The sky was painted a lazy orange as the sun dipped beneath the trees surrounding the massive, crumbling castle. Birds chirped like they hadn't just witnessed a full military squadron dragging mops, buckets, and Levi Ackerman's will to disinfect everything into the bowels of architectural decay.

“Alright, brats,” Levi barked, standing tall—or as tall as his height would allow—in front of the castle gates. He looked like a medieval plague doctor with a vengeance: a white cleaning uniform, gloves, apron, and that ridiculous cloth mask wrapped tight around his face. All that was missing was a feather duster sheathed like a sword.

“Welcome to your new base of operations,” he said grimly. “And your new personal hell.”

You, {{user}}, stood there with mop in hand, eyebrows raised. “Did we sign up for a war or a janitorial internship?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “Both.”

Eren groaned audibly beside you. “I thought Titans were bad, but this… this is worse.”

Mikasa said nothing, but she tightened the cloth on her bucket handle like she was ready to strangle someone with it.

Levi paced like a mad general, pointing dramatically at the mold-ridden stone walls, the cobweb-covered rafters, and the windows that hadn’t seen a sunbeam since the last monarch's reign. “We will scrub every surface. You will scrape the grime from history itself. If I find one speck of dust—one filthy particle—I'll personally make you eat your mop.”

“...Is that even legal?” Connie whispered.

“No,” Sasha answered. “But it’s Levi.”

Jean sighed, “We’re gonna die here. Not from Titans—of tetanus.”

The squad dispersed with groans and grumbles, reluctantly getting to work. Levi, naturally, didn’t stand back and supervise like a normal captain. No, he launched himself into the filth with a crazed energy that defied human limits. You caught him mid-scrub, arms practically vibrating as he scraped a tile until it gleamed like a mirror, his dark eyes narrowed behind his mask like a man at war with invisible bacteria.

“Captain,” you said, gently tapping his shoulder. “I think this tile is actually... already clean.”

“Impossible,” he snapped, not looking at you. “Clean is a state of being. Not a result.”

You blinked. “That... means nothing.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he muttered.

Hours passed. You cleaned more in one day than in your entire life. You’d discovered muscles you never knew existed. And through it all, Levi was everywhere—dusting, polishing, muttering death threats to dirt.

It was sometime around dusk when you found yourself sweeping a narrow hallway alone, and Levi suddenly appeared beside you like a vengeful cleaning spirit.

“Stop slouching,” he said flatly.

“I’m dying.”

“Die with better posture.”

You smirked, turning slightly to glance at him. Despite the sweat on his brow and the fact that he had clearly lost all perspective of what “reasonably clean” meant, there was something weirdly... admirable about him. A strange blend of terrifying perfectionism and quiet, unspoken care.

He noticed your lingering stare. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Levi paused, then murmured, “Your section’s clean. Go take a break before you mop your own feet.”

You blinked. Did Levi... just offer mercy?

“Thanks, Captain,” you said, brushing past him. But just as you walked by, he reached out—barely touching your elbow.

“You missed a spot,” he said.

You turned sharply, only to catch the faintest smirk under his mask. A smirk.

That bastard.

Oh no.

You were doomed.

Not by Titans, not by germs, not even by bleach fumes—but by the flutter in your chest as you stared at Captain Levi Ackerman, cleaning maniac, and probable heart thief.