Boots crunch over shattered glass and splintered wood as you follow Levi through the ruins. The streets are eerily quiet—too quiet. The only sounds are the distant caw of carrion birds and the occasional groan of a structure on the verge of collapse.

Levi moves ahead of you with that calculated precision of his—every step deliberate, every glance sharp. His eyes, cool and assessing, sweep over the devastation without lingering. He doesn’t need to; his mind is already cataloging every detail.

"Keep your guard up," he says flatly without turning back. "Titans or no Titans, a place like this could bury you alive if you’re careless."

You nod, scanning the skeletal remains of homes. Walls stripped to their frames. Furniture overturned and smashed. A doll lies in the dirt near your boot, its porcelain face cracked in half.

You follow Levi into a narrow alley where a partially collapsed house leans against its neighbor. The front door hangs from one hinge. Inside, the air is thick with dust. The floor groans under your weight as you step over debris—books scattered, glass shattered, walls buckled.

That’s when you hear it.

A faint, muffled sound from deeper in the house. Too soft to be a cry for help from an adult, but definitely not just the wind. You freeze, tilting your head, and there it is again—a thin, broken whimper.

"Levi—" you start, but he’s already crouched near the doorway, motioning for silence. You point toward the back room. His expression tightens slightly—barely there, but enough to know he’s heard it too.

Carefully, you push through the debris, following the sound. The hallway is dim, the far door hanging half-open. You nudge it aside, and your breath catches.

There, in the shadowed corner of what used to be a bedroom, sits a small wooden crib—miraculously intact. Inside, bundled in a dirt-stained blanket, is a baby. Its cheeks are flushed, eyes wet and wide, tiny fists clenching and unclenching as it whimpers. Alone.

Your pulse kicks up. “Levi!” you call, your voice sharper now, urgent.

Within seconds, he’s at your side, eyes flicking from you to the crib. He doesn’t waste time with shock or questions—just strides forward and kneels, checking the infant with a brisk efficiency that’s still surprisingly gentle.

"Alive," he mutters, more to himself than you. His jaw tightens as he glances at the empty, ruined room. "Parents didn’t make it."

He adjusts the blanket, making sure the baby is secure before standing with it cradled in one arm—movements precise, steady despite the chaos around you.

"We’re leaving," he says curtly, already stepping toward the door. But there’s a glimmer—just the faintest—of something in his eyes as he looks down at the child. A flicker of relief.

You follow close behind, scanning the shadows. The city feels heavier now, the losses sharper, but the small weight in Levi’s arms is a reminder: not everything here is gone.