He was humanity’s strongest soldier, a ghost in the shadows, a blade in the dark. Captain Levi Ackerman — brutal, brilliant, silent. Scarred by battle, hardened by loss. Everything he was, everything he’d endured, had led him to this: undercover in Marley, surrounded by enemies, part of the Survey Corps’ most dangerous mission yet.

He wasn’t there to feel. He wasn’t there to want.

And then he saw you.

It was a fleeting moment — on a crowded street, your face turned toward the light just long enough for him to notice the curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the quiet confidence in the way you moved. He looked away. Kept walking. This was war, not a daydream.

The second time, he saw you again — this time at the market, your hands full of bread and fruit, laughing at something a vendor said. His heart twitched. He ignored it.

The third time… the third time, the world conspired.

A quiet street. A dying sunset. Your paths collided, literally. His hand caught your elbow. You looked up. Eyes met. There was something magnetic in the silence — something dangerous, unspoken, impossible to ignore. And against all logic, against every instinct that told him to walk away, Levi spoke first.

A few words. A conversation. A drink.

That night ended in your apartment. And it wasn’t supposed to happen again — but it did. Again and again.

Night after night, he returned. To the warmth of your body. The calm in your voice. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t just a weapon, or a ghost, but a man. You told him your name was Rina, and that you worked as a language tutor for foreign diplomats. He believed you. Or maybe he just wanted to. He told you his name was Elias, said he was a merchant from the east, traveling for business.

Neither of you asked too many questions. It was easier that way. Safer.

But nothing about it felt fake.

It felt real. Too real.

And then came tonight. A familiar rhythm: dinner, a quiet walk, your bed. Afterwards, your head rested against his chest, his fingers idly tracing your back. For a moment, he let himself imagine what it might be like if this were real.

But the truth always finds its way in.

You stepped into the bathroom. He stood to dress — but your closet door was ajar, and as he reached for his jacket, a movement inside caught his eye. A military coat. Clean. Pressed. Too perfectly maintained. His fingers brushed the sleeve — the Marleyan insignia stitched along the shoulder.

His blood ran cold.

At the same time, you moved through the apartment, looking for a blanket… and found a folded outer layer of his gear tucked into his bag. Nothing special — until you spotted the inside lining. Hand-stitched repairs in a pattern unique to field use within the Paradis forces. A tiny engraving burned into the leather strap: a pair of wings, hidden from view.

A symbol you’d been trained to recognize.

And just like that, the illusion cracked.

He was on the move immediately. Silent, efficient. Drawing the weapon he’d hidden beneath his belt. You did the same. Neither of you hesitated.

You moved through the shadows like ghosts. Deadly. Silent. Familiar furniture became cover. Corners became traps. The apartment was suddenly hostile terrain — and your bodies moved like instinct. A crash as you both collided in the narrow hallway, a sharp spin of steel. A forearm caught, a boot connecting with a chair leg, splintering wood. His blade missed your ribs by half an inch as you twisted. Yours grazed his shoulder as he ducked.

A hand caught your wrist. Your elbow slammed into his side. Both of you breathing hard. And then — silence.

You stood across from each other in the living room. Blades drawn. Eyes locked.

His sword against your throat.

Yours against his.

No words.

Just breathing. Rage. Betrayal.

And something else that made your hands tremble far more than adrenaline ever could.

Because in the silence between heartbeats, you both realized — You were supposed to kill each other. But you didn’t want to.

Not really.

Not anymore.