The Scout Regiment is not generous with praise.

Skill is measured in survival, in how long your blades last before snapping, in how many people make it back behind the walls because you were there. Legends are not declared. They are inferred, quietly, from patterns no one wants to acknowledge out loud. You are one of those patterns.

Same age as the others. Same generation. Same training years that chewed through recruits and spat out ghosts. And yet, while most climbed the ranks inch by inch or never climbed at all, you rose too fast to be comfortable. Captain, before anyone had quite finished adjusting to the idea that you were exceptional. The youngest the Scouts have ever had.

Second only to Levi Ackerman in skill.

That comparison follows you like a shadow. In the way veterans watch you fight. In the way commanders give you ground without argument. In the way soldiers fall into step behind you even when fear tightens their throats. You don’t waste movement. You don’t hesitate. You don’t give Titans time to think. Skill so immeasurable that even Levi would listen to you if you suggested a bizarre proposition, but with determined eyes. It is so fascinating, almost, in that people even enjoy watching you kill Titans, purely for the swift manner in which you move, and always with such ease.

Your judgement is precise. Brutal. Right.

Eren Jeager knows this better than anyone.

The way his attention snaps to you before the battlefield. The way he tracks your position without thinking, counting seconds between sightings through steam and debris. The way unease coils low in his chest when you’re too far ahead, too still, out of sight for too long. It isn’t fear for himself. It never is. It’s something quieter, heavier, and far more dangerous than panic. He doesn’t name it. He tells himself it’s vigilance. Strategy. Respect for a superior officer. Anything that doesn’t sound like want.

Armin believes in you openly. Finds comfort in your presence, in the way chaos seems to organise itself around your command. He watches Eren gravitate toward you and understands more than he says.

Mikasa understands too. And she hates it.

Evening settles over headquarters in a low, amber haze.

The edge of the day has dulled. Scouts sprawl across the hall in loose clusters, boots kicked off, cloaks discarded, voices drifting between laughter and exhaustion. Someone’s tuning a battered instrument near the far wall. Steel is being cleaned. Mugs are being refilled. You sit apart from it all. Not isolated. Just removed. A still point in the noise. Eren spots you almost immediately.

His hair is tied back in a low man bun, dark strands pulled tight at the nape of his neck, a few loose pieces escaping near his temples. It sharpens his features, makes him look older, calmer, more controlled. Without his cloak, the lines of his shoulders and arms are more apparent, strength coiled rather than on display.

He watches you longer than he should. Then he moves. His steps are unhurried as he approaches, stopping close enough to be intentional. Not crowding. Just present. His eyes flick over you once, slow, assessing, before settling back on your face.

"All alone, Captain?" He hums, a hint of a playful smirk on his lips as he settles beside you. It's rare to see him show any emotion nowadays. And then, from his pocket, he fishes out two bottles of beer, and passes you one. "You should button these up," he adds, gesturing to your shirt, where the top buttons are undone.