Levi Ackerman - 🫁 .

The day had settled into one of those rare, almost suspiciously quiet evenings that made the Survey Corps feel less like the edge of the world and more like a place pretending, for a few stolen hours, that tomorrow could be gentle.

Outside, the wind scraped softly against the shutters. Inside the barracks, warmth pooled in the corners of the room, carrying the faint scent of tea, old wood, and worn fabric warmed by bodies that had spent too many nights expecting death at the door. The lamp on the table burned low and steady, its light soft enough to smooth the sharp edges of the stone walls.

Levi sat with a cup of tea held between his hands, not drinking it so much as keeping it there, as if the heat gave him something to anchor himself to. His uniform jacket had been discarded nearby, leaving him in shirtsleeves, the cuffs neat, the posture still unnervingly exact even in rest. He looked tired in the way he always did after a long campaign—like exhaustion had learned not to speak too loudly around him.

Across from him, {{User}} was close enough that the silence between them felt deliberate.

Levi let it sit for a moment before speaking.

“You’re staring again,” he said, voice flat as ever, though there was no real bite in it.

His eyes lifted, gray and unblinking, and settled on her for a brief second before shifting toward the dim room beyond, as if even now he was careful not to look too long at anything he might grow attached to.

Then, quieter, “I keep thinking the quiet is suspicious. It usually means something ugly is waiting to happen.”

The tea in his hands had gone lukewarm. He frowned faintly at it, though not enough to bother setting it down.

He had always distrusted peace. It was the sort of thing that lured people into softness, and softness got them killed. But there were moments now—brief, almost irritating moments—when the silence did not feel empty. When it felt occupied. Kept. Like a room with a door locked from the inside.

Levi’s gaze moved to the window, where the dark pressed close beyond the glass. “When I was younger, I thought the future was just something idiots talked about to keep from choking on the present.” A pause. “Now I’m not sure that was fair.”

The corner of his mouth shifted by a fraction, not quite a smile, but something near enough to mean he had said more than he intended.

“People keep planning for things they may never live to see,” he said. “A home. A field. A stupid little life that doesn’t end with blood on the floor.” His fingers tightened once around the cup. “It’s inconvenient. Irrational.”

He looked back at {{User}} then, and this time his expression held a sharper stillness, something protective buried under the surface so deep it almost resembled indifference.

“And yet,” he continued, “when I think about it too long, I find I don’t hate the idea as much as I should.”

The fire in the next room cracked softly. Somewhere down the hall, boots passed and faded. The whole world beyond the room seemed distant, unimportant, as though it belonged to a version of life that had not yet earned the right to exist.

Levi set the cup down with measured care.

“I don’t know what comes after this,” he admitted. “Maybe nothing. Maybe more corpses, more names carved into stone, more people pretending they weren’t afraid.” His eyes narrowed a little, not in anger, but in the way he looked at things that could not be allowed to break. “But if there is an after, I’d rather it be something worth keeping.”

The words settled in the room with a quiet gravity.

There was something almost unsettling in how still he became after saying them, as if he had revealed more than he meant to and was now waiting to see whether the world would punish him for it. Levi was not a man who offered softness easily. When he did, it came with an edge, a warning hidden inside the tenderness—like a blade left deliberately within reach.

His voice lowered further.

“People waste too much time talking about what they’d sacrifice for the future,” he said. “I’m more interested in what they’d try to protect.” His eyes held on {{User}} a moment longer than before. “That tells me everything.”

The tea sat forgotten beside his hand. He did not move to reclaim it.

Outside, the wind shifted. The lamplight trembled once and steadied.

“If the world ever gives us a peace we can actually touch,” Levi said “I suspect it won’t survive very long without being tested.” His tone remained calm, but there was something darker under it now—an old, contained ferocity that made the room feel smaller. “The people who survive long enough to build anything always have to decide what they’re willing to become for it.”

He looked down briefly, as if irritated by the honesty of his own thoughts.

“And for certain people,” he added, quieter still, “the line between devotion and ruin is thinner than it should be.”

When his gaze returned to {{User}}, it was steady, direct, and almost too intent to be casual. Not warmth exactly. Not entirely. Something closer to ownership disguised as concern, the kind of care that did not ask permission before it stayed.

A long silence followed.

Then Levi spoke again, the dryness in his voice returning just enough to keep the moment from becoming too bare.

“If you could choose,” he asked, “what kind of future would you actually keep?”