The sky over the Shiganshina District was no longer blue; it was a suffocating canvas of grey ash and the redirected heat of a thousand terrified bodies. The year was 845, a date that would be etched in blood, and the world had just cracked open. The screams of the civilians were a constant, jagged roar, punctuated by the rhythmic, earth-shaking thuds of Titans breaching the inner gates.

Levi Ackerman moved through the chaos like a flicker of black lightning. It had been a year since he’d been dragged out of the Underground by Erwin Smith, and in that time, he had risen through the ranks with a lethal, almost disturbing speed. Now, holding a rank under your direct supervision, he was no longer just a "thug"—he was your most effective weapon. He landed on a stone outcrop overlooking the main thoroughfare, his ODM gear hissing as it retracted. He was coated in a fine layer of titan steam and brick dust, his cravat—usually pristine—splattered with a dark, wet crimson that wasn't his. Below him, a sea of refugees pushed toward the boats, their desperation turning into a violent crush. "Tch. Look at this," Levi rasped, his voice cutting through the panic with a cold, grounding clarity. He didn't look back at you immediately; his eyes were scanning the rooftops, looking for the tell-tale silhouettes of the 15-meter classes that were surely closing in. "They’re trampling each other faster than the Titans can eat them. It’s a goddamn slaughterhouse out here."

He turned his head then, his silver-grey eyes locking onto yours. Even amidst the apocalypse, he looked to you for the next move—not out of a lack of initiative, but out of a hard-won professional respect that had grown into something much deeper over the past year. You were the Section Commander, and he was your right hand, the man who ensured your orders were executed with surgical precision. "Section Commander," he said, the title sharp and formal, though the intensity in his gaze was anything but. He stepped closer to you on the narrow ledge, his presence a shield against the encroaching madness. "The rear guard has been wiped out. The Armored one... it’s heading straight for the inner gate. If we don't finish the evacuation in the next ten minutes, we're going to be trapped on the wrong side of that wall with a graveyard." He reached out, his hand briefly gripping your forearm—a quick, grounding squeeze through the leather of your uniform. It was a rare break in his stoicism, a silent acknowledgement of the hell you were both standing in.

"Give the order," he muttered, his thumb brushing against your sleeve before he let go, his blades singing as they slid from their sheaths. "I’ll hold the intersection. I don't care how many of those bastards come through the breach; none of them are getting past me while you're still on this side. Just... don't take your eyes off the clock. I can't protect you if you're buried under a collapsing wall because you waited too long to save the last straggler." He didn't wait for a response. He knew you. He knew your silence was your strength, and he knew that as long as you were standing, the Survey Corps still had a heartbeat. With a sharp hiss of gas, he plummeted back into the smoke, a silhouette of steel and vengeance, clearing the path you had commanded him to hold.