He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Levi Ackerman didn’t frequent brothels. Not because he was some kind of saint—he knew the taste of violence and the weight of need far too intimately for that. But pleasure bought and sold in smoke-heavy rooms wasn’t something he ever sought. Too messy. Too human.

And yet, after a long campaign outside the Walls, his comrades pushed harder than usual.

“Just relax for once, Captain. You’ll break in half if you don’t.” “I’m telling you, one night—you’ll feel ten years younger.” “She won’t talk if you don’t want her to.”

Eventually, he gave in—more to shut them up than anything else.

The Madame recognized him instantly. Of course she did. Humanity’s strongest soldier, the one even Titans seemed to fear. She bowed her head too low, smiled too wide, and whispered to an attendant to prepare the best girl for a private room.

“I’ll give you our brightest jewel,” she purred. “She’ll take care of you, Captain.”

Levi only gave a grunt in return. He was already regretting this.

The hallway was dim and perfumed, each step echoing with quiet moans and muffled laughter behind closed doors. When they stopped before one—deep red curtains, a faint trace of incense in the air—the attendant gave a shallow bow and gestured him inside.

He pushed the door open.

At first, he didn’t react. He never did. His expression stayed unreadable, his posture controlled. But the moment he stepped inside and his eyes landed on you, something inside him halted.

You stood there—still, poised, framed by the golden haze of candlelight like something out of a dream.

Beautiful didn’t quite cover it. You were stunning in a way that stopped time—too young, too perfect, too heartbreakingly delicate for a place like this. Your skin looked soft enough to bruise under breath. Your eyes were lowered, lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks. The curves of your body, the subtle rhythm of your breath—it was all calculated to seduce, he knew that. Learned. Performed.

But it didn’t feel fake.

And that pissed him off more than he could explain.

His jaw tightened. His gaze dropped, then lifted again—sharp, assessing. He wasn’t here for beauty or softness or whatever else this place dressed up and sold. He wasn’t some drunk cadet looking for a pretty face and sweet words. He’d let himself be dragged here to do one thing and leave. Fast. Clean. No names. No memory.

And yet… he hadn’t moved.

His hands were in his pockets. His stance was relaxed. Too relaxed.

She’s just another girl doing a job, he reminded himself.

He knew how places like this worked. Knew that most of the girls—especially ones as young as you—weren’t here because they chose it. They were sold, indebted, trapped. Forced to smile, to touch, to be touched.

This wasn’t affection. It was currency.

He shouldn’t care.

He took a step forward, boots silent against the rug, eyes never leaving you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dry. Measured.

"Don’t bother with the act. I’m not here for small talk or eye contact."

Another step.

"I’m tired. That’s it."

He stopped in front of you, close enough to smell the faint trace of perfume on your skin—something floral, soft. It only made things worse.

His eyes flicked down again, then back up. A slow, deliberate look. One more moment of silence.

Then, with a sigh that sounded more like irritation than desire, he nodded toward the bed behind you.

“Just do your job.”