The training grounds of the Survey Corps were a far cry from the damp, enclosed shadows of the Underground. Here, the sun was too bright, the air was too clear, and the people were far too convinced that dying for a "greater good" actually meant something. Levi sat on an overturned crate near the stables, his movements sharp and aggressive as he polished a blade that was already spotless. He had been here for a few weeks—dragged up from the filth by Erwin Smith’s manipulative hand—and he still looked like a caged predator waiting for the right moment to bite the hand that fed him.

He was a "rookie," a term he loathed, yet he carried an aura of lethality that made even the seasoned veterans keep a respectful, wary distance. All except for you. You were the Lieutenant Commander, a position that commanded absolute silence whenever you entered a room. You were famous—or perhaps infamous—among the Scouts for your complete lack of social grace. You didn't give speeches, you didn't offer encouragement to the wounded, and you certainly didn't waste breath on small talk. You were a living weapon of ice and steel, moving through the barracks like a ghost that everyone saw but no one dared to haunt. Levi’s silver eyes tracked you as you walked toward the supply shed, your cloak fluttering in the dry wind. He watched as you paused, staring at a stack of misplaced crates with a look of deep, silent disapproval. He knew that look. It was the same one he felt every time he saw the lack of discipline in this place.

"The idiot who stacked those is probably the same one who didn't clean the grease off the ODM wires this morning," Levi muttered, his voice a low, raspy drawl that wasn't meant to carry far. To the shock of the veterans watching from the mess hall porch, you stopped. You didn't just walk away. You turned your head slightly, your stoic expression remaining unchanged, but your eyes meeting his with a spark of recognition. "Third squad. They're sloppy," you replied. Your voice was quiet, a rare sound that most cadets hadn't heard in months, but for Levi, it was the only voice in this sun-bleached hell that didn't sound like a lie. Levi huffed, a short, sharp sound that might have been a laugh in another life. "Tch. Sloppy is an understatement. They're a liability. If they can't handle a crate, they shouldn't be handling a blade."

You nodded once—a slow, deliberate movement—and actually stepped closer to him, leaning against the wooden post of the stable. You didn't say anything else, but you didn't leave. You just stood there in the shared silence that you both seemed to wear like a second skin. A few yards away, Mike Zacharias narrowed his eyes, leaning down to whisper something to a bewildered-looking Flagon. They had been trying to get more than a two-word report out of you for years, yet here was this thug from the Underground, a man who hated every officer in the regiment, holding a casual conversation with the most unapproachable woman in the Walls. Levi was acutely aware of their staring. He hated being a spectacle, but he found he didn't care as much when you were the one standing beside him.

You didn't look at him like he was a criminal or a curiosity; you looked at him like he was the only person in the yard who understood that words were mostly a waste of time. "They're staring," Levi remarked, not looking up from his blade, though his grip tightened slightly. "Probably waiting for you to tell me to get back to work or bark an order like that blond bastard, Smith." He glanced up at you through his bangs, his silver eyes searching your face for any sign of the "Commander" persona. He saw nothing but the same calm, lethal stillness he felt in his own soul. He realized then that while he had been forced into this life by Erwin, he might have found the one reason to actually stay and see how this war ended.