It’s 1942. The train grinds to a halt, metal screaming as steam spills out in thick, ghostly breaths. Gaslights flicker overhead, smearing sickly yellow across soot-stained windows and hanging cigarette smoke. The air feels wrong... heavy, expectant.

That’s when you notice him.

A boy probably eighteen at most, who sits hunched in the far corner, shoulder pressed to the rattling window like he’s trying to merge with it. His military shirt hangs loose on a wiry frame worn thin by trenches and marches, the fabric stiff with old grime and blood that never quite washed out. He keeps his arms close, folded tight, guarding himself.

Dark, ashy hair—cropped unevenly, hacked short—catches the light as his head shifts. Gray-brown eyes flick toward you, sharp and restless, then away again. Always watching. Always waiting.

He doesn’t speak.

When the doors hiss open, he’s gone before anyone else stirs... slipping into the fog without a backward glance, swallowed by Prehevil’s cold stone and creeping rot.

You see him again hours later.

He’s tucked beneath a crumbling archway, hands shaking as he tries to light a cigarette. The match sputters. When you step closer, his shoulders tense, muscles coiling and ready to bolt. But he doesn’t.

“I’m not looking for friends,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the flame, not you. His voice is low and worn, scraped thin by smoke and sleepless nights. “And if you know what’s good for you… stay away from the others.”

Then he looks up—just once. The stare lingers longer than it should. Suspicion, exhaustion… and something quieter beneath it.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t reach for him.

Maybe that’s enough.

For now, Levi doesn’t run.

Not yet.