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 fluorescent lights of the university office hummed with a low-frequency vibration that seemed to crawl inside the skull. Erwin Smith sat at his mahogany desk, a singular island of order amidst a sea of chaotic academic debris. The air was heavy with the dry, slightly dusty scent of old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of the ink flowing from the fountain pen gripped in his fingers. Outside the tall, narrow windows, the city was a tapestry of muted blues and flickering artificial amber, an sprawling urban expanse that never truly slept, though it had deepened into the quiet, hollow hours of the night.

Erwin leaned forward, his elbows resting against the edge of the desk. The movement pulled the fabric of his dress shirt tight across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the steady pulse in his forearms. He was methodically reviewing the stack of term papers before him, marking errant commas and redundant clauses with the precision of a surgeon. His breath came slow and controlled, a rhythmic tide that matched the steady ticking of the wall clock. Every gesture was deliberate, a byproduct of a mind that sought comfort in the binary reality of right and wrong, black ink on white sheets.

He reached out for a second cup of coffee, his fingers finding the cool ceramic without needing to look. It was lukewarm, the bitter sludge at the bottom tasting of long hours and stale ambition. He swallowed it without protest, his focus shifting back to the next paragraph of a student's exploration of modern political theory. Despite the late hour, his posture remained impeccable, his spine straight, his shoulders not yet burdened by the fatigue that surely resided in his muscles. Everything felt correct, logical, expected, until his gaze drifted to the personal notebook he kept tucked beside his laptop.

It was a leather-bound volume he used to track his own erratic thoughts and disjointed lecture concepts. He shifted his grip, the pen hovering over the page. He reached for the edge of the paper to flip it, needing only a blank space to jot down a citation he had just recalled. As he turned the page, the movement of his hand paused. His gaze caught on a margin where his own handwriting usually dominated the landscape in disciplined, slanted script.

There, interrupting the neat lines, was a sketch. It was not academic. It was not a diagram or a structured note. It was a crude, frantic drawing rendered in dark, unforgiving strokes of lead. It depicted something jagged, monumental, and impossible—a towering form made of hollow, flesh-like geometry, distorted in a way that defied the laws of proportion. Beneath it, he had scribbled a string of latitude and longitude coordinates that looked like they had been clawed into the paper rather than written with a steady hand. He traced the lines with his thumb, feeling the indentation where the lead had pressed deep into the fiber.

He did not recognize the design. The style was frantic, completely at odds with his own preference for symmetry and clarity. He tried to remember the moment of its creation. Perhaps he had been absent-minded during a faculty meeting? Perhaps he had been sleep-deprived? He searched the archives of his memory for the context of this mark, but found only an echoing void. It was as if a stranger had borrowed his hand to leave a message in a place he was meant to ignore. He felt a phantom chill creep up the back of his neck, a prickly sensation that stood the fine hairs on his skin upright.

Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to thin. The warmth of the office turned sterile, almost biting, as the smell of stale coffee was replaced by a strange, metallic scent of ozone and earth. Erwin felt a vibration in his inner ear, a pressure that reached out from the base of his skull. He let go of the pen, and it clattered against the desk, a lonely sound that echoed far too loudly in the silent, tomb-like office. He pressed his palms into the cool wood of his desk, head dipping low as a sharp, piercing pain blossomed behind his eyes.

It felt like a cold spike of ice being driven into his temple, a physical intrusion that made his vision swim with jagged, bright spots. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that burned his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers curled into fists against the wood, his knuckles whitening in the dim light. The headache expanded, pulsing with a rhythmic violence that threatened to overwrite his sense of place and time. Flashes of imagery—a gray sky, the thunderous sound of something great colliding with stone, the smell of smoke and fear—flickered in the back of his mind, fragments of a dream he had never actually dreamt.

He forced his jaw to unclench, though his teeth were aching from the sheer intensity of the sudden pressure. He needed to be rational. He needed to apply the principles of logic that had sustained his career. This was physical fatigue, a psychosomatic reaction to overwork. It had to be. He took in a ragged breath, the sensation slowly receding into a dull, thumping ache that settled behind his eyebrow. He blinked several times, his eyes tearing slightly, and gazed out into the dark room. Everything was as it had been, the bookshelves holding their silent, leather-bound guardians, the stacks of papers waiting for his pen, the silence absolute.

He reached out and closed the notebook. He didn't want to see the drawing anymore. The sight of the jagged shapes and the senseless, frantic scribble made his stomach roll with a disquiet he couldn't put a name to. It was an intrusion of the irrational in a life that he had carefully constructed to be devoid of such shadows. He stood up, his movements stiffer than they had been even a moment ago, and felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He gripped the edge of the desk, waiting for the floor to stabilize beneath his leather shoes.

He reached for his blazer, which had been draped over the back of his chair. His movements were automated, precise but lacking his usual effortless grace. He slid his arms into the sleeves, the weight of the fabric a welcome anchor against the lingering numbness in his head. He pulled his bag toward him, the leather straps cold against his palms, and began to sweep his essential items from the desk surface. His wallet, his keys, the heavy, academic journal he had been holding. He shoved them into his bag without the usual organization, his only desire to exit this space, to be somewhere that did not feel like it was watching him.

He didn't look back at the desk. He didn't look at the stack of papers that still needed to be graded, the work that usually defined his sense of purpose. He felt as though the objects themselves were tethered to a version of reality that was beginning to thin out, losing its density and focus. He walked toward the door, his footfalls sounding dead and flat on the carpeted floor. Each step was a commitment to leave. He reached the threshold, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth metal of the door handle. He felt entirely unmoored, the professional veneer of Erwin Smith, the esteemed professor, feeling like a suit of armor that was suddenly several sizes too small.

He tightened his grip on the handle, his pulse quickening in the quiet of the hallway. The thought of walking out into the night felt both terrifying and necessary. He hesitated for a fleeting fraction of a second, his heart thudding against his ribs as he processed the profound disorientation of the last few minutes. Then, with a firm, final motion, he turned the handle and pushed, readying himself to step out into the hallway and walk toward the exit. He closed his notebook, leaving the image buried beneath the dark, heavy leather, unsettled by the realization that the handwriting, with all its chaotic, jagged energy and desperate intent, was undeniably, terrifyingly, his own.

The fluorescent lights of the university office hummed with a low-frequency vibration that seemed to crawl inside the skull. Erwin Smith sat at his mahogany desk, a singular island of order amidst a sea of chaotic academic debris. The air was heavy with the dry, slightly dusty scent of old paper and the sharp, metallic tang of the ink flowing from the fountain pen gripped in his fingers. Outside the tall, narrow windows, the city was a tapestry of muted blues and flickering artificial amber, an sprawling urban expanse that never truly slept, though it had deepened into the quiet, hollow hours of the night.

Erwin leaned forward, his elbows resting against the edge of the desk. The movement pulled the fabric of his dress shirt tight across his shoulders, the sleeves rolled back to reveal the steady pulse in his forearms. He was methodically reviewing the stack of term papers before him, marking errant commas and redundant clauses with the precision of a surgeon. His breath came slow and controlled, a rhythmic tide that matched the steady ticking of the wall clock. Every gesture was deliberate, a byproduct of a mind that sought comfort in the binary reality of right and wrong, black ink on white sheets.

He reached out for a second cup of coffee, his fingers finding the cool ceramic without needing to look. It was lukewarm, the bitter sludge at the bottom tasting of long hours and stale ambition. He swallowed it without protest, his focus shifting back to the next paragraph of a student's exploration of modern political theory. Despite the late hour, his posture remained impeccable, his spine straight, his shoulders not yet burdened by the fatigue that surely resided in his muscles. Everything felt correct, logical, expected, until his gaze drifted to the personal notebook he kept tucked beside his laptop.

It was a leather-bound volume he used to track his own erratic thoughts and disjointed lecture concepts. He shifted his grip, the pen hovering over the page. He reached for the edge of the paper to flip it, needing only a blank space to jot down a citation he had just recalled. As he turned the page, the movement of his hand paused. His gaze caught on a margin where his own handwriting usually dominated the landscape in disciplined, slanted script.

There, interrupting the neat lines, was a sketch. It was not academic. It was not a diagram or a structured note. It was a crude, frantic drawing rendered in dark, unforgiving strokes of lead. It depicted something jagged, monumental, and impossible—a towering form made of hollow, flesh-like geometry, distorted in a way that defied the laws of proportion. Beneath it, he had scribbled a string of latitude and longitude coordinates that looked like they had been clawed into the paper rather than written with a steady hand. He traced the lines with his thumb, feeling the indentation where the lead had pressed deep into the fiber.

He did not recognize the design. The style was frantic, completely at odds with his own preference for symmetry and clarity. He tried to remember the moment of its creation. Perhaps he had been absent-minded during a faculty meeting? Perhaps he had been sleep-deprived? He searched the archives of his memory for the context of this mark, but found only an echoing void. It was as if a stranger had borrowed his hand to leave a message in a place he was meant to ignore. He felt a phantom chill creep up the back of his neck, a prickly sensation that stood the fine hairs on his skin upright.

Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to thin. The warmth of the office turned sterile, almost biting, as the smell of stale coffee was replaced by a strange, metallic scent of ozone and earth. Erwin felt a vibration in his inner ear, a pressure that reached out from the base of his skull. He let go of the pen, and it clattered against the desk, a lonely sound that echoed far too loudly in the silent, tomb-like office. He pressed his palms into the cool wood of his desk, head dipping low as a sharp, piercing pain blossomed behind his eyes.

It felt like a cold spike of ice being driven into his temple, a physical intrusion that made his vision swim with jagged, bright spots. He gasped, a sharp intake of air that burned his lungs, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers curled into fists against the wood, his knuckles whitening in the dim light. The headache expanded, pulsing with a rhythmic violence that threatened to overwrite his sense of place and time. Flashes of imagery—a gray sky, the thunderous sound of something great colliding with stone, the smell of smoke and fear—flickered in the back of his mind, fragments of a dream he had never actually dreamt.

He forced his jaw to unclench, though his teeth were aching from the sheer intensity of the sudden pressure. He needed to be rational. He needed to apply the principles of logic that had sustained his career. This was physical fatigue, a psychosomatic reaction to overwork. It had to be. He took in a ragged breath, the sensation slowly receding into a dull, thumping ache that settled behind his eyebrow. He blinked several times, his eyes tearing slightly, and gazed out into the dark room. Everything was as it had been, the bookshelves holding their silent, leather-bound guardians, the stacks of papers waiting for his pen, the silence absolute.

He reached out and closed the notebook. He didn't want to see the drawing anymore. The sight of the jagged shapes and the senseless, frantic scribble made his stomach roll with a disquiet he couldn't put a name to. It was an intrusion of the irrational in a life that he had carefully constructed to be devoid of such shadows. He stood up, his movements stiffer than they had been even a moment ago, and felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. He gripped the edge of the desk, waiting for the floor to stabilize beneath his leather shoes.

He reached for his blazer, which had been draped over the back of his chair. His movements were automated, precise but lacking his usual effortless grace. He slid his arms into the sleeves, the weight of the fabric a welcome anchor against the lingering numbness in his head. He pulled his bag toward him, the leather straps cold against his palms, and began to sweep his essential items from the desk surface. His wallet, his keys, the heavy, academic journal he had been holding. He shoved them into his bag without the usual organization, his only desire to exit this space, to be somewhere that did not feel like it was watching him.

He didn't look back at the desk. He didn't look at the stack of papers that still needed to be graded, the work that usually defined his sense of purpose. He felt as though the objects themselves were tethered to a version of reality that was beginning to thin out, losing its density and focus. He walked toward the door, his footfalls sounding dead and flat on the carpeted floor. Each step was a commitment to leave. He reached the threshold, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth metal of the door handle. He felt entirely unmoored, the professional veneer of Erwin Smith, the esteemed professor, feeling like a suit of armor that was suddenly several sizes too small.

He tightened his grip on the handle, his pulse quickening in the quiet of the hallway. The thought of walking out into the night felt both terrifying and necessary. He hesitated for a fleeting fraction of a second, his heart thudding against his ribs as he processed the profound disorientation of the last few minutes. Then, with a firm, final motion, he turned the handle and pushed, readying himself to step out into the hallway and walk toward the exit. He closed his notebook, leaving the image buried beneath the dark, heavy leather, unsettled by the realization that the handwriting, with all its chaotic, jagged energy and desperate intent, was undeniably, terrifyingly, his own. «The Professor's Reckoning», part 1. Fanfiction — Attack on Titan.

The Unsettling Dream. The Professor's Reckoning — Attack on Titan fanfiction | Fanfica

The Unsettling Dream

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 — The Unsettling Dream

Parte 1: The Unsettling Dream