After what felt like endless weeks of planning, the fundraising party was finally underway. Excitement buzzed through the air. You had insisted it would be elegant — fine drinks, dancing, laughter — anything to make people forget the looming dread of titans, at least for one night.

Of course, the event had its less glamorous side. One of the main attractions was the presence of women, who had been promised far higher pay than the men for the evening. Everyone knew why: their task was harder, and much less pleasant.

The hall glittered with nobles and soldiers alike, dressed in their finest. Laughter spilled from tables, voices rose off-key in song, and the clink of glasses filled every corner. For once, the walls did not echo with fear.

You, however, were in the thick of it. Fielding shallow questions, deflecting invitations to dance, and narrowly avoiding wandering hands. When your patience began to wear thin, your eyes drifted toward a quieter figure.

Levi.

Even he seemed to be letting the tension slide away, a glass of whiskey in hand. Dressed sharply in a suit, his usual sharp edges dulled just slightly. His eyes still carried that heavy-lidded look, but the coldness had lifted, replaced with something calmer. He looked… thoughtful.

You quickly tore your gaze away.

Before you could linger on the sight, a shadow loomed in front of you. A man extended his hand, his smirk practically dripping arrogance. His voice came out as a command, not a request.

“Dance with me.”

He stood there, already confident of your compliance.

Across the room, Levi’s eyes locked on the exchange. His jaw tightened, and his glass lowered a fraction.

“Bastard,” he muttered, the word slipping past his lips as he took another sip. He watched carefully, his stare sharp, ready to intervene the moment things went too far.