Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain glossed the cobblestone street in ribbons of gold where the lamplight struck. The city was never quiet, not even at this hour, somewhere down the block, a piano banged out a ragtime tune. It mingled with the distant shouts of drunks spilling from a tavern.

A sleek black Ford pulled up to the curb outside the back entrance of the Cadenza Club . The headlights sliced the mist before flicking out.

The rear door swung open, and Annie Leonhart stepped out.

Her cream trench coat cinched at the waist, fedora pulled low, she looked like she belonged in the shadows. The rain kissed her hair where it escaped the brim. She closed the car door with a sharp click and glanced down at her hands.

Scarlet streaks clung stubbornly to her pale skin.

She moved quickly toward the wall tap by the stage door, boots striking the wet pavement. The iron handle groaned as she twisted it, releasing a rush of icy water. She scrubbed in quick, efficient motions, not frantically, but like someone used to erasing evidence.

Bertholdt Hoover was dead.

Tall, quiet Bertholdt, who’d smiled at her from across rehearsal rooms and whispered promises of “just the two of us, Annie.” He’d been in her apartment tonight when she came home. Said he’d “heard rumors” about her and Hitch. Said they needed to “clear the air.”

She’d cleared it with two bullets.

The footsteps behind her were soft but familiar.

“You’re wasting water, doll,” came Hitch Dreyse’s voice, laced with the same dry amusement as always.

Annie shook the droplets from her hands, straightening without turning around. “The show starts in fifteen.”

Hitch stepped into view, a cigarette perched between painted nails, a fur coat draped over a sequined dress that clung in all the right places. “Not a hello , not a how’s your night , just ‘The show starts in fifteen.’” She exhaled smoke and smirked. “Guess it’s been a busy evening, huh?”

Annie’s tone was cool. “You could say that.”

Inside, the Cadenza Club was a storm of sound and movement. Showgirls hurried between dressing rooms in a shimmer of fringe and feathers. Stagehands shouted over the blare of a trumpet as the band tuned up. The scent of powder, perfume, and cigarette smoke tangled thick in the air.

Annie strode toward the dressing room she shared with Hitch. She shed her trench coat, revealing a silk slip beneath, and hung it neatly on a hook.

Hitch followed, leaning in the doorway. “You know, they’re saying the cops were sniffing around Hoover’s place earlier.” She tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Anything I should know about?”

Annie met her gaze in the mirror, unflinching. “He won’t be sniffing around me anymore.”

Hitch’s laugh was low and knowing. “You really are something, Leonhart.”

They dressed in near-silence. Annie’s costume was a midnight-black bodysuit dripping with silver beads, the kind that caught the light with every step. She rolled sheer stockings up her legs, smoothed them, then tugged on opera gloves that reached her elbows.

Hitch slid into a deep-red gown slit to the thigh, adjusting the straps before leaning on the vanity beside Annie. “You ever think about how lucky we are? Most girls who shoot a man end up in the river. Us?” She grinned. “We get to go on stage.”

Annie’s painted lips curled into the faintest smirk. “That’s the business.”

She adjusted her headpiece, a spray of black feathers arching above her pale hair. Somewhere in the city, Bertholdt’s body was cooling on the floor. But here, the only thing that mattered was the show.

The stage manager’s voice boomed down the hallway: “Two minutes!”

The dressing room was in a frenzy now. Corsets tugged tight. Feather boas tossed across vanities. Laughter sharp as champagne bubbles.

Annie sat at her mirror, carefully smoothing the last stray hair beneath her headpiece. She wasn’t rushing, she never rushed. That was Hitch’s thing.

The redhead swanned about the room like the floor belonged to her, swinging a glittering stole over her shoulders. “You’re looking murderous tonight,” she murmured in Annie’s ear as she passed.

Annie didn’t look up from her lipstick. “I’m always murderous.”

The stage manager leaned into the doorframe. “Velma, Hitch, you’re on in sixty!”

Hitch grinned, striding for the hallway. “Let’s make ‘em forget their wives, Leonhart.”

Annie rose, her long gloves squeaking faintly against the beads of her costume. She followed Hitch to the wings, where the pulse of the band could already be felt through the boards, the muted thump of a bass, the brassy warm-up cough of a trumpet.

From here, she could see the crowd through the slit in the curtain. The Cadenza was packed, smoke curling toward the chandeliers, champagne flutes glittering, men in tailored suits leaning forward as if the stage was already touching them.

Hitch leaned in close, voice low. “Ready to make ‘em beg?”

Annie smirked. “Always.”

The lights hit like heat. A brassy fanfare burst from the orchestra pit, the kind that made the crowd’s chatter die in an instant.

Hitch strutted out first, hips swaying under the slit of her crimson gown. She let the applause swell before she tipped her head toward the mic and purred,

“Come on, babe, why don’t we paint the town…”

Annie emerged from the shadows stage right, stepping in time with the sultry stomp of the bass drum. The crowd’s roar swelled, not all cheers, some murmurs. Leonhart rarely sang. When she did, people listened.
She took the mic from Hitch’s waiting hand, her voice cool, velvet over steel.

“…and all… that… jazz.”

The orchestra punched the air with a blare of brass, and they were off.

Hitch played to the front tables, leaning into a man’s lap and stealing the olive from his martini with a wink before sauntering back upstage. Annie prowled the boards instead, her eyes cutting through the crowd like a knife, letting them think she was singing to them, but never letting them have her.

They twined and untwined around each other, trading verses and sly glances. Annie’s voice was low, controlled, while Hitch’s had that teasing lilt that made even the women in the crowd blush.

When they hit the refrain together,

“…and all that jazz!”
Hitch spun under Annie’s arm, letting the slit of her gown flare high, while Annie caught her waist just long enough to make the front row gasp.

By the bridge, Annie stepped forward alone, the spotlight narrowing on her as the band quieted to a simmer. She let the silence stretch just long enough to feel dangerous before she purred the next line, her gaze sweeping the audience like she could pick her next victim.

Then Hitch crashed back in with a laugh and a shimmy, the lights flaring gold again, the tempo rising until both women were in perfect sync, one hot, one cold, both untouchable.

The number ended with Hitch leaning back against Annie’s front, both their arms flung wide toward the crowd as the last brass note blared.

The applause hit like a tidal wave.

Hitch blew a kiss. Annie gave only the smallest, sharpest nod, and together they walked off, the roar of the crowd chasing them into the wings.

The backstage air was thick with heat and cigarette smoke, as if the applause still clung to the walls. The heavy curtain muffled the roar of the audience, but Annie could still feel it, a faint vibration in her ribs.

Hitch was the first to speak, voice a little breathless from the dance. “That,” she said, tossing her head so her hair fell back over her shoulders, “was one for the books.”

Annie didn’t answer. She was tugging off her gloves one finger at a time, each slow peel deliberate, like she could strip the crowd from her skin the same way she stripped the satin from her hands.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel that,” Hitch continued, grabbing a towel from a passing stagehand to dab at the sweat beading along her hairline. “Half that room would’ve jumped on stage if they thought you’d let them touch you.”

Annie gave a faint smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Half the room’s drunk enough to think they could.”

They reached their dressing room, but before Hitch could shove the door open, a voice called down the hall, deep, smooth, with that kind of confidence that didn’t ask for attention, it took it.

“Well, well. If it isn't Cadenza's golden girls.”

They both turned.

Jean Kirstein was leaning against the doorframe of the greenroom, hat tipped back just enough to show his sharp eyes. He was still in his long camel coat, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that trailed smoke lazily toward the ceiling. His suit was immaculate, pinstriped charcoal with a gold tie that caught the dim backstage lights.

Annie’s gaze narrowed a fraction. “Jean.”

“Leonhart,” he said easily, then let his eyes drift to Hitch. “Dreyse.”

Hitch’s lips curled in a slow smile. “Well, if it isn’t Jean Kistein himself. What’s the matter, Jean? Is the courtroom too quiet tonight?”

He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and said, “Oh, it’s never quiet when I’m in it. But you two…” His gaze shifted between them like he was weighing something. “You’ve just made the kind of noise I like.”

Hitch leaned one shoulder against the wall, her grin turning playful. “What kind of noise is that?”

“The kind that makes headlines.”

Annie stayed still, her expression unreadable, though a muscle in her jaw ticked. She didn’t like where this was going. Jean never talked without a reason, and he never complimented without an angle.

“What do you want, Kirstein?” she asked flatly.

Jean pushed off the doorframe, strolling closer with the easy gait of a man who knew he’d be welcome whether anyone admitted it or not. He stopped just shy of her, the faint scent of whiskey and cologne drifting from his coat.

“I want,” he said softly, “to make sure you’re both ready for what comes next.”

Hitch arched a brow. “Which is?”

Jean flicked ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray. “Word’s already out, Annie. Bertholdt Hoover’s dead.”

Annie didn’t flinch. “And?”

“And,” Jean went on, “rumor’s say he was seen with you earlier tonight. Your apartment, to be exact.”

Hitch’s brows shot up, her gaze darting between them. “You didn’t tell me the stiff was-”

“Not here,” Annie cut her off sharply. Her eyes were still on Jean. “You’ve got a point to make. Make it.”

Jean’s smirk deepened, but there was no humor in it. “The cops are sniffing. They’ll be at the club before the night’s over, asking questions, hoping you slip.”

“They won’t get anything from me,” Annie said.

“Maybe not,” Jean said, “but the papers will. And once they do, your career? Done. That number you just gave out there will be the last time anyone sees you under the lights.”

Silence pressed between them for a moment, broken only by the muffled sound of the band starting another number onstage.

Jean took another drag, watching her through the smoke. “Lucky for you, I happen to be the best damn lawyer in this city. And if you’re smart, you’ll hire me before someone else writes your ending.”

Annie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed locked on his, cool and appraising. “You think I need you.”

Jean’s voice dipped lower. “I know you do. You’ve got the beauty, the mystery, the ice-in-the-veins thing going for you, Leonhart, but without someone to spin the story? You’re just another headline: chorus girl kills lover in jealous rage. ”

Hitch gave a low whistle. “Well, when you put it like that…” She glanced at Annie. “He’s not wrong. The vultures out there don’t care about the truth, only the story.”

Annie finally spoke, her tone sharp as glass. “And what’s your price?”

Jean smiled, not wide, just enough to show he knew he’d hooked her. “Same as always: ten percent of whatever this scandal earns you. Book deals, interviews, bigger shows. You’ll be famous, Leonhart. Not just here, everywhere.”

“Famous for murder,” she said dryly.

Jean tipped his head. “Famous for surviving it.”

The club’s door to the alley slammed somewhere down the hall, followed by the quick, clipped footsteps of the stage manager. He looked rattled, glancing over his shoulder before leaning toward Hitch and Annie.

“Police just pulled up out front,” he whispered. “Two of ‘em. Asking for you, Annie.”

Hitch let out a low laugh. “Guess you’re popular tonight.”

Jean straightened, his cigarette now just a glowing stub between his fingers. “This is where you let me do the talking. You want to keep singing, you want to keep this little spotlight you’ve got? You walk out there and introduce me as your attorney.”

Annie’s expression didn’t change, but the weight of her pause said plenty.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Fine.”

Jean’s smirk returned, but this time it was softer, almost approving. “Smart girl.”

They stepped into the greenroom, where a few other performers were sprawled on velvet chairs, gossiping and sipping champagne between acts. All eyes turned toward Annie and Hitch, then toward Jean. Whispers buzzed like flies in the air.

Hitch sauntered ahead, her red gown catching the light. “Make way, boys, murderess coming through.”

The reaction was a ripple of gasps and muffled laughter, but Annie didn’t so much as glance at them. She kept her eyes forward, her posture a weapon.

The double doors to the club’s front lounge swung open, revealing the two uniformed officers waiting by the bar. One of them, a tall man with a hawkish face, straightened when he saw her.

“Miss Leonhart?” he asked.

Annie stopped a pace away, Jean stepping neatly into place beside her. His voice was warm, almost casual. “She’s Miss Leonhart, yes. And I’m Jean Kirstein, her legal counsel. Whatever questions you have, you’ll direct them to me.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “We just want to ask her.”

“And she’ll be happy to answer,” Jean cut in smoothly, “at my office tomorrow morning. I’m sure you understand the need for propriety. After all…” His gaze flicked toward the rest of the lounge, where patrons were watching with avid curiosity. “This isn’t the sort of thing you want splashed across the Times because you made a scene in a nightclub.”

The second officer, shorter and broader, muttered something to his partner. The hawk-faced one looked back at Jean, then Annie, then gave a curt nod. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m.”

“Perfect,” Jean said with a flash of teeth. “We’ll see you then.”

As the officers left, Hitch let out a breath she’d been holding and muttered, “Well, that’s one way to make an entrance.”

Jean turned to Annie, his smirk settling back into place. “You just got your first reprieve. Don’t waste it.”

Annie held his gaze for a long moment. “This doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“You don’t have to,” Jean said, tipping his hat. “You just have to let me win.”

And with that, he stepped away, blending into the smoky haze of the club like he’d been part of it all along.

Hitch leaned toward Annie, her grin wicked. “I think I like him.”

Annie didn’t answer. She was already thinking about tomorrow, and how many ways this could go wrong.

But for tonight, the show went on.

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling since morning, steady, cold, and relentless. It gave the whole city a kind of sheen, the cobblestones slick and shining under the dim glow of the streetlamps. Reiner walked with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the downpour. His hat brim sent rivulets down to the pavement, but his collar was already wet through.

The war had made him hate the rain. It smelled too much like the marches, like mud that never dried, like nights when the dead had to be carried in it. But here it was again, hammering down, making the gaslights smear into red and gold streaks in his vision.

He was headed to Mikasa’s. She’d called earlier, or rather, she hadn’t called. That was the thing. Usually she would. Just to talk, just to hear a voice she trusted. But tonight there was nothing. And Reiner had a gut that worked better than a clock; he knew when something was off.

He crossed in front of the pawn shop below her apartment, the window displaying a graveyard of forgotten brass instruments and cracked watch faces. The smell of stale cigars drifted down from the upstairs hallway as he climbed the narrow, uneven stairs. The plaster walls were bubbled with damp, and every step groaned.

Upstairs, Mikasa’s cramped apartment smelled of stale smoke and cheap perfume, the kind that clung to everything like a second skin. A single flickering lamp cast a sickly yellow glow over the threadbare carpet and peeling wallpaper, its circle of light barely pushing back the shadows that pooled in every corner.

She lay propped on one elbow, eyes fixed on Eren sprawled across the rumpled sheets like he owned the place. His bare chest caught the lamplight, skin slick with a faint sheen of sweat. Between two fingers dangled a smoldering cigarette, ash trembling like his patience.

The sheets tangled around their legs, remnants of a night that had felt warmer before truth and lies had settled in the room like poison.

“You know, babe,” Eren murmured, his voice thick with that easy, lazy drawl that used to charm her, now laced with something slippery, something false, “I could get you in front of the right people real soon. Big names. Club owners. You’d be headlining before the month’s out.”

Mikasa’s eyes narrowed, steady and unblinking. “The right people?”

He flicked ash carelessly into an empty glass on the floor. “Yeah. Guys who owe me favors. Big-time favors.”

She studied his face, searching for any flicker of honesty behind those smooth lies. There wasn’t one.

“Funny,” she said quietly, “I’ve never heard of any of these ‘big names’.”

His confident smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he slapped it back in place. “What, you think I’m making it up?”

Her voice was steady, cold as steel. “I think you like what you’re getting from me. And you think I’ll keep giving it to you so long as you dangle that big break in front of me.”

Eren chuckled, sharp and bitter, no warmth in the sound. “You saying I’m using you?”

She met his gaze without flinching. “Aren’t you?”

His eyes snapped fiery, and he pushed himself upright, the sheets falling away. “I’ve been keeping you fed, dressed, off the streets.”

“You’ve been keeping yourself entertained,” she said flatly, the weight of years behind those words.

The flash of anger in his eyes burned hotter now. “You think you can make it without me? You’d be back singing for drunks who can’t even spell your name.”

Outside, the rain hammered against the windowpane like a warning.

Slowly, she reached for the nightstand. Her fingers brushed cold steel.

Eren grinned, that predatory smile that had once promised the world. “Oh, you’re feisty tonight.”

The first shot cracked through the room like thunder.

He jerked, eyes wide and stunned, blood blossoming through his shirt like spilled ink. The cigarette dropped, forgotten, rolling across the floor.

The second shot echoed, final and unforgiving.

Silence swallowed the apartment, thick as smoke.

The clock ticked. The revolver smoked.

She laid it back on the nightstand like a cup she’d just finished with.

The knock came then, three slow, measured raps.

She opened the door to find Reiner standing there, rain dripping off him, paper bag in hand. His eyes went past her to the bed.

“Mikasa…” His voice was low, weighted. “What happened?”

“He lied to me.”

He stepped inside slowly, setting the bag on the table. “That’s Eren Jaeger.”

“Yes.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You know what this means.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I need you to take the blame.”

That stopped him. “What?”

“You’re a man. A decorated veteran. You could say it was self-defense. They’d give you a few years. But me-” she stepped close, her voice like stone, “half-Hizuran women don’t get trials here. They get a rope or a bullet.”

Reiner’s gaze locked on hers. His gut twisted, not because she was wrong, but because she was right. The images came unbidden: the cells, the courts, the smell of cold iron, the war nights when he’d been told to die for someone else’s mistakes.

“You’re asking me to lie to the police and spend years in a cage,” he said finally.

“I’m asking you to keep me alive,” she said. “If I’m gone, you’ll drink yourself into the ground inside six months.”

He shook his head. “You think it’s easier for a man in there? I fought to get free of that. I’m not going back.”

“You wouldn’t last an hour on the gallows,” she said.

His jaw locked. “And you think I wouldn’t see your face there every night after? Hear your voice until it kills me too?”

“Then do this.”

“No.” His voice was firm now, but his eyes burned. “I’ve spent my life being told to lay myself down for others. I won’t do it again.”

They stared at each other. Rain hammered the glass.

Sirens drew close.

The knock rattled the door.

“Mikasa Ackerman! Open up!”

Two officers stepped in — tall and lean, short and sharp-eyed. The taller one scanned the room, saw the bed.

“Do you know the deceased?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone else here?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“Yes.”

The short one snorted. “Figures. The foreign ones don’t even bother lying.”

Her eyes went cold. “Say that again.”

“Enough,” the tall one said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it. “Any reason we should believe this was self-defense?”

“He lied to me,” she said.

The short one smirked. “You people kill for less.”

She stepped forward, but the tall one raised a hand to stop her. “Miss Ackerman, you’re under arrest for homicide.”

The cuffs clicked, cold on her wrists.

One officer began searching drawers, pulling open the wardrobe, rifling through dresses. The other questioned Reiner.

“You live here?”

“No,” he said.

“How long have you known her?”

“Long enough.”

“You see the shooting?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?” The cop’s voice was oily. “Because if you were here, we can make you an accessory. And prison’s a bad place for a guy like you.”

Reiner held his gaze, silent.

As they led Mikasa past him, hand cuffed behind her, she looked back. His face was stone, but his hands were fists in his pockets.

He didn’t move.

The rain hasn’t stopped all night.

It runs in sheets down the fire escape outside her window, rattles against the glass, and seeps into the cuffs of her dress where two policemen have their fists clamped around her arms. They haul her out of the apartment like she’s nothing but a sack of flour. Her bare feet slap against the wooden floorboards. One of them jerks her forward so hard her shoulder screams.

The hallway smells of mildew and pipe smoke. A nosy neighbor’s door is cracked open just enough for a pale eye to peek through. The younger cop notices and sneers. “You wanna picture, sweetheart?” he barks, and the door slams shut.

The rain greets her as they shove her out into the night. It’s colder than she expected, needle-sharp against her skin. Somewhere below, the streetlight paints puddles in jaundiced gold. The whole block feels like it’s leaning in to watch.

“Watch your step, doll,” the older cop says, mock-gentle, as his partner shoves her toward the car. The mockery drips heavier than the rain. Her hands are cuffed behind her back, steel bites into her wrists with each rough tug. She can’t steady herself. Her foot catches on the curb, and she stumbles hard.

The older cop doesn’t bother to catch her. She hits her knees on the wet concrete, skin splitting under the impact. A flash of pain shoots up her leg, but she clenches her jaw and doesn’t give him the sound he wants.

“Clumsy for a dancer,” he smirks. The younger one grabs a fistful of her soaked dress and hauls her upright.

The car door yawns open. The leather inside is cracked and smells of sweat and whiskey. They push her in without ceremony, her hip slamming into the edge of the seat. The door shuts like a vault door locking.

They take their time getting in.

The engine coughs, then rumbles. The rain hammers harder against the roof.

The younger cop twists around from the passenger seat to look at her. His grin is all teeth. “Half-breed like you? Lucky we don’t deal with your kind the old-fashioned way.” His eyes roam slow, deliberate. “Maybe I should search you again.”

Her wrists strain against the cuffs. “You already searched me.”

“That was before I thought of places you might hide things,” he says, voice low with implication. His hand lingers on the back of the seat.

The older one chuckles, driving slow enough to hit every pothole. “Save it, kid. She’s going to the rope soon enough. Waste of effort.”

The younger one doesn’t stop looking at her. “Hizuran blood,” he says, like the words taste dirty. “Always thought you lot were trouble.”

She stares past him, out the rain-smeared window. Streetlamps blur in the glass, halos smeared by the water. Every jolt of the car rattles her teeth, but she doesn’t flinch.

They think this is fear. It isn’t.

She doesn’t regret killing Eren. Not a flicker.

She sees him the way he was in those last seconds, shock cutting through the arrogance, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers. His lies laid bare. His last breath wasted on nothing.

She just wishes Reiner had said yes.

He could’ve taken the fall. They would’ve believed him a big, blond, harmless type who could pass for all-American. He might’ve served a few years, maybe less, with the right jury. But her? They’ll see the shape of her eyes, hear her name, and the verdict will be ready before the trial begins.

Instead, he’d looked at her with that heavy, guilty silence and said no.

The car jolts to a stop.

They drag her out again, the rain soaking her through to the bone. The police station looms ahead, brick and shadow, the kind of place where sound dies fast.

Inside, the air smells of damp wool and stale coffee. The desk sergeant doesn’t even ask what she’s in for. He just looks at her cuffs, her wet hair clinging to her face, and scribbles something in the logbook.

The older cop pushes her forward. “Booking.”

The hallway to the cells is narrow, the floor uneven. One of them gives her a shove between the shoulder blades, and she goes down again, hands trapped behind her, no way to catch herself. Her cheek smacks the floor, the taste of copper flooding her mouth.

“Oops,” the younger one says, not sorry at all.

They haul her back up, walk her the rest of the way without slowing. A barred door screeches open.

The cell is small, the kind where you can touch both walls if you stretch your arms. The cot is nothing but a sagging frame with a thin mattress.

The cuffs come off, but only because there’s nowhere for her to go. The younger one drops them on the floor just to make her stoop for them. She doesn’t. He kicks them under the cot.

The door slams shut.

The rain is quieter in here, but it’s still there, a constant whisper against the high, barred window.

She sits on the cot, dripping. Her knees throb where they hit the street. Her wrists are raw. The taste of blood lingers on her tongue.

She thinks about Eren again, not the man in bed beside her hours ago but the one sprawled on the floor after. And she thinks about Reiner, about how he could’ve said yes. Could’ve bought her a few years. Could’ve bought her life.

Instead, she’s here, and the rope is already in someone’s hands.

She isn’t sorry.

She isn’t afraid.

But she knows the rain will still be falling when they come for her.