Before he dared to wear the uniform of the Survey Corps, Levi Ackerman carried the smell of dead cigarettes and dead men in the sound of his footsteps.
Careful, midnight footsteps; and thoughts, and doubts. They sounded bloody and guilty, hiding from the dark silence of the room.
Her voice slipped out of the quiet.
"Long night?" she asked him.
He stood in between the sounds of another step, another thought, some more doubt. And the unmoving smell of his smoked cigarettes.
And she may have heard the small sound of his conscience. And maybe it was sorry before he smiled and said, "Yeah. It always fucking is."
His footsteps approached the edges of the lamplight she sat in, next to her insomnia and across from a few sleepless sips of rum.
She could see his grey eyes. Then, the rest of him.
He carried himself neatly, in a quiet, calm, bloodstained manner: the strong shoulders of a businessman's respected attitude and the proud chest of a gangster's respected reputation; all well dressed in