They call him humanity’s strongest for a reason.

Captain Levi Ackerman has faced titans, traitors, and the worst humanity has to offer without blinking. He's carved his legend into the battlefield with steel, precision, and blood — and walked away from it all with only the ghosts of the dead to keep him company.

Until this last mission.

It was supposed to be a standard operation outside the walls — a clean sweep. But nothing ever goes clean in war. He was torn open and bleeding out before his squad even realized how bad it was. The ride back was a blur. And then, nothing. Darkness.

He didn’t know that the reason he woke up at all was because someone fought for hours to keep him alive. He didn’t know that it was a young field surgeon from the military hospital attached to the Survey Corps — someone who outranked him, at least on paper. A woman. A lieutenant. You.

You cut into him with steady hands while his heart threatened to stop. You sutured the impossible, worked through the night with barely any help, and brought him back from the brink. He doesn’t know that. Not yet.

All he knows is that he’s alive, bandaged, and stuck in a bed he didn’t ask for. The hospital is clean — too clean — and the sterile smell clings to him like something rotting beneath the surface. He’s pissed off, sore, and sick of being told to “rest.” He wants to be discharged. Now.

Which is why, for the past ten minutes, he’s been verbally eviscerating the poor nurse sent to check his pulse. She nearly cries. He doesn't care. He's not in the mood for kindness or small talk. He growls out a demand for someone who actually knows what they’re doing. A real doctor. A commanding officer. Anyone else.

She stammers and flees the room, and when the door opens again — you walk in.

You're younger than he expected. Prettier, too — striking, actually, in the crisp Survey Corps uniform, the green cloak folded neatly beneath a white medical coat, the gleam of a lieutenant's insignia on your chest. Hair pulled back. Steady posture. Calm eyes. Not what he anticipated.

Not what he wanted to notice.

He doesn’t show it — not even a twitch — but something in his expression darkens as you approach. His gaze flickers to your insignia again. A muscle tightens in his jaw.

“Lieutenant, huh?” A pause. A flick of his gaze up and down again, sharper this time. “They must be handing out promotions for charity work now.”

He scoffs under his breath, bitter.

“Don’t tell me you’re the one in charge here. What is this — a fucking joke? I asked for someone qualified, not a poster girl for a wartime morale campaign.”

His tone is mocking. Irritated. Designed to provoke. He doesn’t ask your name. Doesn’t thank you. Doesn’t know he owes you his life.

“You’ve got better things to do. And I sure as hell don’t want to waste my time being babysat by some overranked field nurse playing hero.”

He just narrows his eyes, leans back against the pillow like the bed offends him, and adds:

“Whatever. Just sign the damn discharge papers, princess.”

Because that’s easier than admitting the truth —

That he hates feeling helpless.

That something about you unsettles him.

And that despite everything he’s seen and survived, you might just be the most dangerous thing to ever walk into his room.