She should not be here.
She should be locked up in a cage somewhere, in some rich pervert’s basement, or long dead from a kidnapping attempt gone wrong. She should be a bloody smear on the pavement in Trost District. She should be dead like all the others who engaged the Female Titan in the Forest of Giant Trees.
She should not be here, in this fortress, standing before his bedroom door.
What brought her here she cannot say. Maybe she felt obliged to thank him, for his help in rescuing Eren. Maybe she just wanted to know that he can suffer, too.
He has left the door ajar in his carelessness. Through the gap, she can see him slouching at the table, a bottle of liquor dangling from his grimy hand.
It is not the alcohol that has undone him, but the deaths of those who fought under his command. He raises the bottle to his lips and grimaces as he drinks.
She has never seen him so disheveled—not even in the heat of battle. His cravat lies bloodstained on the table, his white shirt unbuttoned and streaked with dirt. But it is the slump of his spine that draws her attention most, the clench of his fingers in his unkempt hair, the twist of his features in profile as he takes another rueful swig.
She cannot tear her eyes away.
His own slant toward her sharply. “Well, Ackerman? Aren’t you going to come inside, or were you planning to spend the whole night out there gawking?”
She starts, then stiffens. Scowling slightly, she pushes open the door and walks inside.
“Close it and sit down,” he says, motioning toward the chair beside him.
Warily, she takes her seat. “Heichou,” she begins, before he cuts her off.
“Here to offer me your grudging thanks? Don’t bother.” He sets the bottle down with a snap, pushing it toward her across the grainy tabletop. “Have a drink.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want any, Heichou.”
“I wasn’t asking what you want,” he says, unsmiling. “Drink, Ackerman—that’s an order.”
Glaring at him, she snatches up the bottle and swiftly takes a sip. The liquor burns a path from throat to sternum. It is the foulest thing she’s ever tasted, apart from the greasy cloth that gagged her mouth six years ago.
“Well, that’s interesting,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder what else I could get you to do, if I phrase it as an order.”
Her lips thin to a line. She pushes back from the table, preparing to rise.
“I should go. You’re drunk.”
He catches her wrist as she stands. “Relax. I’m not so drunk as that.”
She sits down again reluctantly, frowning as she tries to puzzle out whether or not he just insulted her. He takes another slow pull from the bottle, regarding her with his heavy-lidded stare.
“It pleases you, doesn’t it, to see the great Levi Heichou brought low like this? ‘Humanity’s Strongest Soldier,’” he scoffs, “what a load of shit.” He smiles sourly. “You’re a spiteful one, Ackerman. You think I deserve this, don’t you, for the beating I gave your little boyfriend at the trial?” His smile deepens. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Uneasy silence stretches between them. After a while, she speaks.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she states quietly, holding his gaze. “Eren is my family.”
He braces his chin against his palm, his eyelids drooping somehow further. “Gods,” he mutters, “that’s even worse.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
He leans toward her. Her nose wrinkles at the stench of alcohol on his breath.
“The instant I saw you, I knew. I knew you were just like me.” Something pained flits across his expression. She feels the echo of it in her chest. “Let me give you some advice, from one unlucky bastard to another: Don’t get close to anyone. It’ll only make it harder to watch them die.”
She recoils from him, her chair scraping across the wooden floor. He doesn’t reach for her this time.
“You’re wrong, Heichou.” She glowers down at him, balling her fist. “Or maybe you just weren’t strong enough. I will protect my friends. And Eren.” Her voice hardens. “Eren, most of all.”
The look he gives her is almost pitying. “…Good luck with that.”
She turns on her heel and exits the room, leaving him alone with his drink and his grim contemplations. She tells herself she is nothing—nothing—like him.
Attack on Titan © Hajime Isayama