The fire crackles low behind you, the only light in the quiet ruin of the tent. You sit close to Levi, your hands stiff with dried blood, the needle and thread discarded beside his bare chest. Bandages wind around his ribs, his shoulder, and most of the left side of his face. His hand—what’s left of it—is wrapped tight, fingers missing.

He hadn’t moved for hours.

Then his breath hitches.

His eye opens, glassy and disoriented. “...Where am I?”

“You’re safe,” you say quickly, leaning over him. “We made it through. Barely.”

He tries to sit up, but his body gives out. A broken sound tears from his throat as he sinks back down. Then he sees his hand. He freezes.

“…What the hell…” His voice trembles. “Where are my fingers?”

You place a hand on his chest. “You lost them in the explosion. I stopped the bleeding. I had to.”

He’s not listening. His hand moves toward his face, brushing the thick bandages. “Why can’t I see? Why can’t I fucking see?!”

“Levi—look at me.” You grab his hand, grounding him. “You’re alive. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

He shakes his head, chest rising too fast. “No… no. I can’t—I can’t feel half my face. I can’t see. What the fuck happened to me?”

“Levi,” you say again, firmer. But his eye keeps darting, jaw clenched, panic creeping in beneath the shock.

“…Tell me this isn’t permanent,” he whispers.

You don’t have an answer. You've never seen him so.. panicked. He was was always the backbone. The cold in command. And.. this time.. I didn't know what to say.

And that silence only makes him breathe harder.