webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments {
    id
    media {
      id
      type
      origin
      status
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      generationError
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      activeGenerationJob {
        status
        currentStage
        id
      }
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  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
  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 flickering light of a single tallow candle carved jagged, dancing shadows across the surface of the mahogany desk, casting long, reach-like shapes that seemed to claw at the edges and corners of the study. Erwin Smith sat submerged in the deep, heavy silence of the archive room, his posture rigid, shoulders pulled back by the weight of a uniform that felt both like a badge of hard-won honor and a suffocating, velvet-lined shroud. Outside the heavy, velvet curtains of his study, the night air of the reclaimed territories was still, a profound and unnatural stillness that stood in stark contrast to the cacophony of ghosts that screamed in the vast, treacherous landscape of his own memory. He traced a calloused, steady finger over the ink-stained, precise lines of a topographical map, his eyes tracing the borders of districts that had once been scorched graveyards and were now, ostensibly, flourishing sanctuaries of a fragile new era. The paper felt brittle and ancient under his touch, thin enough to tear, much like the peace he had spent his life, and the lives of so many others, meticulously constructing through relentless, agonizing sacrifice.

His hands remained steady despite the fatigue that dragged at his joints, though a familiar, persistent tremor lived deep beneath the skin—a lingering echo of a timeline that no longer existed in the memories of the citizens who slept in the quiet, undisturbed houses scattered across Paradis. He shifted, the leather of his boots creaking softly and rhythmically against the dark floorboards, a singular, sharp sound that seemed to shatter the atmospheric oppression for a fleeting heartbeat before it rushed back in, thicker and more suffocating than before. He reached for a heavy stack of reports, the parchment crackling under his grip like dry leaves, and began the familiar, grueling, and soul-crushing process of auditing the official accounts of the final campaign to reclaim Wall Maria. They were perfectly preserved documents, typed with clinical, cold precision and bound in sturdy, dark leather, designed to sanitize the past and present a singular, unwavering narrative of heroic triumph and inevitable victory. Erwin adjusted his shoulders, feeling the phantom, sharp pinch of the harness straps against his collarbone even though the leather was no longer there, a physical sensation of tension that never truly left him, a ghostly harness of responsibility that seemed to bind him to a lie.

His gaze, heavy and tired, drifted to a small, unassuming pile of papers he had set aside earlier in the evening—a collection of forgotten personal effects recovered from an old garrison locker that had been cleared during the final archive consolidation. Amidst the neatly organized, bureaucratic folders lay a tattered, worn logbook, its edges frayed and darkened by moisture, mildew, and time, the leather cover cracked like the surface of a parched, desolate earth. He picked it up, feeling the uneven, gritty texture of the material against his fingertips, and opened to the first page, his pulse instantly beginning to drum a slow, warning rhythm against his chest. It was the handwriting of a comrade long dead, a man whose voice had been extinguished in the maw of a battle that the history books now claimed was won with cleaner swords, more brilliant tactics, and fewer losses than history actually allowed.

Erwin leaned closer to the sputtering candle, the flame dancing and wavering in his sudden, shallow exhalation of breath. The script was frantic, hurried, the ink blotched where the writer’s hand had reached a state of pure, unadulterated terror, describing events that the military commission had officially deemed impossible, non-existent, or purely incidental to the greater cause. His fingers traced the jagged, desperate lines of the log, feeling the deep indentation of the pen into the paper, a physical, undeniable record of betrayal that simply refused to fade into the sanitized, bleached-out background of post-war revisionism. As he read the entry dated only days before the final push, the blood in his veins seemed to thicken with a familiar, cold, creeping realization. The official report described a perfectly coordinated maneuver to bypass a major Titan cluster, a tactical masterpiece that secured the flanks of the Third Regiment; the log, however, told a harrowing story of a deliberate, cold-blooded funneling of men into a firestorm, an orchestrated thinning of the ranks meant to dispose of those who knew the secrets of the shifting, dangerous power dynamics within the command structure.

He felt a prickle of cold sweat manifest at the base of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin, and the space too cramped, as if the walls were leaning inward. The comparison was devastating in its stark, unforgiving simplicity. He flattened the crisp, official record next to the weathered, stained logbook, his eyes darting between the polished, sanitized paragraphs and the jagged, visceral scrawl of a man who had seen his end coming and had enough time to document the betrayal. It was not a tactical mistake. It was a surgical, precise erasure of treason, a lie meticulously crafted into the bedrock of their new society to ensure that the peace, bought with such an agonizing, mountain-high cost, would never be questioned by those who had traded their blood for it. Erwin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the burnished edge of his desk, the wood biting into his skin, a sharp, grounding pain that did little to soothe the moral and existential vertigo that spun violently behind his ribs.

He stood abruptly, his high-backed chair sliding backward and hitting the bookcase with a muffled, dull thud that echoed into the rafters of the study. He began to pace, the small radius of the floorboards barely allowing him to stretch his legs, his movements erratic and heavy, like a trapped, wounded predator pacing the confines of a cage he had helped build with his own two hands. Every step brought him closer to the horrifying realization that his life, his command, and the order he had imposed upon the remnants of humanity were founded on a foundation of sand, shifting and treacherous. The betrayal wasn't just a historical footnote or an incidental occurrence; it was a structural necessity of their current stability, and he, the architect of this fragile peace, was now witnessing the very blueprints of his success crumbling into ruin before his eyes. He stopped pacing near the darkened window, peering into the cold, black glass, seeing only his own reflection staring back—a man whose face was a mask of cold, weary composure, hiding a storm of guilt that threatened to tear his composure apart from the inside out.

He could not see the expression in his own eyes reflected in that dark surface, but he felt the heat rising behind his lids and the sharp, hot constriction of guilt in his throat. He turned, his boots scuffing against the rug, and moved back toward the desk, the silence of the room now punctuated only by the rhythmic, ragged sound of his own breathing. He reclaimed the logbook, his touch now hesitant and delicate, as if the coarse paper itself carried a contagion of truth that he dared not spread or allow to leave this chamber. The names mentioned in the margins were those of men—his contemporaries—who were currently serving in prestigious, high-ranking positions, individuals hailed as the saviors of the walls, and the exposure of this truth would not just shatter the peace; it would ignite it. It would burn the tenuous, artificial stability of an entire nation to ash, leaving only the wreckage of the people's trust. He thought of the common citizens, the families currently asleep in the warmth of their homes, their lives predicated entirely on the comforting, absolute assumption of a just and righteous victory, and he felt the weight of his responsibility—a heavy, relentless, suffocating burden that chained him to this dark, lethal secret.

He looked down, his gaze fixed on the wooden desk drawer he had pulled open with a sharp, metallic ring of the brass handle. He deposited the stained, dangerous logbook into the deepest, darkest corner of the cavity, feeling the rough, ancient paper slide against the smooth wood, a sensation of finality that did not bring him even a sliver of relief, but rather a deepening, hollow ache that felt as though it were carved directly into his chest. He pushed the drawer shut with a deliberate, firm force, the lock clicking into place with a sound that felt like the heavy, iron latch of a tomb door being sealed forever. The sound resonated through his own bones, a final, definitive, and damning seal on a truth that would remain buried beneath the layers of lies of his own making. He shifted his weight, his black boots pressing firmly into the weave of the carpet, his hands coming to rest heavily on the edge of the mahogany desk as he stared, unblinking, into the dying, guttering light of the candle, watching the flame tremble as it consumed the last of the wax.

The flickering light of a single tallow candle carved jagged, dancing shadows across the surface of the mahogany desk, casting long, reach-like shapes that seemed to claw at the edges and corners of the study. Erwin Smith sat submerged in the deep, heavy silence of the archive room, his posture rigid, shoulders pulled back by the weight of a uniform that felt both like a badge of hard-won honor and a suffocating, velvet-lined shroud. Outside the heavy, velvet curtains of his study, the night air of the reclaimed territories was still, a profound and unnatural stillness that stood in stark contrast to the cacophony of ghosts that screamed in the vast, treacherous landscape of his own memory. He traced a calloused, steady finger over the ink-stained, precise lines of a topographical map, his eyes tracing the borders of districts that had once been scorched graveyards and were now, ostensibly, flourishing sanctuaries of a fragile new era. The paper felt brittle and ancient under his touch, thin enough to tear, much like the peace he had spent his life, and the lives of so many others, meticulously constructing through relentless, agonizing sacrifice.

His hands remained steady despite the fatigue that dragged at his joints, though a familiar, persistent tremor lived deep beneath the skin—a lingering echo of a timeline that no longer existed in the memories of the citizens who slept in the quiet, undisturbed houses scattered across Paradis. He shifted, the leather of his boots creaking softly and rhythmically against the dark floorboards, a singular, sharp sound that seemed to shatter the atmospheric oppression for a fleeting heartbeat before it rushed back in, thicker and more suffocating than before. He reached for a heavy stack of reports, the parchment crackling under his grip like dry leaves, and began the familiar, grueling, and soul-crushing process of auditing the official accounts of the final campaign to reclaim Wall Maria. They were perfectly preserved documents, typed with clinical, cold precision and bound in sturdy, dark leather, designed to sanitize the past and present a singular, unwavering narrative of heroic triumph and inevitable victory. Erwin adjusted his shoulders, feeling the phantom, sharp pinch of the harness straps against his collarbone even though the leather was no longer there, a physical sensation of tension that never truly left him, a ghostly harness of responsibility that seemed to bind him to a lie.

His gaze, heavy and tired, drifted to a small, unassuming pile of papers he had set aside earlier in the evening—a collection of forgotten personal effects recovered from an old garrison locker that had been cleared during the final archive consolidation. Amidst the neatly organized, bureaucratic folders lay a tattered, worn logbook, its edges frayed and darkened by moisture, mildew, and time, the leather cover cracked like the surface of a parched, desolate earth. He picked it up, feeling the uneven, gritty texture of the material against his fingertips, and opened to the first page, his pulse instantly beginning to drum a slow, warning rhythm against his chest. It was the handwriting of a comrade long dead, a man whose voice had been extinguished in the maw of a battle that the history books now claimed was won with cleaner swords, more brilliant tactics, and fewer losses than history actually allowed.

Erwin leaned closer to the sputtering candle, the flame dancing and wavering in his sudden, shallow exhalation of breath. The script was frantic, hurried, the ink blotched where the writer’s hand had reached a state of pure, unadulterated terror, describing events that the military commission had officially deemed impossible, non-existent, or purely incidental to the greater cause. His fingers traced the jagged, desperate lines of the log, feeling the deep indentation of the pen into the paper, a physical, undeniable record of betrayal that simply refused to fade into the sanitized, bleached-out background of post-war revisionism. As he read the entry dated only days before the final push, the blood in his veins seemed to thicken with a familiar, cold, creeping realization. The official report described a perfectly coordinated maneuver to bypass a major Titan cluster, a tactical masterpiece that secured the flanks of the Third Regiment; the log, however, told a harrowing story of a deliberate, cold-blooded funneling of men into a firestorm, an orchestrated thinning of the ranks meant to dispose of those who knew the secrets of the shifting, dangerous power dynamics within the command structure.

He felt a prickle of cold sweat manifest at the base of his neck, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin, and the space too cramped, as if the walls were leaning inward. The comparison was devastating in its stark, unforgiving simplicity. He flattened the crisp, official record next to the weathered, stained logbook, his eyes darting between the polished, sanitized paragraphs and the jagged, visceral scrawl of a man who had seen his end coming and had enough time to document the betrayal. It was not a tactical mistake. It was a surgical, precise erasure of treason, a lie meticulously crafted into the bedrock of their new society to ensure that the peace, bought with such an agonizing, mountain-high cost, would never be questioned by those who had traded their blood for it. Erwin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the burnished edge of his desk, the wood biting into his skin, a sharp, grounding pain that did little to soothe the moral and existential vertigo that spun violently behind his ribs.

He stood abruptly, his high-backed chair sliding backward and hitting the bookcase with a muffled, dull thud that echoed into the rafters of the study. He began to pace, the small radius of the floorboards barely allowing him to stretch his legs, his movements erratic and heavy, like a trapped, wounded predator pacing the confines of a cage he had helped build with his own two hands. Every step brought him closer to the horrifying realization that his life, his command, and the order he had imposed upon the remnants of humanity were founded on a foundation of sand, shifting and treacherous. The betrayal wasn't just a historical footnote or an incidental occurrence; it was a structural necessity of their current stability, and he, the architect of this fragile peace, was now witnessing the very blueprints of his success crumbling into ruin before his eyes. He stopped pacing near the darkened window, peering into the cold, black glass, seeing only his own reflection staring back—a man whose face was a mask of cold, weary composure, hiding a storm of guilt that threatened to tear his composure apart from the inside out.

He could not see the expression in his own eyes reflected in that dark surface, but he felt the heat rising behind his lids and the sharp, hot constriction of guilt in his throat. He turned, his boots scuffing against the rug, and moved back toward the desk, the silence of the room now punctuated only by the rhythmic, ragged sound of his own breathing. He reclaimed the logbook, his touch now hesitant and delicate, as if the coarse paper itself carried a contagion of truth that he dared not spread or allow to leave this chamber. The names mentioned in the margins were those of men—his contemporaries—who were currently serving in prestigious, high-ranking positions, individuals hailed as the saviors of the walls, and the exposure of this truth would not just shatter the peace; it would ignite it. It would burn the tenuous, artificial stability of an entire nation to ash, leaving only the wreckage of the people's trust. He thought of the common citizens, the families currently asleep in the warmth of their homes, their lives predicated entirely on the comforting, absolute assumption of a just and righteous victory, and he felt the weight of his responsibility—a heavy, relentless, suffocating burden that chained him to this dark, lethal secret.

He looked down, his gaze fixed on the wooden desk drawer he had pulled open with a sharp, metallic ring of the brass handle. He deposited the stained, dangerous logbook into the deepest, darkest corner of the cavity, feeling the rough, ancient paper slide against the smooth wood, a sensation of finality that did not bring him even a sliver of relief, but rather a deepening, hollow ache that felt as though it were carved directly into his chest. He pushed the drawer shut with a deliberate, firm force, the lock clicking into place with a sound that felt like the heavy, iron latch of a tomb door being sealed forever. The sound resonated through his own bones, a final, definitive, and damning seal on a truth that would remain buried beneath the layers of lies of his own making. He shifted his weight, his black boots pressing firmly into the weave of the carpet, his hands coming to rest heavily on the edge of the mahogany desk as he stared, unblinking, into the dying, guttering light of the candle, watching the flame tremble as it consumed the last of the wax. «The Hollow Peace», part 1. Fanfiction — Attack on Titan.

The Ghost of a Nightmare. The Hollow Peace — Attack on Titan fanfiction | Fanfica

The Ghost of a Nightmare

Devote Your Hearts

Erwin Smith wakes in a world where the Survey Corps succeeded—titans wiped out, Wall Maria reclaimed. But he alone remembers the original timeline: the betrayals, the sacrifices, the darker path. Now he faces an impossible choice: reveal the truth and risk unleashing chaos, or protect a hard-won peace that feels painfully hollow. What is a victory worth if no one remembers the cost?

The Hollow Peace — The Ghost of a Nightmare

Part 1: The Ghost of a Nightmare