webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The morning after the cafe meeting felt thin, like a veil that might tear at any moment should I breathe too deeply. I walked to the university library, my footsteps echoing against the linoleum floors with a rhythmic, clinical precision that felt like a mockery of my own internal turbulence. Yesterday, in front of Hange and Levi, time had fractured. The silver watch had not merely ticked; it had unlocked a vault. I am a professor. I teach logic, I value order, and I believe in the evidence of the tangible world. Yet, as I paced the narrow aisles of the library basement, my hand lingered over the spines of centuries-old ledgers with a desperate, frantic need to anchor myself in something verifiable.

The air down here was thick with the scent of decaying paper and binding glue, a dry, dusty atmosphere that usually brought me clarity. Today, it felt suffocating. I pulled a thick, leather-bound volume from the shelf, my fingers trembling in a way I could not control. Every time my vision blurred, the faces of soldiers in blood-splattered uniforms flashed before my eyes—faces I saw, faces I remembered, yet faces that had no place in this modern reality. I am Erwin Smith. I have never held a blade, I have never ordered a charge, and yet, the ghost of a sword's hilt felt heavy in my hand. Why does my body remember the weight of war when my mind remembers only the quiet comfort of a lecture hall?

I traced the index of a chronicle covering the last century, searching for gaps, for inconsistencies that would explain the memories Levi had forced upon me. There was nothing. The lines were clean, the historical progression logical and unbroken. It was a perfect, antiseptic history where the titans had never been more than a myth, a piece of folklore invented to scare children in rural towns. If my memories were real, then this entire world was a lie, a carefully constructed simulation designed to keep me docile. I felt a surge of cold, intellectual rage. If this is a lie, then I must find the seam. Where does the synthetic reality end? I pulled another book down, my breath hitched as I stared at the yellowed pages. I needed to know if I was insane or if the world was truly as fragile as glass.

I did not hear them approach. In the hushed silence of the library, where the only sound was the distant hum of the ventilation system, I had become deaf to the world around me. It was a mistake, an amateur error that someone in my position should never have made. A sharp intake of breath behind my left shoulder caught my attention. I stiffened, my hand gripping the edge of the shelf as I slowly turned. Armin Arlert stood there, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his expression one of fragile hesitation. Beside him, almost blending into the shadows of the stacks as if she were a part of the architecture itself, stood Mikasa Ackerman.

Her presence was a physical weight. Her gaze fixed upon me with a cold, piercing intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, though I kept my posture composed, forcing myself to project the calm of a man who held nothing to hide. Why are you here, Armin, Mikasa, I asked, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the narrow aisle. I moved slightly, trying to establish a barrier of distance between us, though it felt futile against the gravity they exerted.

Armin shifted, his eyes darting to the book in my hand before settling on mine. He looked tired. It was a exhaustion that seemed to age him beyond his twenty years. We have been watching the library, Erwin, he said softly, his voice barely rising above a whisper. We knew you would come looking for the archives. We were hoping you would let it go, that you would choose the life you have now over the ghosts of what we lost on the other side.

I looked at him, searching for the child-like innocence the modern world expected of him, but I saw only the shadow of a survivor. I am not looking for ghosts, Armin, I am looking for the truth, I replied, my voice measured and precise. This reality... it does not sit well with the things I remember. If I cannot account for my own history, how can I trust anything I see in this room?

Mikasa shifted closer, her movements silent, predatory. Her eyes remained locked on mine, scanning my face as if she were looking for a crack in my composure. Some truths are not meant to be uncovered, she said, her voice devoid of any inflection, a sharp, cold statement that felt like a blade against my skin. There are consequences in this world for digging too deep. The system reset once. It can reset again, and you will not like what happens to you if you are the reason for the next erasure.

I felt a chill wash over me, a visceral, sinking fear that anchored itself in my stomach. A reset? They spoke of it as if it were a standard operating procedure, a banal administrative task rather than the obliteration of human consciousness. You speak as if you have lived this before, I noted, carefully stepping forward to put a bit of space between us, though every inch of my body remained braced for a reaction. How can you be so certain that I am a threat? Or perhaps you are simply afraid of what I might remember next?

Armin took a hesitant step toward me, his hands still hidden. Please, Erwin, he pleaded, the genuine concern in his eyes making his skepticism falter. We are trying to protect you. Not just from them, but from the weight of what comes back. You remember the commander, don't you? You remember the cost. Do you really want to carry that burden again? Every scroll, every register in this library is curated to keep the peace. When you pull on a thread, you aren't just revealing a secret; you are pulling apart the fabric of the society that allows everyone else to live in safety.

The logic was sound, and it was that very soundness that terrified me. Armin was appealing to my sense of duty, the commander's instinct to sacrifice the individual for the collective. He knew exactly how to manipulate the man he remembered me being. I looked down at the old, dusty book in my hand still, the weight of it feeling like an anchor. My past, my true existence, the life of a leader in a world of monsters—I felt it clawing at the edges of my mind, demanding acknowledgement.

But if I accept this, what happens to the professor I have become? What happens to the students I teach or the quiet life I have built here? I turned away from them, staring back at the row of books, the spines blurring into an indistinct wall of ink and leather. I feel like a ghost inhabiting a corpse, I admitted, my voice dropping. Even if I leave this place, even if I shut the book and walk away, the memory remains. It is already here. It is inside me. How do I live with the impossibility of this contradiction?

Mikasa did not blink. Her stoic expression was a fortress. You don't live with it, Professor, she said, her voice clipped. You just survive. You keep your head down. If you keep searching, you are inviting them to see you. And if they see you, they will make sure you never have the chance to remember anything ever again. She tilted her head, a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. Their presence here is a warning, not a debate. They are giving you the only life you have left. Choose wisely.

I felt the air in the library turn cold, an unnatural chill that seemed to emanate not from the vent, but from them. I stood between the shelves, the dusty scent of history filling my lungs, my pulse hammering against the base of my throat. I looked at Armin, who continued to look at me with a mix of pity and fear, and then at Mikasa, who stood as a silent, lethal sentinel awaiting my verdict. I knew they were right—the danger was real, and my academic curiosity was a triviality compared to the cosmic machinery that had apparently overwritten reality.

But the commander in me, that dormant, buried part of my psyche, refused to be cowed by the threat of erasure. If I was to be a ghost, then I would at least be a conscious one. I reached out and slowly, deliberately, slid the book back into its slot on the wooden shelf, the sound of the leather rubbing against the wood signaling a temporary surrender. However, the feeling of the heavy, forbidden knowledge remained, a sharp, unhealed wound in my psyche.

They stood silent for a long moment, watching me as I moved, their tension unspooling only slightly as they sensed my retreat. I looked up at them, my jaw set, my resolve hardening into a silent, secret defiance. I have understood your message, I said, my voice steady, masking the turmoil raging within. Go. I have my own work to finish, even if it is not the kind you wish for me to pursue. The library is a public space, and I am a professor. I have as much right to be here as anyone else.

Mikasa didn't step back immediately, her grey eyes searching mine one last time, looking for any lie. The tension between us was an electric charge, thin and volatile. She turned, her movements precise and efficient, walking away down the narrow aisle with a grace that suggested an entire life of movement born on battlefields, not campuses. Armin lingered a moment longer, a flash of genuine regret or perhaps empathy crossing his face, but he too eventually turned and followed her into the dark recesses of the back aisles. I watched as they disappeared, leaving me alone in the oppressive stillness of the quiet library. I stood there, caught between the suffocating safety of the present and the siren call of a violent, truth-filled past, holding the weight of a warning that had only served to confirm everything I already suspected.

The morning after the cafe meeting felt thin, like a veil that might tear at any moment should I breathe too deeply. I walked to the university library, my footsteps echoing against the linoleum floors with a rhythmic, clinical precision that felt like a mockery of my own internal turbulence. Yesterday, in front of Hange and Levi, time had fractured. The silver watch had not merely ticked; it had unlocked a vault. I am a professor. I teach logic, I value order, and I believe in the evidence of the tangible world. Yet, as I paced the narrow aisles of the library basement, my hand lingered over the spines of centuries-old ledgers with a desperate, frantic need to anchor myself in something verifiable.

The air down here was thick with the scent of decaying paper and binding glue, a dry, dusty atmosphere that usually brought me clarity. Today, it felt suffocating. I pulled a thick, leather-bound volume from the shelf, my fingers trembling in a way I could not control. Every time my vision blurred, the faces of soldiers in blood-splattered uniforms flashed before my eyes—faces I saw, faces I remembered, yet faces that had no place in this modern reality. I am Erwin Smith. I have never held a blade, I have never ordered a charge, and yet, the ghost of a sword's hilt felt heavy in my hand. Why does my body remember the weight of war when my mind remembers only the quiet comfort of a lecture hall?

I traced the index of a chronicle covering the last century, searching for gaps, for inconsistencies that would explain the memories Levi had forced upon me. There was nothing. The lines were clean, the historical progression logical and unbroken. It was a perfect, antiseptic history where the titans had never been more than a myth, a piece of folklore invented to scare children in rural towns. If my memories were real, then this entire world was a lie, a carefully constructed simulation designed to keep me docile. I felt a surge of cold, intellectual rage. If this is a lie, then I must find the seam. Where does the synthetic reality end? I pulled another book down, my breath hitched as I stared at the yellowed pages. I needed to know if I was insane or if the world was truly as fragile as glass.

I did not hear them approach. In the hushed silence of the library, where the only sound was the distant hum of the ventilation system, I had become deaf to the world around me. It was a mistake, an amateur error that someone in my position should never have made. A sharp intake of breath behind my left shoulder caught my attention. I stiffened, my hand gripping the edge of the shelf as I slowly turned. Armin Arlert stood there, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his expression one of fragile hesitation. Beside him, almost blending into the shadows of the stacks as if she were a part of the architecture itself, stood Mikasa Ackerman.

Her presence was a physical weight. Her gaze fixed upon me with a cold, piercing intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, though I kept my posture composed, forcing myself to project the calm of a man who held nothing to hide. Why are you here, Armin, Mikasa, I asked, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the narrow aisle. I moved slightly, trying to establish a barrier of distance between us, though it felt futile against the gravity they exerted.

Armin shifted, his eyes darting to the book in my hand before settling on mine. He looked tired. It was a exhaustion that seemed to age him beyond his twenty years. We have been watching the library, Erwin, he said softly, his voice barely rising above a whisper. We knew you would come looking for the archives. We were hoping you would let it go, that you would choose the life you have now over the ghosts of what we lost on the other side.

I looked at him, searching for the child-like innocence the modern world expected of him, but I saw only the shadow of a survivor. I am not looking for ghosts, Armin, I am looking for the truth, I replied, my voice measured and precise. This reality... it does not sit well with the things I remember. If I cannot account for my own history, how can I trust anything I see in this room?

Mikasa shifted closer, her movements silent, predatory. Her eyes remained locked on mine, scanning my face as if she were looking for a crack in my composure. Some truths are not meant to be uncovered, she said, her voice devoid of any inflection, a sharp, cold statement that felt like a blade against my skin. There are consequences in this world for digging too deep. The system reset once. It can reset again, and you will not like what happens to you if you are the reason for the next erasure.

I felt a chill wash over me, a visceral, sinking fear that anchored itself in my stomach. A reset? They spoke of it as if it were a standard operating procedure, a banal administrative task rather than the obliteration of human consciousness. You speak as if you have lived this before, I noted, carefully stepping forward to put a bit of space between us, though every inch of my body remained braced for a reaction. How can you be so certain that I am a threat? Or perhaps you are simply afraid of what I might remember next?

Armin took a hesitant step toward me, his hands still hidden. Please, Erwin, he pleaded, the genuine concern in his eyes making his skepticism falter. We are trying to protect you. Not just from them, but from the weight of what comes back. You remember the commander, don't you? You remember the cost. Do you really want to carry that burden again? Every scroll, every register in this library is curated to keep the peace. When you pull on a thread, you aren't just revealing a secret; you are pulling apart the fabric of the society that allows everyone else to live in safety.

The logic was sound, and it was that very soundness that terrified me. Armin was appealing to my sense of duty, the commander's instinct to sacrifice the individual for the collective. He knew exactly how to manipulate the man he remembered me being. I looked down at the old, dusty book in my hand still, the weight of it feeling like an anchor. My past, my true existence, the life of a leader in a world of monsters—I felt it clawing at the edges of my mind, demanding acknowledgement.

But if I accept this, what happens to the professor I have become? What happens to the students I teach or the quiet life I have built here? I turned away from them, staring back at the row of books, the spines blurring into an indistinct wall of ink and leather. I feel like a ghost inhabiting a corpse, I admitted, my voice dropping. Even if I leave this place, even if I shut the book and walk away, the memory remains. It is already here. It is inside me. How do I live with the impossibility of this contradiction?

Mikasa did not blink. Her stoic expression was a fortress. You don't live with it, Professor, she said, her voice clipped. You just survive. You keep your head down. If you keep searching, you are inviting them to see you. And if they see you, they will make sure you never have the chance to remember anything ever again. She tilted her head, a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. Their presence here is a warning, not a debate. They are giving you the only life you have left. Choose wisely.

I felt the air in the library turn cold, an unnatural chill that seemed to emanate not from the vent, but from them. I stood between the shelves, the dusty scent of history filling my lungs, my pulse hammering against the base of my throat. I looked at Armin, who continued to look at me with a mix of pity and fear, and then at Mikasa, who stood as a silent, lethal sentinel awaiting my verdict. I knew they were right—the danger was real, and my academic curiosity was a triviality compared to the cosmic machinery that had apparently overwritten reality.

But the commander in me, that dormant, buried part of my psyche, refused to be cowed by the threat of erasure. If I was to be a ghost, then I would at least be a conscious one. I reached out and slowly, deliberately, slid the book back into its slot on the wooden shelf, the sound of the leather rubbing against the wood signaling a temporary surrender. However, the feeling of the heavy, forbidden knowledge remained, a sharp, unhealed wound in my psyche.

They stood silent for a long moment, watching me as I moved, their tension unspooling only slightly as they sensed my retreat. I looked up at them, my jaw set, my resolve hardening into a silent, secret defiance. I have understood your message, I said, my voice steady, masking the turmoil raging within. Go. I have my own work to finish, even if it is not the kind you wish for me to pursue. The library is a public space, and I am a professor. I have as much right to be here as anyone else.

Mikasa didn't step back immediately, her grey eyes searching mine one last time, looking for any lie. The tension between us was an electric charge, thin and volatile. She turned, her movements precise and efficient, walking away down the narrow aisle with a grace that suggested an entire life of movement born on battlefields, not campuses. Armin lingered a moment longer, a flash of genuine regret or perhaps empathy crossing his face, but he too eventually turned and followed her into the dark recesses of the back aisles. I watched as they disappeared, leaving me alone in the oppressive stillness of the quiet library. I stood there, caught between the suffocating safety of the present and the siren call of a violent, truth-filled past, holding the weight of a warning that had only served to confirm everything I already suspected. «The Professor's Reckoning», part 4. Fanfiction — Attack on Titan.

Shadows in the Library. The Professor's Reckoning — Attack on Titan fanfiction | Fanfica

Shadows in the Library

Devote Your Hearts

Erwin Smith has built a quiet life as a university professor, his past erased by a world that never knew Titans. Then Levi and Hange appear at his lecture—hallucinations or messengers from a forgotten timeline. They insist the peace is a lie, and that only Erwin can prevent reality from falling apart. But as shared visions of blood and wings surface, he must choose: surrender to madness, or trust the ghosts of a war he never fought.

The Professor's Reckoning — Shadows in the Library

Parte 4: Shadows in the Library