The room is hushed, cloaked in candlelight. Shadows bend and stretch against the walls as the single flame flickers in the draft. It's late enough that the estate sleeps—but the silence isn't restful. It's brittle. Waiting.
You fasten your harness slowly beneath your cloak, fingers moving with deliberate care. Every tug of leather, every metallic click of buckles feels louder than it should. You try not to think about the way your hands tremble—not from fear, exactly, but from the strange, breathless awareness that something could shift tonight. Something already has.
Behind you, Levi checks the ODM wires with quiet precision. His gloves whisper against the steel coils as he tests their tension. His focus is absolute. The only sign of nerves—if he even has them—is the flick of his gaze toward the window every so often, as if sensing something you can't see.
"We get in, get out. No heroics," he says lowly.
His voice grounds you—sharp, quiet, the kind that cuts through fog. You don't look up right away. You tug your cloak tight and adjust the collar, then turn to him, mouth tugging into a faint, crooked smile.
"Define heroics."
That gets his attention. He glances up, just for a beat. The corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smirk, but close. It barely lingers.
"Anything that gets you killed," he murmurs.
You feel it more than you hear it. The unspoken weight beneath those words. He's not teasing. Not really.
You turn back toward the window before he sees the way your heart trips over itself.
—
The night air hits you like a slap—sharp, cold, and clean. The estate behind you hums faintly, a low thrum of music and light filtering out from the grand hall's windows. But here, beneath the looming shadow of the western tower, the world has narrowed to breath and stone and silence.
You crouch low, boot pressed to the edge of the wall. The trigger in your hand is smooth and cold. One breath in.
You fire.
The anchor hisses upward, the line snapping taut with a sharp jolt. You grip it and lift off the ground, rising fast. The air rushes past your face, numbing your cheeks. Your heart leaps into your throat.
You ascend like a shadow with no source, cloak whipping behind you. Every muscle in your body tenses, waiting for a shout, a spotlight, a rifle raised in alarm—but nothing comes.
Behind you, Levi follows—silent, assured. The moon glints off the curve of his blade as it shifts at his side.
The wind presses against your ears. You climb higher, toward the balcony ledge, until your fingers find purchase in the stonework. You haul yourself over with a grunt, knees scraping tile.
Your breath comes hard and cold. You crouch, scanning the rooftop. Levi lands beside you moments later, light as falling snow.
No words.
Only the look he gives you—steady, sharp. Checking you. Making sure.
You nod once. You're okay. You think.
—
The window gives under your fingers, swinging outward on silent hinges. You slide through first, boots kissing the polished floor.
The room greets you like a tomb.
Dust hangs suspended in the stale air, disturbed by your entrance. The smell of old paper and cold stone coils in your nose. Shelves tower above you, crammed with books whose spines are cracked and fading. Maps yellowed by time curl at their edges. An ancient globe leans on its axis in the corner, split down the middle. Everything here feels untouched. Forgotten.
But not abandoned.
You step lightly, breath shallow. Levi follows, barely a whisper behind you.
The desk in the corner draws your eye—ornate, dark-stained, with a single locked drawer. You reach for it, testing the handle. Stuck.
Without hesitation, Levi draws his knife. It glints once before he sinks it into the drawer's seam and levers it open with a soft, splintering snap.
Inside: a leather-bound notebook, thick and stiff, its cover etched with symbols you don't recognize. Faded ink. Binding threads like dried veins.
You draw it out carefully, like lifting a body from a grave.
Levi leans in beside you, eyes scanning the markings. He doesn't speak, but you can feel the tension coil through him—shoulders rigid, jaw tight.
You both know what this is.
You slip it into your cloak.
And then—just as your breath returns to you—
—
Footsteps.
Heavy, shuffling. Just outside the door.
Your stomach drops.
Levi moves instantly. One hand catches your arm, the other wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back—fast but silent—behind the column at the far edge of the room.
You can barely breathe.
You're pressed tightly against him, chest to chest, his heartbeat hammering against yours. His cloak shields you from view, but you don't dare move. Don't even blink.
A single grunt echoes from the hallway. Boots scuff wood. A man mutters something unintelligible—bored, maybe drunk.
You bite your lip. Hard.
The seconds stretch like wire drawn taut. You feel everything too sharply—Levi's breath against your temple, the warmth of his chest through your cloak, the way his hand is still pressed flat against your spine.
Your fingers grip the front of his jacket without meaning to.
You're not sure which heartbeat you're hearing anymore. His, or yours.
The footsteps fade.
But Levi doesn't pull away.
And neither do you.
Not yet.
—
The second window groans in protest as you push it open. You wince. Levi stills behind you, eyes scanning the dark.
You swing yourself out first, landing on a narrow strip of roof tile slick with dew. The angle is steep, and your boots skid once before you find your balance.
The tiles creak beneath your weight. The sound is thunder in the silence.
You exhale slowly, heart lodged in your throat. The drop below yawns wide and black.
One step.
Another.
You move sideways, inching along the roof like a beetle, every muscle screaming for stillness. A breeze lifts your cloak, and you press yourself lower, fingers grazing wet stone for balance.
Behind you, Levi moves without hesitation, but even he is more careful now. The danger is real. Closer than ever.
You reach the edge of the roof, slip down onto the outer garden wall, and from there, drop to the ground. You land with a muted grunt, knees bending to absorb the shock.
Your palms sting. Your legs are shaking.
You're not sure if it's from the cold, the adrenaline, or the fact that you'd been pressed against Levi Ackerman's chest not five minutes ago and can still feel his breath on your skin.
He lands beside you, slower this time. Controlled.
For a long second, neither of you speak.
Then he turns, eyes shadowed by the moonlight, and looks at you. There's something unreadable in his face—some sharp, veiled thing that might be concern. Might be more.
"Still think it wasn't real?" he asks.
Your breath catches.
The words hit harder than they should. You think about the notebook hidden beneath your cloak. About the locked drawer. About his hand on your spine. About the way he didn't let go.
You want to say something. Anything.
But you don't.
You just look at him.
And that silence is its own answer.