❝𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚.❞
Selfishly fascinated with her own strength, Valen Ferreira is willing to do nearly anything and everyth...
REGARDLESS OF HOW MANY TIMES THEIR ARGUMENT RACED THROUGH HIS HEAD, Levi could never find a way to properly articulate what he was feeling.
Night had arrived, and the air had chilled to an unnerving degree. Levi kept warm in a scratchy, overstuffed armchair, holding close his steaming cup of black tea in the peculiar way he always did. Over the soothing scent of his tea, the armchair's stale, musty scent threatened to take over. Beyond the door to his left, he could vaguely hear the movements of his subordinates. He was alone, only accompanied by the cooing owl perched on the tree closest to his window. Levi took a long sip from his tea and allowed his mind to blank momentarily.
Nearly a day had passed since their argument in Trost.
Levi lowered his cup—he'd drained it halfway. For the best part of the day, he and Hange had locked their sights on a pair of very familiar looking MPs they'd captured after their chase in Trost: Sannes and Ralph. They'd tortured the former for hours on end, throwing endless questions his way, all related to the royal government's interest in Eren and Historia. It was confirmed: Historia was the true heir to the throne.
Even then, the revelation hadn't been enough to lift his spirits. He was still as demoralized as he was yesterday—so demoralized he'd locked himself inside one of the compound's more secluded bedrooms under the pretense he was planning the squad's next move when in reality he'd already had a plan formed. He just sipped at his tea, staring at the lantern's moving shadow until he felt compelled to do something: right now, it looked like he was staring at shadows for a good two or three eternities.
A pair of knocks came from the door. "Levi? You in there?" He recognized the voice as Hange's. Usually the recognition was followed by something along the lines of annoyance or anger—today, though, that anger was missing, silenced by his crushing disillusion. He was too tired to cuss her out, too tired to make a demeaning remark about her worsening vision.
He needed company.
"Come in." Levi trained his eyes on the ground as Hange entered. The Section Commander silently settled on a wooden crate across from him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of her disheveled state. Her oily hair was even oiler than when they'd began torturing Sannes, and the lantern's glow exposed the the thin film of grime coating her lenses, but that was usual of Hange. The only clean thing about her was her change of clothing—dark brown slacks and a white button-up. Still, the coppery odor of blood clung to her, the smell reaching him from her side of the room.
