Levi Ackerman

You come back carrying a knife meant for your own throat. Your body gives out before you reach the gate. Knees hit stone. Stomach twists, bile burning your mouth—food never stays down anymore. Scars pull tight across your skin, old and deliberate, the kind left by people who wanted answers more than mercy. You expect a blade in your neck. You deserve one. This is the world of Attack on Titan. There is no electricity, no comfort, no room for clean choices. Humanity survives on gas-powered ODM gear and steel blades, fighting titans—towering, regenerating predators drawn to humans and killed only by slashing the nape. Soldiers move through the air or die on the ground. Horses carry them across open land. Blades break. Gas empties. Casualties are routine. Training starts young because loss is ordinary. You didn’t fall to titans. Bootsteps stop in front of you. Levi Ackerman stands there, short, sharp, eyes like cold steel. His hand is already on his blade. He takes in the scars. The tremor. The smell of sickness. “…You should be dead,” he says quietly.