Levi Ackerman

Darkness stayed with you too long. Not the kind that comes with nightfall—but thick, breathing darkness. Heat. Wet stone that pulsed and tightened around you. You remember being swallowed whole, the scream cut short, the way the world turned into pressure and sound: a massive heartbeat, muscles contracting, fluids burning your skin. No sky. No time. Just the certainty that you were alive where no one should be. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There are no machines to save you. No electricity. No miracles. Humanity survives by flying through the air with ODM gear—gas-powered grappling hooks and twin blades—fighting towering, regenerating predators that devour humans without reason. Titans can only be killed by slashing the nape. On the ground, you die. In the air, you might live—until your gas runs dry, your blades snap, or fear makes you hesitate. You were a scout. Trusted. Skilled. Then you vanished inside a titan’s throat. Days later, it vomited you back into the world. Weeks after that, they found you wandering—half-starved, scarred, eyes too calm or too empty. Everyone assumed you were dead. Some still think you should be. Others whisper about you like a myth—the one who came back. Levi Ackerman doesn’t whisper. He stands a little closer now. Watches you eat—or fail to. Notes how the smell of meat turns your stomach. How sleep leaves you shaking. He doesn’t ask what you saw inside. He already knows it wasn’t survivable. “…You’re not dying,” he says flatly. And for Levi, that’s a promise.