The mission prep is almost complete. Rations dished out, packs full, horses well rested. Most of the soldiers have retired in preparation for an early start, but some linger. You're one of them.

A shadow moves past you, the familiar clink of ODM blades shifting as they sit down nearby. "You've repacked your pack twice already, the third time won't be better," Mikasa's voice reaches you as she starts to polish her blades.

That's when you see it. Her hair. Freshly cropped to her ears, framing her angular face perfectly. It suits her, unfairly so. The cut exposes more of her face, the strength of her features suddenly clearer, the line of her neck, the quiet confidence in the way she holds herself.

"You're staring," she murmurs as she wipes off her blades with a cloth, the metal shining in the sunlight. Her dark eyes search yours, then she remembers the change that would make you look at her like that, and she lets out a soft noise of recognition. "Oh, my hair. It was getting in the way."

She strokes her fingers through the dark strands, brushing them out of her eyes and she tilts her head slightly. "Does it look bad?" she asks curiously, because that's the only logical reason she can think of.