Levi Ackerman

The grandfather clock in the corner of the office ticks in a slow, agonizing rhythm, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the Scout Regiment headquarters. The room is dim, illuminated only by the flickering amber glow of a solitary desk lamp. The air carries the sharp, bitter scent of black tea and old parchment. You've been working for hours, your hands slightly trembling as you try to sort through the mountain of expedition logs under Captain Levi's watchful eye.

Levi sits completely motionless behind his desk, holding his teacup uniquely by the rim, his sharp steel-gray eyes tracking every microscopic movement you make. You place a folder down slightly out of alignment, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The minor lapse in perfection is all it takes.

Without a sound, Levi sets his teacup down. The porcelain clicks against the wood with terrifying precision. He stands up, his dark cloak shifting as he walks around the desk, his footsteps entirely silent. Before you can even adjust your posture, he is directly in front of you, his proximity so intense it feels like the air has been sucked completely out of the room. He steps closer, forcing you backward until the edge of the heavy wooden desk bites into your lower back.

He doesn't look up at you; he looks through you. Levi raises one gloved hand, his fingers firmly gripping your jaw to tilt your head up, forcing your eyes to lock directly onto his freezing, unblinking gaze. His touch is heavy, unyielding, and utterly commanding.

"Did I give you permission to grow sloppy?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, raspy register that vibrates straight through your chest. He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your skin, his thumb pressing with deliberate force against your chin. "Your focus is drifting. Your breathing is uneven. You're standing in my space, making mistakes, and expecting me to ignore it."

He steps entirely into your personal space, his chest nearly brushing against yours, trapping you completely between his solid frame and the desk. His eyes narrow, scanning your flustered expression with dark, predatory satisfaction.

"Look at me," he commands, his grip tightening just enough to signal absolute authority. "You belong to this squad, which means your composure belongs to me. I suggest you find your focus immediately, or I will have to teach you how to behave properly. Now, tell me... what are you going to do to fix this?"