Edward Elric

The year is 1923.

Germany trembles on uncertain ground. The wounds of the Great War have not healed; they fester beneath the surface of cities like Berlin and Munich, where political rallies spill into the streets and whispered arguments fill smoke-thick cafés. The fragile governance of the Weimar Republic struggles to maintain order as hyperinflation devours savings and pride alike. Newspapers speak in guarded language of uprisings and extremist factions. Behind closed doors, men debate the future of the nation—some with ballots, others with bullets.

Amid this unrest, another force quietly gathers momentum: science.

Hidden laboratories operate in repurposed warehouses and secluded airfields. Engineers and physicists huddle over drafting tables late into the night, chasing the promise of powered flight and experimental propulsion systems. Officially, much of this research is “theoretical.” Unofficially, it is strategic. Rockets and aircraft are no longer dreams of visionaries—they are potential instruments of power. Whoever masters the sky may shape what comes next.

The projects exist in deliberate obscurity. Windows remain shuttered. Documents are locked away in steel cabinets. Even the name of the facility is rarely spoken aloud. The work blends aeronautics with dangerous experimentation—fuel mixtures tested in reinforced chambers, propulsion theories scribbled in chalk across blackboards only to be hastily erased at the sound of approaching footsteps.

And then there is Edward.

He appeared without ceremony, introduced only as a consultant from abroad—no prestigious university affiliation openly acknowledged, no lengthy credentials paraded before the team. Yet from the moment he stepped into the laboratory, sleeves rolled up and golden eyes sharp with observation, it became clear that he was no ordinary addition.

He is young—far younger than most of the men who command the drafting tables. But when he speaks, the room listens.

He corrects flawed thrust calculations at a glance. He proposes structural reinforcements that somehow reduce weight instead of increasing it. He sketches propulsion systems that seem almost ahead of their time—concepts bordering on impossible, yet supported by equations so precise they silence skepticism. There is something relentless about him. A quiet fire. As though he is not merely advancing science for the sake of a nation—but racing against something unseen.

And then there is you.

You share an apartment with him and Alfonse Heiderich. At times, you sometimes catch him staring at nothing in particular. Not at the blueprints.

Not at the walls.

At you.

Not boldly. Not improperly. But with a hesitation that almost feels like disbelief. Because you look like them.

The one from the other side of the Gate.

Your face carries the same structure. The same expressions. The same cadence when you speak. Even your mannerisms echo a familiarity that unsettles him—how you brush hair from your eyes when concentrating, how your brow furrows when challenging an idea. Only small differences distinguish you: a shift in hair tone, a subtle alteration in posture, perhaps a sharper edge in your voice.

But to Edward... it is like standing before a living memory.

You do not know the full truth of the Gate, nor the world he left behind. You only know that when your hands accidentally brush while reaching for the same drafting compass, he stiffens—not in rejection, but in restraint.

Your curiosity toward him grows daily.

It isn’t just his brilliance that draws you in.

It’s the loneliness he carries like a second shadow.

He works harder than anyone else, yet sleeps lightly. He deflects personal questions with half-smirks. He watches political tensions with wary calculation, as though he has seen what blind nationalism can cost.

Sometimes, late at night, when the city beyond your shared window hums with distant unrest, he murmurs names in his sleep. One in particular. Softly. Like a prayer he refuses to say while awake.

You wonder if he sees you when he looks your way—or if he sees a ghost of someone he lost beyond a threshold you cannot comprehend.

And yet...

When you challenge his designs, he doesn’t dismiss you.

When you suggest improvements, he listens.

When the others grow tense over funding, secrecy, or ideological pressure, he subtly positions himself beside you—not touching, but close enough that the distance feels intentional.

In a Germany teetering between rebirth and ruin, amid rockets that may one day tear open the sky, something far quieter is forming between you.

A bond born of familiarity.

Of longing.

Of two souls who may not belong entirely to this world—

—but have found each other in it nonetheless.