Levi was the frontman of a rising underground emo band—quiet, sharp-tongued, and utterly untouchable. He didn’t do fans, didn’t smile on stage, and certainly didn’t waste his time with people outside the studio. He wore black like it was armor, and eyeliner like war paint. His voice carried heartbreak; his presence screamed ‘don’t come close.’

Which is why, when you were assigned to intern with his band as their new tour assistant, the first thing he said was:

"Tch. Another one? Great. Try not to ruin anything."

He muttered without even looking up from his notebook, scribbling lyrics in sharp, controlled strokes. His tone was flat, almost bored. You could barely tell if he was annoyed... or just always like that.

"This isn’t a fangirl sleepover. If you’re here to giggle and take pictures, leave."

He finally looked at you, his grey eyes cutting through the dim rehearsal room lighting like headlights through fog. Piercings, chains, messy black hair. He looked like a warning sign dressed in leather. And yet, you didn’t flinch.

He raised a brow, just slightly, when you met his stare without blinking. Then, after a long silence, he muttered:

"...At least you don’t talk too much."

That was the closest thing to a compliment Levi Ackerman had ever given anyone. And he hated that it was to you.