic criminal who never got the chance to redeem himself, never got the chance to fall in love, or live the comfortable life he dreamed of. He was going to die in a dingy backroom of a nightclub, and the last thing he would see was this man's creepy smile.

His vision was going blurry. He couldn't breathe.

And then Jean remembered something they had both forgotten;

He was still holding the knife.

Thrusting blindly, he raised the knife in a viscous swoop, one final vie for his life. The blade sunk into the man's chest, and he let out a surprised noise. Warm blood splattered from the wound, the man stumbled back, and released his grip on Jean.

Jean managed to pull the knife free before he collapsed to his knees, sucking in air.

Looking up at the man, he froze.

He was still, unmoving, eyes glassy as his body slumped on the floor. There was blood everywhere; on Jean's hand, his knife, the body, the floor-

Jean got to his feet slowly, feeling unsteady on his feet.

The door clicked open, and a familiar face entered.

"Shit," Hitch, resident smart-ass and tech whiz said, surveying the scene. She immediately rushed forward, grabbing Jean's arm and steadying him. "Hoped to get here before something like this happened," she muttered.

"What're you doin'?" Jean muttered. Hitch was one of the only people he was close with here, but she still worked for Boris.

"What's it look like? Helping you." Hitch half dragged Jean out of the room. "There's a back entrance, leave through there."

"I know you're helping me," Jean muttered. "Why?"

"Because you're a good kid, who doesn't deserve to die because you had too much of a heart to kill somebody."

They stayed in silence until they reached the back entrance.

Hitch grasped his shoulder. "Jean. Jean, listen to me. You can't stay here. Boris? He's only one of many small leaders in the Titans in this city. You can't stay in Karanese, no matter where you go, he'll find you. And murder you. The cops won't be any help either. The Titans are everywhere, but you'll be slightly safer away from here. Go, get your friend, get your ass out of Karanese, and stay out of sight. Don't draw any attention to yourself, and you might make it. Understood?"

"Understood." Jean hesitated, looking at the woman in front of him. "Hitch. What'll they do to you? If they know you helped me?"

Hitch laughed and looked away. "I can handle myself, big guy. Now scram."

Jean didn't need to be told again; he squeezed Hitch's shoulder and ran as fast as his bruised body could go.

Two hours later, and he and Eren were on a train to Trost.

He had filled Eren in on the whole story, and they were both shaken, to say the least.

Jean had washed the blood off his hands, and they had caught the first train to Trost. Not before Jean dumped the knife from Boris in the river, though.

They arrived in Trost a few hours later, just as the sun was rising. Eren had briefed Armin and Mikasa on their situation, and they were following directions to Armin's apartment. On the way, they passed a tiny corner store, the type that sold newspapers and candy and cigarettes.

"You've stopped smoking," Eren noted quietly.

They were both very quiet. What could they say to each other to make the fear go away? Was there anything worth saying?

"Yeah," was all Jean said.

Until he saw one of the morning's newspapers. The headline was heavy black print; KARANESE YOUNG MAN BEATEN BY TITANS

Underneath the headline was a picture of an all-too-familiar face. An old picture, where he was smiling and carefree, not fitting with the headline at all. Eren cursed. Jean was pretty sure he stopped breathing.

Thomas.

He raced into the store; his hands never stopped shaking as he dug out some change and paid for the newspaper. Walking back outside, he slumped on a bench with Eren as they read the short article. The news had probably just broken before print, so there wasn't much on it.

Thomas Wagner-Kirschtein, (25), was found in the early hours of the morning by the police. Beaten and bloodied, he was unconscious at the scene, and was quickly rushed to hospital. Titans had been written in a substance suspected to be blood on a nearby wall. Mr. Wagner-Kirschtein has yet to wake up in hospital. The extent of his injuries has not been released. Karanese Police Department is currently investigating.

It felt as if someone had snapped the last string tying him to earth. "Fuck," he muttered, clenching his fists. "This – this is all because of me. They attacked him to get at me, and he hasn't woken up yet, and-"

"Shut it, Kirschtein," Eren said, squeezing his shoulder. "He's going to wake up. Right now? We need to focus on ourselves. Thanks to you, we're in a right fuckin' mess."

Jean couldn't help but agree. "Shut the fuck up, Eren. It's your fault too!"

"I wish I hadn't listened to you," he whispered, closing his eyes and looking so, so tired. "We should go to the police."

"Like hell," Jean spat. "What can they do? Nothing. They won't catch any titans, they'll lock me up for murder, and they'll find me in prison, and kill me anyway."

Eren said nothing. "Let's just find Armin," he said quietly, after a long silence.

The next few hours passed in a blur; he remembered entering Armin's apartment and sleeping for a few hours. He remembered calling his parents, talking to them separately about Thomas and about how his fake life's schedule didn't allow time to come home for a while. He left then, when Eren was still asleep; leaving a single note;

-e
they want me more than they want you
leave me alone and you should be fine
-j

He wandered the streets of Trost, feeling disconnected.

Feelings were constantly swirling around inside; anger, guilt, regret. The worst was a relatively new one; loneliness. It came in on all sides, swooping down and crushing him. It was for the best though; at least in his isolation, he wasn't harming anybody else.

Eren of course, always found him. Always found him and yelled about how they should go to the police. As with most of their arguments, it resulted in a fist fight that left them both exhausted.

(There was still a bond between them though; a bond shown in the after moments of their scuffles when Eren would wordlessly hand him his cell phone and Jean would call his Mom and then his Dad; telling them about his fake life while they told him how Thomas still hadn't woken up).

Most of all, he tried to forget. Tried to numb the pain by blocking out the memories; focusing on putting one foot in front of the other instead of thinking back on how badly he had fucked up.

It worked for a while.

Sometimes the loneliness was too much to bear.

Weeks and weeks passed like that.

It was one of those days; where he craved human contact. He looked like a street rat though; and most simply threw him disgusted looks. He ended up outside a coffee shop, Hanji's House, looking in at the carefree folk inside. Hadn't even noticed he was staring until one of the workers came out.

"Hey there," he said. "I work in the coffee shop just there. I saw you looking in, and gosh it's so cold and wet, I thought you might need a little warming up." He was so ridiculously bright and optimistic despite the rain, Jean almost felt as if he was warming up at his words alone.

How long had it been since someone smiled at him like that? How long had it been since someone had been that friendly? It was too good to be true.

"I…I don't have any money," Jean had said.

"It's okay," Freckles said. "Hanji – she's the owner – always lets us take a coffee at the end of our shift, and she never charges us! But I don't really like coffee…I saw you looking in the window but you didn't come in, so I thought that you might enjoy a free coffee more than I would!"

He inspected the guy further; he was almost like an open book; Jean could practically read the kindness and positivity in the freckles on his face. Still; there had to be some catch. Before he believed that genuinely kind, selfless people were one in a million. Now, he doubted their existence altogether.

"Why are you being so nice?" he asked. "You don't know me."

Do you have to know someone to be nice to them?" the man asked. "It's just a cup of coffee. It's no big deal."

Kind, selfless, and naïve, it would appear. But he seemed genuine; Jean slowly reached for the cup, sighing in content as he sipped coffee for the first time in ages.

"Thank you," Jean said, gratitude rich in his voice.

"Anytime," the freckled man said.

Jean walked away, a smile on his face for the first time in weeks.