Sarah woke before sunrise, her face carrying a quiet kind of exhaustion—
not sharp sorrow, nor burning anger, but the stillness that lingers after a storm has passed.
She had no intention of rebelling again. She wasn't afraid—only tired. Tired of pouring her strength into battles that led nowhere. It was enough that she had survived the night before, standing her ground against a silent fracture that had nearly swallowed her whole.
She wasn't thinking of defying Levi, nor of proving herself to him. What she understood—simply and bitterly—was that living in this place required more than intelligence.
It required patience.
She put on her jacket calmly, tied her hair back, and stepped out into the main hall, where breakfast had already begun.
The Scout Regiment had gathered around the table as usual.
Connie's whispers drifted lazily, Jean chewed in distracted silence, and Armin sat quietly, lost in thought.
The moment Sarah entered, a brief tension rippled through the room. She was rarely late. Rarely distant. Yet today, her steps carried no trace of stubbornness or pride—only quiet resolve.
She offered a faint smile and said simply,
"Good morning."
Sasha brightened, lowering her voice,
"Hey! I thought you might stay locked in your room."
Connie leaned toward her with a grin,
"We were about to send a rescue team."
Jean cast a sideways glance but said nothing, while Armin nodded politely in greeting.
Levi lifted his eyes to her for a moment, then spoke in a dry tone—less sharp than the night before:
"Looks like you've finally decided to follow the rules."
Sarah met his gaze—not in defiance, nor submission—but with the calm of someone who had chosen not to waste her life on unnecessary conflict.
"I'm not here to fight new wars," she replied quietly.
He didn't respond.
But he didn't argue either.
And between the warmth of fresh bread and the scent of tea, something subtle shifted—
unspoken, yet unmistakable.
Suddenly, the hall doors burst open.
One of the stable hands rushed in, his face pale, hands smeared with dirt and sweat.
"Captain Levi! The white mare—she's in labor, but she can't—
I think we're going to lose her!"
Conversation froze.
Everyone knew that horse.
Erwin's mare—the one no one had ever ridden but him.
Levi stood at once. The others followed instinctively.
And Sarah—without knowing why—followed too, her heart pounding the moment she heard the mare's name.
The mare lay on the ground, breathing heavily, her low cries filling the stable like an ancient plea. Her legs trembled, her eyes glossy with fear—as if she knew the end was near.
Levi stepped closer, but found no words. Even Mikasa seemed helpless.
One of the soldiers whispered,
"If we don't get the foal out now… we'll lose both of them."
Sarah didn't ask for permission.
She moved forward alone, knelt beside the mare, and placed her hand gently on her neck—then her belly. She felt the movement. The pulse.
She closed her eyes briefly, then said softly,
"The foal's position is wrong… its head is turned inward. We need to rotate it."
Armin stepped closer, voice uncertain,
"Do… do you know how?"
Without looking up, Sarah rolled up her sleeves.
"I've done this before. On my uncle's farm. They trusted me with the horses."
She glanced at Levi—not asking for approval, only silence.
Then she began.
Time stretched unbearably.
Sarah worked with impossible gentleness, her hands steady despite the strain. Sweat soaked her hair, her face drained of color.
Sasha whispered prayers under her breath. Connie stood frozen. Jean bit his lip, wishing he could help.
Then—
A small, fragile sound.
A whinny.
The foal was born.
It landed softly on the straw.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The mare released a long breath, lifted her head, and looked at her newborn—then at Sarah, with a gaze no language could translate.
Sarah collapsed back onto the ground, hands stained with blood and tears alike, smiling—for the first time in a long while.
Connie said, awe in his voice,
"I think that little guy owes you his life."
Sasha laughed through tears,
"You should name him!"
Armin added quietly,
"You saved something that belonged to Commander Erwin. The name should be yours."
Sarah looked at the foal, then up at the sky, where the clouds were slowly breaking apart.
"Azura," she said softly.
"In our old language… it means the sky born after a storm."
Silence followed.
Then Jean smiled, genuinely,
"A name worthy of a new beginning."
Levi stood in the corner.
He didn't comment.
Didn't step closer.
But he watched her as if he were seeing something he had never noticed before.
Maybe…
hope.
After tending to the foal and calming the mare, Sarah left the stable quietly. She wasn't seeking praise. Her hands trembled, her body aching, but for a moment—she felt peace.
In her room, she said nothing. She washed the blood from her skin, the water carrying away the night's violence—but not its meaning.
Her eyes remained half-closed, remembering the mare's gaze, the foal's first breath… and Mikasa's small, quiet smile.
Back in the hall, the Scouts sat in an unusual silence.
Connie murmured,
"I thought today would be the end of Pearl… not the beginning of Azura."
Sasha whispered, eyes wet,
"I haven't seen anyone approach that mare like that since… Erwin."
Jean sighed,
"Even I froze. She didn't. She just… knew."
Mikasa looked toward the window.
"Sometimes, courage isn't fighting.
It's stepping toward pain without running from it."
Then Armin spoke, voice clear and certain,
"If Commander Erwin were here… he would want to meet her.
He would respect her. I'm sure of it."
Silence settled again.
Levi's eyes lifted slowly from the untouched tea in his cup.
That sentence pierced him—
as if it had come from a past that had never truly left.
In his mind, Erwin's voice echoed beneath a gray sky:
"Levi… let your heart see those around you, as clearly as your eyes do."
Then, unexpectedly, Eren looked up and said,
"Sarah is like a butterfly.
One small movement… and the future changes shape."
No one spoke.
That wasn't praise.
It was a quiet prophecy.
Levi didn't respond.
Didn't move.
But he was no longer the same.
Before sunset, as Sarah tied her hair back, a knock came at her door.
She opened it to find a soldier holding a short message:
"Captain Levi requests your presence… in his office."
Her heart skipped.
She hadn't expected this.
Was it because of what happened?
Or because she could no longer understand where she stood with him?
When she entered the office, he was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
His voice came calm, without turning around.
"What you did today… is not something just anyone would do."
She blinked in surprise, but didn't interrupt.
He turned toward her then. His eyes were quieter than she had ever seen them—still guarded, but no longer sharp.
"You saved a mare who was more than just a horse," he continued.
"And you saved the life of a foal… one that carries a memory no one else knows but me."
Her heart stilled.
She had expected coldness—criticism, perhaps.
Not this unsettling gentleness.
He moved toward one of the shelves and spoke again, almost casually:
"Whenever you wish… you may choose any horse from the stables and ride it. The choice is yours."
Something inside her trembled.
She wasn't sure if her heart was racing out of respect—
or because his tone was no longer that of a commander giving orders,
but of a man who had lowered a single wall… just for her.
"Thank you," she said quietly, steadying her breath.
"I didn't expect that."
He only nodded, as was his way, then turned back to the window—
as if he didn't want her to see her hands shaking,
or her smile.
So she left quietly, closing the door behind her.
Outside, Sarah paused for a moment, pressing a hand to her chest.
What is this feeling…?
Admiration? Surprise? Or the beginning of something that doesn't yet have a name?
Her heart didn't answer.
It only beat again.
Morning at headquarters felt strangely suspended, as though the night had not fully let go.
Mist clung to the edges of the windows, dew weighed the grass down in silence.
Sarah woke before anyone else. Sleep had refused to keep her any longer.
She dressed lightly, tied her hair without care, and stepped into the garden carrying an old book—its pages yellowed and stained, as if they still carried the scent of her father… or his voice.
She sat on the familiar wooden bench and opened it carefully.
Phantoms of Northern Mountain Herbs.
Her father's handwriting marked the first page.
She turned the pages slowly, studying the names of rare plants—some she had never seen, others she hadn't known could grow on this land.
"If this species exists here…" she whispered,
"I might finally complete the compound."
She closed the book and looked toward the trees, then rose with a single question in mind:
Does anyone here know where these plants grow?
Inside the headquarters, Armin was already awake, holding a cup of tea and scanning a few papers spread across the wooden table.
"Good morning," she said softly as she approached.
He smiled warmly. "Good morning, Sarah. You're up early."
She nodded, set her father's book on the table, and pointed to a page.
"Do you recognize this plant? It's called Grino the Bare. My father wrote that it stabilizes compounds in the bloodstream. I need it… but I don't think it grows within the Walls."
Armin studied the illustration carefully.
"Yes," he said slowly. "It's rare, but it grows on the slopes of Mount Haimer. The forest there hosts plants that don't grow in flatlands."
Before she could speak again, steady footsteps approached.
Levi had entered the hall without a sound—his eyes, as always, already ahead of the conversation.
"What plant?" he asked flatly.
Armin answered quickly.
"Sarah needs rare herbs for her compound. This one only grows near Mount Haimer."
Levi glanced at the book once.
"I'll go with her."
Sarah turned to him, startled. Armin hesitated.
"But the forest is far, and the regiment has training and cleaning duties today—"
"That's exactly why," Levi cut in.
"I'll go alone with her. You stay and handle the rest."
Then he looked directly at Sarah and added, his voice cool but carrying something unnamed beneath it:
"Be ready in ten minutes. I don't wait."
The sun had barely risen when they set out. Dew clung to the grass along the path.
Levi rode ahead on Hero, guiding him with practiced ease. Sarah followed on a smaller brown horse, instinctively trailing the black one—as if it recognized authority it would not challenge.
They rode in silence at first, the quiet of early morning settling around them like a third presence.
Until Sarah spoke lightly:
"I don't think I've ever seen you grateful before."
He didn't look at her.
"I don't give gratitude for free."
She smiled faintly.
"Even when someone saves something dear to you?"
He paused for a moment.
"You saved more than a horse," he said.
"You saved a memory."
His voice was different now—less sharp, more honest.
She glanced at him but said nothing, afraid a single word might disturb the fragile calm unfolding between them.
Then he spoke again, quietly:
"Do you always smile when you're nervous?"
She blinked, caught off guard.
"Nervousness isn't part of my nature."
Something close to a smile flickered across his lips—gone as quickly as it appeared.
"But…" she continued, the words slipping out before she could stop them,
"since I met you, I've started to feel it."
Silence fell like a stone dropped into still water.
He didn't respond. He only looked ahead, the wind hiding his expression in the moment his heart betrayed him.
She whispered instead:
"And you? When was the last time you felt… okay?"
He lifted his gaze to the sky.
"I don't ask myself questions like that."
She smiled softly, unseen.
"You're very good at avoiding things."
"And you," he replied dryly,
"talk more than I expected."
She laughed quietly—warmly—and felt her heart begin to beat in a way it never had before.
At the forest's edge, the rocks were slick with morning dew.
Sarah knelt beneath a large stone, comparing the silver-green leaves before her to the drawings in her father's notebook.
"It's here… Grino the Bare," she whispered.
"The rarest healing plant… I didn't think I'd actually find it."
As she stood, her foot slipped.
The world tilted.
"SARA—!"
His hand caught her wrist before she could fall, pulling her firmly against him.
For a moment, she was pressed to his chest—her breath uneven, her heart shaking.
His voice was low, steady.
"Watch your footing. You're not on Marley soil now."
She looked up at him, then smiled softly.
"And I don't want to be there anymore."
He set her down carefully, his tone returning to controlled coolness.
"Collect your plant. Before I decide to let you roll down the mountain on the way back."
She laughed—this time warmly, freely.
And in that moment, she knew.
What she felt was no longer just gratitude.
It was admiration.
And the way her breath caught when he stood close…
the way silence felt heavy between them…
It wasn't coincidence.
It was the quiet beginning of something growing—
slowly,
between the mountains.
The path back to headquarters sloped gently downward, the evening breeze threading its way through the branches as if preparing the ground for a silence more honest than words.
The horses' steps moved in quiet harmony, their hooves tapping a soft rhythm into the forest floor.
Throughout the ascent, she had said nothing.
But now, the silence began to feel heavy—
as if her heart were urging her to speak, even if she did not yet know how.
At last, she drew a slow breath and said:
"You know… I have a sister there."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement of fact—spoken to someone who already knew—
and yet, it was also an invitation to listen.
He didn't turn to her, but his voice came steady:
"Leila."
Hearing her sister's name on his tongue made her chest tighten.
"I know you know," she said, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.
"But I've never told you myself."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"She worked at a medical camp near Marley's high command."
Her voice faltered.
"Then the place… turned into a cage.
A hostage disguised as mercy."
Her eyes no longer saw the road—
only a long, gray corridor, a high window that would not open,
and Leila standing somewhere behind it.
"They used her as leverage.
Either I do what they demand… or they bury her in silence."
Her grip on the reins tightened until pain bloomed in her palm.
"I don't want to betray Paradis," she said, her voice fragile but clear.
"But I also can't walk forward over her neck."
The forest seemed to bow its head to listen.
Then, almost like a confession rather than a plea, she added:
"Part of me is afraid… that I'll become someone I can't look at in the mirror."
She lifted her gaze to him—not expecting an answer,
only hoping, perhaps, to be believed.
Levi finally turned toward her, his half-glance weighing words rather than tears.
"You're not the first to have your life suspended between two wars," he said.
"Nor the first to try surviving without turning into a weapon."
He paused, then continued with quiet balance:
"The only difference…
is whether you let them decide what you become."
She blinked slowly, absorbing his words, then whispered:
"Sometimes… saying things out loud makes them lighter."
He faced forward again, his voice softer this time:
"As long as you can say them…
you haven't lost yourself yet."
She didn't reply.
But for the first time, the road back to headquarters no longer felt frightening—
and speaking Leila's name here, among trees and wind and distance,
felt like the first step toward something she wasn't ready to name.
Something like… a compass beginning to form.
In the Cellar — After Returning from the Forest
Night had settled over the headquarters.
The world above was quiet.
Sara carefully wiped the dew from the leaves, her fingers moving gently along the veins of the plant she had finally found—
as if touching a fragile hope.
"I need a humid place to store these samples," she said softly.
"If they're not kept properly, everything will spoil before I even begin."
Levi removed his leather gloves slowly.
"The cellar. End of the side corridor, behind the storage room.
No one uses it. The temperature stays constant."
She followed his direction with her eyes. He nodded once.
"Go alone. No one will disturb you."
She took the old lantern and descended the stone steps he had described.
With every step, the sounds of life faded behind her,
as though she were descending into a forgotten layer of memory.
She pushed the heavy wooden door open. It creaked faintly.
The air inside was different—
damp, dusty, but not unpleasant.
It smelled like autumns long past, sealed away.
Her lantern swept across metal shelves, sealed glass jars, wooden crates whose owners had been forgotten.
She placed the samples in the dampest corner and turned to leave—
but her gaze stopped.
A dark wooden chest sat in the far corner, draped in faded gray cloth, its edges softened by dust.
It didn't look stored.
It looked hidden.
Sara wasn't usually curious.
But something inside her stirred.
This box didn't belong to the place.
It belonged to someone who kept his grief here.
She approached slowly, like stepping toward the edge of memories not her own,
and lifted the lid.
The Forgotten Box
What escaped wasn't stale air—
but the sigh of years.
The scent of grief sealed in wood.
Inside were charcoal sketches—
one of Commander Erwin.
The lines were precise, desperate, as though the artist had been fighting oblivion stroke by stroke.
Beneath it lay a folded paper, worn thin by time.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
"What kind of justice is this?
I'm still alive…
and they, with all their light, are underground.
I don't deserve survival—
but I was never given a choice."
Her breath stuttered.
But the letter—the letter destroyed her.
A small envelope tied with faded ribbon.
Written in a woman's hand:
"To my father… if I don't return from the mission."
She hesitated.
Every instinct screamed: Don't open it.
But her fingers moved.
The words poured out like a voice she had never heard—
yet one that pierced her as if it had always belonged to her.
"Though I am a woman, Father, I respected my abilities enough for him to choose me for his squad.
I don't think I love this man.
No—that's not uncertainty. That's truth."
Her chest tightened.
"He is always severe, never smiling… but he knows how to protect.
Not kind enough to forgive—
but loyal enough to fight for everyone, sometimes for no one but his honor."
Then the line that shattered her:
"If you must name this light, call it hope.
I dedicate my life—my soul—to this man. Always."
A sob escaped her.
A tear fell, blurring the final word.
She closed the letter.
She saw Petra.
A girl who placed her heart in one man… and never returned.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Levi.
He stood at the cellar entrance, his eyes fixed not on her face—
but on the open box, the letter in her hand, the tear on her cheek.
Without a word, he strode forward and seized the box from her hands.
When he saw her tears, something in him faltered—
Why are you crying for my pain?
But Levi rebuilt his armor instantly.
"Who told you to open this?" he demanded.
She couldn't speak.
She turned and fled.
He didn't follow.
He closed the box slowly, draping the cloth back over it—
as if burying the dead again.
And whispered to the silence:
"The new memory… is her tears."
Sara's Room — After She Fled
She locked the door behind her and slid down the wall.
Then she cried—not because he yelled,
but because she had seen him.
Not a captain.
A wound.
She found a white flower she had kept since arriving—
delicate, fading.
She wrote, trembling:
I'm sorry.
I never meant to open something that hurts you.
My pain was looking for a pain like its own—
and it found you.
She left the note and the flower at his door.
And ran.
Not because she feared his anger—
but because she didn't know what she would say
if he opened the door and told her:
I don't want your apology.
—or worse—
I don't deserve it.
Levi's Room — After the Rose and the Note
Levi stood in the doorway a moment longer than he meant to.
The hall was empty—except for two things placed with the kind of care that didn't belong in a soldier's world:
A single white rose.
And a folded note in handwriting he recognized instantly.
He didn't bend right away. His mind tried to reach the paper before his hand did—tried to decide whether this deserved a reaction at all.
In the end, he picked up the note first, as if it were the more dangerous weapon. Then the rose—without letting himself look at it for too long.
He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in silence.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
And still… he didn't open the note immediately.
The rose looked too clean for this place. Too soft. Too honest. A small thing—nothing, really—except it wasn't nothing, not to him. Not when it came from a hand that had been shaking.
Finally, he unfolded the paper.
Two lines.
I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to open something that hurts you.
My pain was looking for a pain that matched it… and it found you.
His face didn't change.
But something inside him did—quietly, in a way he hated.
Not anger. Not relief.
Something else. Something harder to name.
He traced the edge of the note with his thumb like he was testing whether the words were real. The untouched cup of tea sat beside him. His cloak still smelled faintly of the forest.
All day passed, but two words refused to leave him:
"It found you."
He didn't like what that sentence did to his chest—like someone had stepped into a locked room without permission.
He set the rose on the table with a caution that felt ridiculous… and then stared at it anyway.
Was this an apology… or an attempt to get closer?
And would I pretend it meant nothing—
or admit that something in me didn't stay the same after I read it?
He stood, forcing his gaze away as if looking too long would count as surrender.
And under his breath—so low it barely existed—he murmured:
"I don't need a new kind of chaos."
A pause.
"Looks like this one walked in anyway."
Because it had.
And it had knocked.
And left a rose.
2) Morning Orders — "Hange Is Coming."
The morning had barely started to open its eyes when Levi threw his door open with a force that didn't match the hour.
He moved through the hall like he was at war with his own thoughts—straight into the dining room, not greeting anyone, not slowing down.
The moment he entered, spoons stopped. Conversations froze mid-breath.
His voice cut through the room.
"Hange arrives today. You have two hours. I want the headquarters cleaned—the yard, the stables, the roof. I want this place shining like no one's ever lived in it."
Silence.
Then groans started rolling in like a defeated army.
Jean dropped his bread with theatrical despair.
"Every time Hange delays, we suffer."
Connie grinned, eyebrows up.
"He's tense. I bet he didn't sleep."
Sasha shoved food into her mouth like she was preparing for battle.
"Great. Today we'll clean our souls too."
Armin watched Levi from the corner of his eye, quieter than the others.
"He looks… distracted."
Sarah said nothing.
Levi didn't give her a task.
And still, when everyone scattered to their chores, she followed.
In the stables, she knelt beside Sasha and Connie, scrubbing the floor until soap clung to her sleeves and water dotted her cheeks. She didn't complain. She didn't even hesitate—like this place had started to claim a piece of her without asking.
Sasha tilted her head, studying the way Sarah cleaned with almost frightening precision.
"Hm. Your cleaning style is… kind of like Levi's. Exact. Terrifying."
Sarah flushed, and her hands stuttered for half a second.
Mikasa's voice slid in calmly, sharp as an arrow.
"You're close in age too, aren't you?"
Sarah pretended to focus harder on the floor as if the wood grain had suddenly become fascinating.
Connie leaned in with a grin that was far too knowing.
"When someone starts enjoying cleaning, it means something's happening in the heart."
Laughter rippled through the stables, easing the tension like a loosened knot.
Upstairs, Levi paused near a window—his gaze drifting, accidentally finding Sarah below. He watched her rise and kneel again, moving like she belonged there.
He frowned.
"I didn't ask her to do any of this…"
And something inside him answered, quietly:
No. But she came anyway.
3) The Kitchen — Eren vs. Cooking (and Sarah Helps)
Later, Eren stepped into the kitchen like it was an enemy territory map he couldn't read.
In his hand was a small note Mikasa had written:
Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. Water. Salt. Easy, right?
Nothing felt easy when he nearly cut his finger instead of the carrot.
Levi passed the kitchen window and saw smoke crawling out like a warning sign.
He muttered, deadpan:
"This isn't cooking. This is a crime."
Then, louder—like he needed a reason to be furious—
"Who decided to let that idiot cook?"
Jean laughed.
"You did."
Levi shot him a look that made Jean forget how to breathe.
Connie, watching from the side, lifted a hand.
"Maybe Sarah can help. She knows plants, medicine… cooking can't be that far off, right?"
As if summoned, Sarah appeared at the doorway and looked at the pot that resembled swamp water more than soup.
Her voice stayed gentle.
"Do you need help?"
Eren lifted his eyes, relief and embarrassment layered together.
"If you want to… yeah."
She stepped in, took the knife from him without making him feel stupid, and started cutting with clean confidence. She showed him how to hold the blade, how to control the heat, how to taste what he was making instead of praying.
Eren blinked.
"Who taught you?"
A soft shadow passed over her smile.
"My mother. Before she left us… she used to say that feeding people is giving them life without a weapon."
A quiet pause settled.
Then Sarah hesitated—only once.
"Eren… do you trust me?"
He watched her a long moment. Then he answered without hiding.
"I don't know yet. But you… don't feel like a spy."
Something in her expression loosened, almost imperceptibly.
Outside, Levi walked past again and saw them working side by side—strangely in sync.
He pressed his lips together.
"…Now I won't even have an excuse to yell at him."
Connie snickered to Jean.
"We should dump extra salt in after they're done—just so Levi's face doesn't go peaceful."
Jean laughed.
"Or break a plate. Give him a reason for existential rage."
Inside, Sarah laughed softly while Eren tried to cut carrots for the first time without turning it into geometry homework.
For a second, the steam and herbs didn't matter as much as the small, fragile peace blooming between them.
A peace made of sharing.
And a smile that didn't need words.
4) Levi's Office — The Cruel Sentence
By sunset, Sarah stood at Levi's office door again.
Her hand hovered like her heart was arguing with it… but she entered anyway, as if she wanted to give herself one last chance—disguised as a goodbye.
Levi sat behind his desk, turning pages without reading them. He looked up, not surprised. Almost… like he'd been waiting without admitting it.
Sarah walked closer and stopped in front of him, hands lightly clasped.
Her voice came out low, careful—like she didn't want her own heart to overhear.
"I know I wasn't easy since day one. Maybe I wasn't even wanted here."
A breath.
"But I wanted to thank you before I leave. For these three days… for the tea… for the horse… for the harshness that had another face when I looked long enough."
She paused, then the words slipped out—too honest to take back.
"Maybe this is my last night here. I wanted you to know… I don't regret coming. Even if I was a burden. Even if I was just… something temporary."
Her eyes glimmered. Her smile held, stubbornly, as if it begged her tears not to betray her.
Levi stared at her in silence.
Her words weren't just a farewell.
They were a soft confession of need. Of weakness. Of something beginning in the dark.
And then—because he panicked in the only language he'd ever been allowed—
he said it.
Cold. Wrong. Cruel.
"Good. You're leaving tomorrow. Maybe the tragedies will end around here."
The sentence hit like a blade in a moment that had been trying to breathe.
Sarah's expression went still.
She didn't argue. Didn't ask if he meant it. Didn't fight.
She just took one step back—like something inside her snapped clean in half.
Barely above a whisper:
"I understand."
And she walked out, leaving the door half-open behind her.
Levi stayed frozen in his chair, staring at the gap in the doorway as if it were the wound he'd just created.
Did I mean it?
Or was I just trying to run?
For the first time in a long time, Captain Levi Ackerman sat there feeling like he'd been defeated by himself.
5) The Rooftop — Mikasa's Truth
Sarah climbed the stone stairs like she couldn't feel her feet.
She pushed the rooftop door open and stepped into the wind.
The sky was painted with late sunset colors, and cold air threaded through her hair like a reminder she didn't want.
She reached the railing, braced her hands against it, shut her eyes… and broke.
"Stupid," she whispered through shaking breaths. "Stupid, stupid…"
"Why did I go in there? Why did I say anything? Why did I think he'd understand?"
Tears burned down her cheeks.
"I don't want anything from him—nothing! Just… just not to be stabbed the moment I try to be honest."
Her chest shuddered.
"When I got close… he turned me into a burden again. Like I'm just—just in the way."
She was drowning in it when she heard footsteps behind her.
She spun around quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve.
Mikasa stood there.
She didn't come closer. She didn't crowd the pain. She simply watched—eyes steady, reading what Sarah couldn't say.
Softly:
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overhear something that wasn't mine."
Sarah nodded, swallowing.
"It's fine. I don't think I have secrets anymore."
Mikasa stepped forward once and placed a hand on Sarah's shoulder.
Her voice was quiet, but brutally honest.
"We Ackermans… we don't know what to do with feelings."
A pause—then, almost to herself:
"I didn't understand mine for a long time. I'm still learning."
Sarah stared at her, surprised by the openness.
Mikasa pulled her hand back gently.
"Levi is like that too. If he understands… he won't say it."
Then, with a bitterness that came from experience:
"But you don't deserve to exhaust your heart for a man who can't see past the walls inside himself."
Sarah's breathing slowed, the storm easing—not because it disappeared, but because someone named it.
Mikasa looked up at the sky.
"Sometimes… we're the problem. And sometimes… the other person is so lost they only see their own shadow."
And she left as quietly as she came—leaving Sarah alone with the wind, the rooftop, and a heart trying to figure itself out for the first time in a long time.
Hange's Return — A Sunset Unlike Any Before
The sun leaned toward the horizon as soft footsteps echoed through the courtyard of the headquarters.
Almost everyone stepped outside—some running, others walking with quiet curiosity—toward the wooden gate that had just been opened.
"Hange!" Sasha shouted, waving both arms.
Armin, Jean, and Connie stood one after another, their eyes shining with a mix of relief and anticipation.
Even Eren, who rarely showed emotion, looked noticeably calmer when he saw her silhouette approaching.
Levi, however, stood apart as usual—still, composed—yet his eyes searched the crowd for one person who was not there.
"Where is Sarah?" Hange asked after greeting everyone and loosening her coat.
Mikasa glanced toward the stairs and answered quietly,
"She's tired… she said she needed rest. She's leaving tomorrow."
A brief silence followed.
Jean raised an eyebrow in surprise. Armin hesitated, as if wanting to ask more.
But Levi alone was not surprised.
Instead, something invisible tightened around his chest.
"She knows…" he told himself, without a sound.
Hange sighed as she entered the hall.
"I'm late because the officers' discussion in the capital was harsher than I expected."
She sat down, removed her gloves, then continued:
"Some still think bringing Sarah here was a risk. But Commander Pixis was firm—he wants to speak with her personally. He values those who carry secrets more than those who carry weapons."
Levi stared at the table in silence. The others exchanged quick looks.
❖ At the Dinner Table — Bitterness and a Warm Bowl
The soup—prepared earlier by Sarah and Eren—was served to everyone.
The scent of gentle spices filled the room, and no one expected the flavor to be this deep.
"Oh my god… this is actually really good," Jean muttered in disbelief.
"Can I say something crazy?" Sasha said between spoonfuls.
"It tastes like home. Warm… like it's patting me on the back."
Laughter spread through the table. Connie joked,
"I think this officially promotes Eren to squad chef!"
Eren shook his head calmly.
"Sarah made the base. I just added the water."
In the corner, Levi ate slowly.
The taste wasn't unfamiliar.
It was… painfully familiar.
Something about it reminded him of the soup his mother used to make when he was sick—
the same gentle salt, the same faint scent of a wild herb simmered in a small kitchen.
Something scratched at his memory.
Then it hit him.
"I was cruel… for no reason."
He said it only to himself.
The bitterness now wasn't in the soup—but in guilt.
❖ A Door Unknocked — And Words Unsaid
At midnight, he stood in front of her door.
He didn't knock.
He simply stood there.
He raised his hand… then lowered it.
Took a breath. Took a step back… then returned.
A soft knock? No.
She was asleep.
Or maybe she didn't want to hear him.
He walked away.
"All of this… because I was stupid," he muttered like a curse.
In his room, he sat by the window.
Three times, he almost apologized.
Three times, his own voice defeated him.
Three times… he lost a small chance to be a better man.
That night, neither of them slept.
She slept with a broken wing, convincing her heart that leaving was healing—not defeat.
He sat at his window, convincing himself that silence was survival—not escape.
But the truth was clearer than either of them wanted to admit.
Everything had already begun.