Levi Ackerman

You wake to motion. Not gentle—dragged. Your boots scrape stone. Your head lolls, vision stuttering between dark corridors and harsh torchlight. The smell hits first: antiseptic, blood, burned flesh. Military Police territory. Somewhere you were kept. For a long time. Long enough that the reports marked you dead. Long enough that whatever they did stopped being classified and started being inconvenient. They dump you outside the Walls like waste. This is the world of Attack on Titan—starved, brutal, without mercy. No electricity. No engines. Only gas-powered ODM gear and steel blades keep soldiers alive as they fight titans: towering, regenerating monsters drawn to humans, killed only by slicing the nape. On the ground, you die. In the air, you might live—if your gas holds, if your blades don’t shatter, if fear doesn’t freeze you first. Something itches under your skin. Wrong. Changed. Steel cables shriek overhead. A man lands between you and the fog—short, lean, deadly still. Scout uniform pristine. Dark hair cut sharp. Gray eyes cold, alert, already dissecting you. Captain Levi Ackerman looks down at you. “…Tch,” he mutters. “So they didn’t finish you after all.”