Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The place reeked of smoke and cheap soap. Light seeped through brown silk curtains in strips, hazy with dust and the heat of too many bodies in one narrow corridor. Voices filtered in from behind thin walls some muffled by laughter, some by the sort of sounds Erwin had not come here for, though their presence kept the air taut as a pulled thread.

He’d meant to be discreet. The sort of establishment that kept no guest book, where uniforms were frowned upon not out of morality, but because brass buttons and epaulettes drew attention from the wrong sort of clientele.

Still, he had been foolish enough to think no one of consequence would be here tonight.

The realization landed before the voice did. That voice—gravelled with age, deliberate in its amusement—broke through the silk-and-tobacco haze from just over his shoulder.

"Smith."

He didn’t turn immediately. The sound of it was enough.

Darius Zackly was not a man one met by accident, not in Headquarters, not in the field, and certainly not here. When Erwin finally faced him, the General was leaning lazily against the doorframe, one gloved hand resting atop the other as though they were merely passing each other in a hallway. The lamplight made a cruel companion to the lines on his face.

"General," Erwin said, steady, though the title tasted like surrender here.

Zackly’s eyes took their time, tracing from the loose collar of Erwin’s civilian shirt, down to where the cufflinks were still military-issue. “I had my doubts when they handed you the Survey Corps,” he said, low enough that the music from the next room swallowed half the words. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to seek… inspiration… here.”

"It’s not what it looks like."

Zackly’s smile deepened, a fox’s patience in human form. "That’s where you’re wrong. It’s exactly what it looks like."

There was no safe answer to that, not when the man had already stepped into the narrow space, closing the distance with the deliberate pace of someone who knew precisely how much room the younger commander needed to breathe.

Zackly’s gloved fingers brushed the door shut behind them. The latch clicked.

Erwin felt the walls shrink.

The room was meant for two people, and only if both of them were paying for privacy. The cot in the corner sagged toward the center, and the single chair by the vanity was occupied by Erwin’s discarded jacket.

Zackly didn’t move toward the bed. Instead, he circled once, slow as reconnaissance, until he was standing close enough for Erwin to smell the faint trace of cigarettes beneath his cologne.

“Your predecessor,” Zackly said, “preferred to drown himself in whiskey.” He reached out, and with the edge of one gloved finger, lifted the loose fold of Erwin’s collar. “I see you’ve chosen a more… tactile escape.”

Erwin held his ground, though the heat from the General’s proximity was deliberate. “I came here for information. Some clients...”

“...don’t talk unless they’re naked. Yes, I know.” Zackly’s hand stayed at his collar, neither adjusting nor releasing it, as though weighing whether the fabric or the man beneath it was of more interest. “Still, one wonders if the Commander of the Survey Corps understands how thin his excuses sound.”

Erwin’s breath drew tighter when Zackly let his thumb press against the hollow of his throat.

“You’re young,” Zackly murmured. “Ambitious. The kind who thinks control is a uniform you can put on and take off at will.” His thumb shifted lower, following the pulse that betrayed more than Erwin intended. “I’m here to remind you that in this world, control is something granted. And revoked.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a verdict.

The chair scraped faintly against the floor as Zackly stepped back just far enough to sit. He leaned into it like a judge awaiting testimony. “Close the door properly,” he said, though Erwin had already heard the latch click. “And then come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

Erwin crossed the space in three strides, and Zackly’s hand found his wrist, guiding without haste until he was standing between the General’s knees. The glove came off slowly, finger by finger, each motion deliberate.

The bare hand was warmer. It settled on Erwin’s hip as Zackly’s other hand traced the seam of his shirt, pulling it free from his trousers.

“You’ve already given me the pleasure of surprise,” Zackly said, his voice still even. “Now, let’s see if you can manage obedience.”

The chair’s wooden arms dug into Erwin’s thighs as Zackly pulled him closer by the belt, the other hand skimming down with all the inevitability of a man leafing through a report he already knew the ending to.

“Stand still,” Zackly murmured, undoing the belt with two sharp tugs. “If I wanted a struggle, I’d find someone who knew how to win one.”

The buckle hit the floor with a dull clink. Erwin’s breath caught when Zackly’s knuckles brushed over him through the cloth, testing weight, shape, indifference and interest woven so tightly Erwin couldn’t separate them.

“Not bad,” Zackly said, tone flat as a field report. “We’ll see if you’re worth the reputation they’re building for you.”

He pushed Erwin back a step, just far enough to rise from the chair. Gloves and jacket were abandoned without ceremony. His hands went to Erwin’s shirt, unfastening it without hurry, brushing against skin like he was cataloguing terrain. By the time it hung open, Zackly had already turned him toward the cot.

“Bend,” he said.

The cot creaked under Erwin’s hands. The mattress smelled faintly of semen and dirt. Zackly stood behind him, the pause before the next command sharp as a held blade.

“Lower.”

The position forced Erwin’s spine into a curve, his hips angled up.

“Expected you’d be tighter,” Zackly said, dry as gunpowder. His thumb pressed in shallow, testing, then withdrew. “We’ll change that.”

Zackly’s cock pressing blunt and unyielding until Erwin’s jaw locked against the groan it dragged out of him. The General didn’t ease him in so much as claim the space, his hands anchoring hard at Erwin’s hips.

“Keep your head down,” Zackly said. “Better you get used to the view from there.”

The rhythm came without mercy. Each thrust jolted the cot’s rusted frame against the wall, Zackly using his weight and the leverage of Erwin’s hips to keep him exactly where he wanted him. Every time Erwin’s body tried to retreat, the grip on his hips hauled him back into the full force of it.

“Quiet,” Zackly warned, when a sound slipped free. “You don’t want the rest of the building hearing how eager the Commander is to take orders, do you?”

Humiliation burned hotter than the friction. Every shift of Zackly’s pace made the cot squeal under them; every word landed sharp in Erwin’s ears. By the time Zackly’s hand snaked around to grip him, Erwin’s breath was breaking against the mattress, his pulse hammering in his throat.

“Good,” Zackly said, voice roughening at last. “You follow orders. You keep still. You take what you’re given. That’s why you’ll keep your position. And why you’ll remember who you owe for it.”

The thrusts turned erratic, driving harder, deeper, until Zackly’s grip bruised. Release came with a sharp exhale and one last push that left Erwin braced and aching, his trousers tangled at his knees, his shirt half-hanging off his shoulders.

Zackly stepped back, fastening himself with the same unhurried hands he’d used to undo Erwin’s belt.

Erwin sagged against the cot, sweat cooling on his skin, breath ragged from more than just the exertion.

The silence settled thick, broken only by the faint scrape of Zackly’s chair as he shifted.

“It’s too much,” Erwin finally muttered, voice hoarse and low.

Zackly glanced back, amusement flickering in his eyes as he began to dress, fingers deft despite the lingering tension.

“Too much,” he repeated, voice rough. “Or you just need better company to help you... unload?”

Erwin gave him a sideways look. “No, actually... I mean, I need to shit.”

For a moment, Zackly’s expression didn’t change, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, a shadow passing through his eyes, something dark, unspoken, as if the words had opened a door better left closed.

Well, ChatGPT more or less allowed me to put Zackly in the picture, but Erwin's design is so ugly in every attempt:

Version 1: he looks like Colt, and we're to assume there's a mirror since he's looking at whatwouldbeZaclky's reflection,

Version 2:  Erwin's face scared me more than every movie I watched in Halloween.

Version 3:  mh...

Chapter Text

The sun had already cleared the walls when Erwin finally returned to his quarters. The Survey Corps’ offices were quieter in the early hour, clerks and officers not yet fully awake, and he was grateful for the hush. He shut the door behind him with care, as though any sudden sound might echo too loudly against the fragile hold he had on composure.

He sat at his desk without removing his coat. The ink bottles, the half-finished maps, the ledgers—all perfectly ordinary, the business of command as it had always been. But Zackly’s voice clung like smoke: Better you get used to the view from there.

Erwin pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. This had to remain a single mistake, a misstep hidden in the folds of a long career. No one could know. He told himself that again and again—Zackly had caught him in the wrong place, at the wrong time, but even generals could be discreet when it suited them.

And yet.

The thought would not leave him: Zackly was not a man to waste an advantage once found.

A knock at the door. Erwin schooled his face, rose to answer. A courier saluted and handed him a sealed envelope, the wax pressed with the unmistakable mark of the High Command. Erwin thanked him, closed the door again, and broke the seal.

The note was brief, written in Zackly’s clipped hand.

Smith. Same hour, three nights hence. The place will do. Consider it an inspection of morale.

No signature. None needed.

Erwin let the parchment sag in his grip until it brushed the desk. His jaw locked. So it was not a mistake, not something to be buried and forgotten. It was a summons. And from the wording, not one he could decline.

He set the letter aside carefully, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him.

The rest of the morning passed in routine—reports on supply shortages, requests for patrol rotations, a briefing with his senior officers—but the words blurred as though written in a foreign tongue. Every so often, he caught sight of the folded note waiting on his desk, and each time it struck him anew: Zackly had scheduled him like an appointment. Like a resource to be drawn upon at leisure.

By midday, the cadets had gathered in the training yard. Erwin paused at the balcony above, scanning their forms. His gaze caught on a dark-haired newcomer—slighter than the others, moving with a precision that marked him apart. Levi, the man from the underground whose reputation had already begun to circle like rumor.

Erwin lingered a fraction longer than necessary. Something about the sharpness of Levi’s stance, the way he seemed to carve order out of chaos, drew his eye. Useful. Dangerous. A soldier who could make a difference in a corps that bled men faster than it could replace them.

For the briefest moment, Erwin imagined what it might mean to stand beside him in battle, to build something lasting out of their combined resolve. And then the thought curdled, because he could just as easily imagine Levi’s eyes narrowing in disgust, should the truth of Zackly’s summons ever surface.

A commander could survive battlefield losses. He could not survive the collapse of his men’s trust.

Erwin turned from the balcony before Levi looked up.

That night, alone in his quarters, he unfolded the letter again, as though repetition might alter its contents. It did not. The words remained steady, inexorable. Same hour, three nights hence.

He burned the letter over the lamp flame until only blackened fragments curled in the dish. But the ash did not erase the obligation.

Three nights.

He told himself he would endure it once more, and no further. A single concession to necessity. Then he would find a way to close the door on it forever.

But deep in his chest, Erwin already knew Zackly was the sort of man who never opened a cage without locking it again.

The brothel was quieter tonight, though the walls still carried muffled laughter, the scrape of shoes on wood. Erwin stood in the dim room again, jacket folded on the chair, as if habit had already claimed him.

Zackly lounged across from him, half in shadow, a cigar ember glowing faintly. “Punctual, Commander,” he said, smoke curling around the words. “I do admire a man who understands the value of time. It makes cooperation so much smoother.”

Erwin forced his chin high. “I follow orders where necessary.”

Zackly’s smile creased. “Mm. A soldier’s creed. Useful… in more contexts than one.” His eyes lingered on Erwin in appraisal, the way a superior might measure a subordinate’s stamina, but there was nothing military about the silence that followed.

Erwin felt the weight of it. The waiting.

“On your knees,” Zackly said.

The command left no room for hesitation. Erwin lowered, knees pressing into the uneven wood. He fixed his gaze forward, refusing to look up at the man settling back, undoing his trousers with a languid ease.

The sour tang of sweat and tobacco rolled over him as Zackly guided himself out. The stench clung heavy, the musk of old smoke and unwashed skin that made Erwin’s stomach knot. The head brushed against his lips, acrid with cigar ash. “Open.”

Erwin obeyed, though bile already threatened at the back of his throat. The thickness slid across his tongue, bitter, unclean. Every breath filled with Zackly’s taste: salt sharp as brine, the stale bitterness of smoke, the cloying residue of his cologne turning rancid in Erwin’s nose. He forced rhythm where disgust clenched his gut, hands braced against the chair to keep from pulling away.

Zackly exhaled smoke and pleasure in equal measure. “That discipline of yours. I see now why they gave you the Corps. Control like this… rare.” His hand found Erwin’s hair, tugging lightly to set the pace. “A quality men would pay dearly to keep close.”

Erwin swallowed against the intrusion, throat burning from the reek that coated him inside and out. His lips tingled with the foul salt of Zackly’s skin, each thrust pressing deeper, each breath drawing only more of the rancid mix of sweat, tobacco, and musk.

Zackly chuckled low. “Funding. Favors. Doors that open only for those who know how to show proper… deference. You understand, Commander. Every expedition needs its patron saints.”

Erwin gagged once as Zackly pressed deeper, the taste overwhelming. The general’s grip held him steady until he forced himself to master the revulsion, humiliation burning hotter than the nausea twisting inside him.

“Good,” Zackly murmured, voice heavy now, hips moving harder. “You take it. You adapt. You don’t falter. Exactly the qualities that make you worth investing in.”

The rhythm quickened, each thrust harder, more demanding, until Zackly’s groan broke sharp and sudden. His release flooded Erwin’s throat, thick and acrid, the stench of him unbearable. Erwin swallowed by reflex, gagging at the foulness coating his tongue, no choice but to endure. The hand in his hair tightened until it eased, finally letting him draw back, lips slick, chest heaving.

Erwin wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste still clinging like ash. He rose unsteadily, his body screaming to look composed though nausea gnawed and his dignity smoldered like refuse.

Zackly fastened his trousers with unhurried calm. “Efficient,” he said, as though marking a report. “I value men who know how to execute without question.”

Erwin reached for his jacket, intent on ending the night, but Zackly’s voice stopped him.

“Three nights,” the general said, casual as though suggesting a stroll. His eyes glinted through the smoke, unreadable. “Perhaps then I’ll decide whether you work best under… private evaluation. Or whether a broader demonstration suits you better.”

The words chilled more than any direct order. Veiled, but sharp.

Erwin did not answer. He could not. He only inclined his head, the acknowledgment of a subordinate, and left before the walls closed tighter.

The corridor outside reeked of perfume and smoke. He moved quickly, past the laughter and the creaking doors, until the night air hit his lungs. Yet even fresh air could not cleanse the stench from his mouth, nor the bitter film left on his tongue.

Zackly’s implication sat heavy in him. Not a threat spoken outright, but the possibility of exposure, of being paraded for purposes beyond one man’s appetite. It lingered in every syllable the general had left unsaid.

And Erwin knew, as he strode into the darkness, that the summons would keep coming.

And the next one might not be private.

Made Levi taller for once

Chapter Text

The smoke hung low, turning the lamplight into a yellow haze. General Zackly leaned back in the armchair, cigar balanced in his thick fingers, and let the silence stretch. Erwin stood across from him, uniform jacket folded neatly on the chair where Zackly had ordered it placed. His spine was straight, his hands still, his expression the careful blankness of a soldier waiting for release.

“You know, Commander,” Zackly began, exhaling a long stream of smoke, “your expeditions remind me of a gentleman’s pastime. Falconry, or fox hunts. Costly little hobbies men pursue to feel noble.”

Erwin said nothing. His gaze fixed on a knot in the floorboards, his jaw tight.

Zackly chuckled. “A hobby like that shouldn’t be paid for out of the Crown’s purse alone. No, no — it should be shared. Sponsored.” He tapped ash into the tray with a lazy flick. “I’ve half a mind to invite some friends. Merchants, nobles with coin to spare. Men who enjoy a spectacle. They might take an interest in your… passion.”

The words hung in the smoky air like a noose.

“You keep chasing titans as if they were deer in the woods,” Zackly went on, voice amused, “and they’ll pay to watch you. Or at least, to keep you chasing. A Commander’s dream turned into a patron’s diversion. That’s how hobbies survive, after all.”

Erwin’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the only break in his composure.

Zackly smiled around the cigar. “So keep at it, Smith. Let me arrange a few donors. We’ll see how much your dream is worth to men who like to watch.”

The General’s laughter was soft, rasping, and Erwin felt it settle like ash on his skin.

By the time Erwin returned to the Survey Corps headquarters, dawn had stretched thin and gray over the rooftops. He had washed until his skin was raw, the smell of soap sharp in his nostrils, but traces of the night clung stubbornly. His collar was starched and straight, his gloves immaculate, and still he felt stained.

The halls of HQ were quiet at this hour, only the faint shuffle of paper from the records office and the distant creak of beams in the morning chill. Discipline carried him through the corridors. He gave no outward sign of fatigue, no stumble in his gait. A commander could not afford fragility.

Levi was already waiting in his office. He stood by the window, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the slight downturn of his mouth.

“You’re late,” Levi said flatly.

Erwin set down the reports he had brought as cover, letting the pile thud against the desk. “Unexpected delay. What’s our status?”

Levi didn’t move from the window. “Recon units checked in. Supplies are on schedule. Same as yesterday.” A pause, the faintest narrowing of his eyes. “But I’ve got something else.”

Erwin loosened his gloves with practiced precision. “Go on.”

“I still keep in touch with a few people in the underground,” Levi began, voice casual but precise, the way he always spoke when testing the ground. “Old debts. Favours. You know how it is.”

Erwin inclined his head. “I imagine so.”

“They run errands in certain districts,” Levi continued. “Some of them in brothels. Places where information sticks to the walls faster than smoke.”

That word — brothels — landed like a nail driven quietly into wood. Erwin kept his gaze on the gloves, folding them once, then again.

“They’ve seen Zackly there. More than once.” Levi’s voice carried no judgment, only observation. “Not the sort of company you’d expect a General to keep in public. Not unless he’s very sure of his protection.”

Erwin’s throat felt dry. He reached for the water carafe on his desk, poured deliberately, ensuring the silence stretched long enough to mask the tremor in his breath. “The General’s private life isn’t within our jurisdiction.”

Levi turned then, finally leaving the window. His gaze was direct, sharp as a blade tip. “Maybe. But a man like that leaves a trail. Connections, habits, weaknesses. Useful things to know.”

Erwin took a measured sip. The glass was cool against his lips, grounding. “And what conclusion are you drawing from this… observation?”

Levi shrugged, though his eyes didn’t waver. “That power makes men reckless. The higher they sit, the less they care who sees. Makes them sloppy.”

Silence settled. The weight of it pressed against Erwin’s shoulders, heavier than any gear harness. He could feel Levi watching him, gauging the tension around his mouth, the slight drag in his movements.

“You’re tired,” Levi said finally. Not a question.

Erwin set the glass down. “Command doesn’t allow for much rest.”

“Not the kind of tired I mean.” Levi’s tone had shifted — softer, but edged with something perilously close to concern. “You come back from ‘delays’ like this more often than you admit. Same look in your eye every time.”

Erwin felt the floor tilt beneath him. For years he had built walls — immaculate, unbreachable — to keep his private degradation separate from his command. But Levi was pressing against them with surgical precision, not through suspicion but through instinct, through that damnable ability to read what others thought hidden.

He forced his shoulders straight. “Speculation doesn’t serve us, Levi. Our focus must remain on the mission.”

Levi stepped closer to the desk, boots silent on the wood. “Mission or not, if the Commander of the Survey Corps is compromised, that matters.”

Erwin’s jaw tightened. “I am not compromised.”

A beat of silence. Then Levi said, quiet but steady: “People talk. My people. They’ve seen him. They’ve seen you.”

The words struck harder than any blow. Erwin’s chest constricted, breath caught like barbed wire in his lungs. He had always calculated that Zackly’s visits to the brothel were shielded by discretion, by fear, by the unspoken laws of secrecy. The possibility of witnesses had been distant, dismissible. But Levi’s contacts — the underground, sharp-eyed, invisible to the upper class — they saw everything.

Erwin clasped his hands together to still the tremor. “Rumors spread easily in those districts. Don’t put stock in every story.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t. That’s why I’m bringing it to you, not the MPs. Because I know the difference between lies and what sticks.”

The room felt smaller, the air thin. Erwin wanted to retreat behind orders, statistics, tactical maps — anything but this narrowing focus on his private shame. Yet Levi’s persistence held him there, nailed in place.

“Why tell me this?” Erwin asked at last, voice low.

Levi studied him for a long moment. “Because whatever’s happening, it’s bleeding into you. You can pretend otherwise, but I see it. You can’t fight a war on two fronts forever.”

The words landed with a finality Erwin could not ignore. For the first time, he looked directly into Levi’s eyes — not as Commander to Captain, but as man to man. And in that gaze, unflinching, he saw no mockery, no accusation. Only recognition.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile. Erwin considered breaking it with denial, with the shield of authority. But something in Levi’s stance — steady, unrelenting, and yet not cruel — made the lie catch in his throat.

Instead, he let out a slow, measured breath. “Not today.”

Levi tilted his head. “But soon?”

Erwin didn’t answer. He reached for the reports on his desk, hands steady once more, and opened them to the first page. The mask of command slid back into place.

Yet Levi lingered by the desk a moment longer, gaze still fixed on him, as if weighing how far the silence could stretch before it finally broke.

When he spoke, it was almost casual: “You know, if I had proof, if I wanted to, this could blow up everything. The General. You. The Corps. All of it.”

Erwin looked up sharply. Levi’s face was calm, unreadable.

“But I don’t,” Levi said, turning toward the door. “Not yet.”

He left without another word, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet office.

Erwin sat very still, the reports unread beneath his hands. The air smelled faintly of soap and ink. Outside, the headquarters stirred to life — boots on stone, voices calling orders.

But within the office, shadows stretched long across the desk, and Erwin understood with a clarity that chilled him: the walls he had built were crumbling, and Levi was the one standing at the breach.

Across the city, Zackly lingered in the smoke-filled brothel chamber Erwin had just vacated. The air still smelled faintly of starch and soap — evidence of the Commander’s fastidious attempts to keep dignity intact. Zackly found the effort amusing, almost endearing in its futility.

He leaned back in the chair, cigar glowing, ash scattering like gray snow into the tray.

The Survey Corps. Always demanding more funds for their doomed ventures, always returning with fewer men and nothing tangible to show. Erwin’s so-called “expeditions” struck him as a pastime, not a duty.

“A hobby,” Zackly muttered with a dry chuckle. “As if the man were collecting butterflies, not corpses.”

He savored the thought, rolling it around like a fine vintage. The Commander framed it as humanity’s salvation, but Zackly saw what it truly was: one man’s obsession. One man’s little game.

And games needed sponsors.

He tapped ash neatly into the tray and considered the faces of men he knew — merchants flush with coin, minor lords hungry for proximity to power. They were always eager for diversion, for spectacle, for a sense of importance that money alone could not buy.

What better amusement than funding Erwin Smith’s “hobby”? To bankroll expeditions beyond the Walls, dressed up not as national defense but as elite entertainment — an eccentric officer’s passion project. The donors would laugh at the framing, but they would sign the ledgers. Especially if offered the right incentives.

Zackly smiled around the cigar, a sharp, private smile. He had already decided which of his friends to invite. A quiet evening at this very brothel, a demonstration of the Commander’s pliancy, and afterward a discreet suggestion: a generous donation, in exchange for continued access to both the show and the man at its center.

Let Erwin chase his fantasies into the wilderness. Let the taxpayers believe in noble sacrifice. The General knew better. It was simply a hobby — and hobbies, when packaged correctly, could be very profitable indeed.

Chapter Text

The halls of Survey Corps Headquarters echoed with the early-morning quiet—a hush that felt almost deliberate, as if the stone itself knew how fragile the illusion of peace had become. Erwin Smith sat behind his desk, fingers pressed to his temples, reading the same line of a report for the third time without absorbing a single word.

He’d made it a habit to rise before dawn. There were fewer eyes to notice the exhaustion etched into his face, fewer questions to answer, fewer lies to tell. These hours were the only ones left that felt even remotely his own.

Yet even here, in the supposed solitude of his office, the weight pressed in: Zackly’s demands, Levi’s gaze—sharp, unrelenting, as if nothing could escape it. The sound of boots on polished floorboards snapped Erwin from his reverie.

Levi entered without knocking, the way only Levi ever did. He closed the door softly behind him, not out of courtesy but calculation. A sign that whatever he wanted to say was not for anyone else’s ears.

“Commander,” Levi said, voice flat.

Erwin gestured to the seat opposite, but Levi ignored it, choosing instead to remain standing—a silent assertion of authority, or perhaps just impatience. The two men faced each other across the desk, silence stretching taut.

“I’ve had a message,” Levi said at last, eyes glinting. “Word from the underground. Things are moving.”

Erwin’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk. “Define ‘things.’”

Levi’s lip curled, a hint of frustration. “People are talking. Too much. About Zackly. About certain habits. About who’s seen where, and with whom.” He leaned forward. “You know what that means.”

Erwin set down his pen. “Rumors are the currency of the underground. They don’t concern us unless they interfere with operations.”

“That’s what you tell yourself?” Levi shot back. “That what’s happening outside these walls doesn’t touch us?”

“It hasn’t yet,” Erwin replied, too quickly. He could hear the defensive note in his own voice and hated it.

Levi didn’t move, but his presence seemed to fill the room. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you can keep all this shit under wraps. But you’re slipping, Erwin. I can see it. You’re tired. You’re distracted. You think I don’t notice when you come back smelling like sweat and soap and not a drop of blood?”

A silence, heavier than before.

“Levi—” Erwin began, but the Captain cut him off.

“You want to know what I notice?” Levi’s tone was soft now, dangerously so. “You’re not the only one with contacts, Commander. The people I trust don’t lie. They say you’re meeting someone in the same district, same place, same hour. And it’s not for business.”

Erwin felt the room contract, every wall inching closer. He tried to compose himself, tried to conjure the mask he wore so well, but his voice came out strained: “You’re overstepping.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, a wolf scenting blood. “Am I? Or are you just angry someone finally sees the cracks?”

The desk was suddenly a barrier, a line drawn in dust and desperation. Erwin straightened, clasping his hands to still the tremor in his fingers. “What exactly is it you want from me, Levi?”

Levi didn’t answer for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough-edged. “I want to know what’s eating you alive. I want to know why you let yourself be cornered. Why you take orders from men who don’t deserve to give them. You think you’re protecting us? The Corps? Yourself?”

Erwin’s mask faltered. “I’m protecting what I can.”

A scoff. “You’re bleeding out in front of everyone, and you call it command. You ever think you might be more use to us if you weren’t killing yourself to keep secrets?”

Erwin looked away, jaw tight. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.” Levi’s voice broke, and for a heartbeat, it sounded almost like pleading. “Let me in, Erwin. Or let someone in. Because the way you’re going, you’ll break before the Corps does.”

A silence, filled only by the faint ticking of the wall clock.

“I can’t,” Erwin said finally, voice rough with shame. “Some burdens are not meant to be shared.”

Levi’s mouth twisted—not in anger, but in hurt. “You’re not alone, you know. Even if you want to be.”

He turned on his heel and left, the door closing softly behind him. Erwin sat in the empty office, feeling the impact of Levi’s words ripple through the cracks in his carefully constructed armor.

For the first time in a long while, Erwin allowed himself to feel something dangerously close to despair.

The meeting room stank of paper and sweat, the stale air clinging despite the frost just beginning to creep through stone walls. Erwin’s voice had the distant steadiness of habit as he rattled through supply shortages, new casualties, the pace of winter rations. His officers nodded, some making notes, others merely pretending. Only Levi’s eyes never strayed, following every flicker of tension in Erwin’s jaw.

As the meeting broke, Mike caught Erwin’s arm with a low voice. “Another message from the Council. They want a revised budget by tomorrow. Zackly’s pushing for a new audit.” Mike’s mustache twitched in something like concern. “You alright?”

“Just tired,” Erwin replied, forcing a smile. “We’ll meet the deadline.”

Mike looked ready to press further, but Levi appeared at his shoulder, silent as a shadow. “I’ll handle the South District patrols,” Levi said, not breaking eye contact with Erwin. “We can talk when you’re done.”

Mike raised an eyebrow, then gave Erwin a last searching look and left. Levi stayed, arms folded, waiting as the room emptied.

“Does Zackly know you’re this transparent?” Levi said, voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Erwin gathered the ledgers, unwilling to meet his gaze. “If he did, I doubt I’d still be here.”

Levi grunted. “You’re not that expendable. But you’re not untouchable, either.”

Erwin set his jaw, staring at the ledger with a resentment he couldn’t disguise. “No one is.”

Levi glanced toward the door, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “People are sniffing around, Erwin. I heard from Petra—some of the MPs are getting curious about where Zackly goes after hours. Your name’s started coming up, too. The underground’s leaking, and it’s not just drunks and whores talking anymore.”

A cold weight settled in Erwin’s chest. “If anyone asks, they’ll find nothing.”

Levi stepped closer, voice pitched low and dangerous. “Unless they find too much. You know how this works—half the Military Police would sell you out for a bottle of brandy. Or just to see Zackly sweat.”

Erwin’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Let them look. They’ll see a commander doing what’s necessary.”

Levi’s hand shot out, grabbing Erwin’s wrist—not harsh, but firm enough to demand attention. “Necessary for what? The Corps? Or for him?”

Erwin wrenched free, voice snapping. “For all of us. This isn’t about me, Levi. It’s about keeping the expeditions funded, the Scouts in the field—about keeping you alive.”

Levi released him. For a moment, his gaze was full of something raw, something unspoken. “And what about keeping you alive?”

Erwin could not answer. He wanted to. He wanted to explain the calculus: every humiliation for a line in a ledger, every indignity traded for a shipment of gear, every hour spent washing Zackly’s stench off his skin in exchange for a handful of men making it home. But the words stuck, useless.

Instead, Erwin closed his eyes and took a breath. “There’s a price to be paid. This is mine.”

Levi shook his head. “You make it sound noble. It isn’t.”

“I know.”

That night, Erwin’s sleep was broken by a sharp rapping at the door. He woke instantly, cold sweat already slick on his back. Dawn was still hours off.

A courier, face pale with exhaustion, pressed a letter into his hand and vanished. The seal was unmistakable. Erwin’s heart sank even before he read the words:

Commander Smith. The arrangements are finalized. You will attend the chamber in the West End tomorrow evening, and conduct yourself as previously discussed. Consider this an opportunity to demonstrate gratitude to those who have kept the Survey Corps solvent. Your cooperation is non-negotiable. — DZ

Erwin let the note fall to the desk, nausea roiling in his gut. He knew what “arrangements” meant—Zackly’s so-called “donors.” Nobles, merchants, the sort of men who saw the Survey Corps as an expense, a curiosity, or, worse, a source of entertainment. The general’s hand in this was obvious: public humiliation as leverage, a demonstration of control.

He stared at the lamp until his eyes blurred, breathing through his teeth. No choices left—just the next obligation, the next demand. For the Corps, he reminded himself, over and over, as if the repetition would make it true.

Word spread in the shadows of the city. Levi heard it from two different corners within hours—once from a boy who sold information for crusts of bread, once from a madam who liked Levi’s coin and his silences.

“Big event tomorrow night,” she said, dabbing powder on her throat. “West End. Zackly’s bringing a guest—a special one. Some people say it’s the Commander himself.” Her gaze was sly, but careful. “They say the MPs want to catch him in the act.”

Levi’s expression didn’t change. He paid, thanked her, and left.

It was as he suspected—Zackly wanted to use Erwin as a pawn in his game, and if the Military Police got involved, things would spiral fast. There was no honor in this, no way to keep the stink from spreading to the Corps itself.

Levi spent the afternoon prowling the headquarters, piecing rumors into patterns. He saw the faces of men and women who’d trusted Erwin, followed him into hell. What would they say if they knew what was being bartered behind closed doors?

The thought made Levi’s hands curl into fists.

That evening, Erwin remained long after the sun had set, the windows black with city soot. He made a show of reviewing maps, but he was only waiting for the darkness to deepen, for the hour of Zackly’s summons to draw near.

He wrote a letter to an old friend, tore it up. He tried to draft contingency orders, but the ink blurred on the page. For the first time, the burden of command felt not like armor, but like a shroud.

A knock at the door.

He almost didn’t answer, but Levi’s voice called quietly, “It’s me.”

Erwin let him in. The captain paused, taking in the scene: half-packed satchel, half-drunk whiskey, an air of finality that didn’t fit the Commander he knew.

“You’re going,” Levi said.

Erwin didn’t deny it.

“You think you have to do this?”

“Zackly controls the funding. The Scouts—”

Levi stepped forward, close enough that Erwin could feel the heat of his anger. “You don’t have to let him destroy you to save us.”

Erwin’s eyes burned, but he shook his head. “If I don’t, he’ll find someone else to break. Someone less able to carry it.”

Levi stared at him for a long, long moment. “You’re wrong. But you’re also the only person who’s ever made me think the system could change. Don’t let him turn you into just another piece on his board.”

A shadow of a smile touched Erwin’s lips, tired and thin. “You put too much faith in me.”

Levi’s answer was only silence.

The chamber in the West End was dressed up to look respectable—heavy curtains, a clean table, a decanter of expensive brandy that reeked of old money. But Erwin recognized the kind of men Zackly had invited: fat and well-fed, loud with the confidence of those who had never wanted for anything, each wearing a polite smile as sharp as a knife.

Zackly greeted Erwin like a host receiving a favorite guest. “Commander. You know Lord Riese, don’t you? And Baron Ferrel, whose family supplies our horses. And Captain Vance, from Military Police Command.” The titles rolled off his tongue, each one a reminder that Erwin was surrounded by witnesses, and that refusal was not an option.

Erwin forced his shoulders back and gave the required greetings. The faces were a blur—he remembered too well the lesson Zackly had pressed into his skin: when power is taken from you, the only thing left is to survive what comes next.

Drinks were poured, toasts offered to the King, to the Corps, to the “dedication of our finest officers.” Zackly’s hand lingered too long on Erwin’s shoulder, every gesture an announcement of ownership. The others laughed and watched, eager for some humiliation they could recount in low voices later.

When the “inspection of morale” began, Erwin endured it in silence. The questions—personal, lewd, designed to test obedience—came from all sides. Zackly controlled the room with a flick of his eyes, making Erwin demonstrate deference, patience, and, when ordered, submission.

It was not the first time Erwin had been paraded, but never had it been so public, so calculated. He found himself counting breaths, dissociating from the words, the touches, the expectation that he perform for their pleasure. Each command Zackly gave was like another nail hammered into the coffin of the man Erwin used to be.

He only survived it by retreating into memory: the first time he wore the Survey Corps cloak, the first expedition, the faces of his soldiers, the rare warmth of Levi’s presence. He told himself it was for them. That he would endure, and afterward, he would find some way to buy the Corps another week, another ration shipment, another chance at the dream that had once meant everything.

But by the time it ended, his composure was as thin as the sweat on his skin.

He didn’t look back as he left the chamber. The night outside was cold, the city’s gas lamps flickering in the fog. He ducked through alleyways to avoid the main road, stripping off his gloves and scarf as if he could rid himself of Zackly’s scent.

When he reached headquarters, it was almost dawn. He climbed the stairs in darkness, shedding his jacket, and collapsed onto the bed in his office, not caring if anyone saw.

For a long while, Erwin did not sleep. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the slow, measured sound of his own breathing, waiting for something inside him to settle. But nothing did. He was hollowed out, empty save for a faint pulse of shame and a deep, unending exhaustion.

Levi waited in the shadows of the hallway, unseen by the clerks and officers arriving for the day. He’d known where Erwin would go, had watched him return—face gray with fatigue, jaw set in that silent, stubborn line.

He felt anger—not at Erwin, but at a system that made a man like that beg for crumbs from the hands of men who couldn’t be bothered to lift a sword. The Corps, the city, everything was rotting from the inside out, and all he could do was watch.

But Levi was not built to do nothing.

He made his way through the winding streets to the West End, cloak drawn tight. It was easy to find out which brothel Zackly favored; the place reeked of privilege, even in daylight.

He found Zackly in a private parlor, alone now except for a fresh glass of brandy and the day’s newsprint.

The general looked up, surprised, then smiled that slow, superior smile. “Ah, Captain. What brings you to this side of town?”

Levi closed the door and locked it behind him. “We need to talk.”

Zackly poured a second glass with exaggerated care. “If this is about the Commander, you’d do well to remember your place. Some things are simply above your station.”

Levi stepped closer, eyes glinting. “I’m not here to beg. I’m here to warn you. You keep pushing Erwin, you’ll regret it.”

Zackly’s eyes hardened. “Is that a threat?”

Levi shook his head, voice icy. “It’s a promise.”

The general’s smile faded. “You’re clever, Captain. But you don’t have the influence you think. You’re a tool, nothing more. Men like Smith—men like me—run this world.”

Levi’s reply was almost a whisper: “Then maybe it’s time someone broke the machinery.”

Zackly studied him, calculating. “You’d risk everything for your Commander? Even your life?”

Levi’s silence was answer enough.

Zackly’s laughter was short, mirthless. “Very well, Captain. Run along. But know this—if you or your little friends try anything, you’ll doom your Commander to far worse than anything I could devise. The world is crueler than you imagine.”

Levi held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Erwin didn’t hear the knock at first. It came again, louder, until he forced himself up from the bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He opened the door to find Levi, eyes fierce, mouth set.

“You look like shit,” Levi said.

“I’ve had a long night,” Erwin replied, voice raw.

Levi stepped in without waiting for permission. “I spoke to Zackly.”

Erwin froze, dread coiling in his stomach. “What did you do?”

“I warned him. I made it clear there are lines he doesn’t get to cross. I don’t care what it costs me.”

For a moment, all the air seemed to leave the room. Erwin pressed his hands to the edge of the desk to steady himself.

“You shouldn’t have—”

Levi cut him off. “Someone had to.”

They stood there, neither willing to move. Erwin felt something break inside him—not a collapse, but a release. The tears threatened, hot and shameful, but he bit them back.

“I’m tired, Levi,” he whispered. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”

Levi’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Then stop doing it alone.”

Erwin’s resolve finally cracked. He let himself sink into the chair, hands trembling. “If you’re with me, it puts you in danger. All of you.”

Levi crouched beside him, voice low and deadly calm. “We’re already in danger. That’s what this uniform means. But I’m not going to stand by while you drown.”

For the first time in days, Erwin let himself believe in rescue. Just a little.

The next day dawned brittle and cold, headquarters still blanketed in a hush of uncertainty. Erwin attended morning briefings with a blank composure, delegating orders, listening with half an ear as squads rattled off status reports. He felt as if he were watching himself from outside his own body, numb, distant, wearing the mask of command like a second skin he could no longer remove.

Whispers followed him through the corridors. He caught the flicker of gazes, the way conversations paused as he passed. Word was spreading—about Zackly, about the “inspection,” about the night in the West End. In the mess hall, the rumor mill churned, names tossed about like dice, speculations sharper than knives.

He ignored it as best he could, but each whisper felt like another thread coming loose, another warning that the wall between his public and private self was crumbling fast.

Levi found him late that afternoon, cornering him in the old records office, out of earshot of the usual traffic. Sunlight slanted through grimy windows, casting gold and shadow across shelves lined with ledgers and dust.

“They’re moving,” Levi said, quiet and direct. “The MPs. There’s going to be an inquiry—official or not. Petra heard it from a friend who files requisition papers. Zackly’s been asked to testify, too.”

Erwin leaned against the shelves, eyes closed. “It was inevitable.”

Levi shook his head. “Not like this. They want a scapegoat. If they can’t pin it on Zackly, it’ll be you.”

Erwin’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time the truth was a casualty.”

Levi stepped closer, urgency sparking in every word. “You still have options. You could go public with what Zackly’s done. Force the Council’s hand. Even the Military Police don’t like being played for fools. If you gave them evidence—”

Erwin shook his head. “I have nothing but my word. And Zackly’s power is built on secrets. He’d turn it all back on me, on the Corps. He’s already hinted at it—one word from him, and they cut our funding. The Scouts die.”

Levi’s jaw set. “So you just let him own you?”

Silence. For a moment, Erwin’s composure faltered, raw emotion flickering across his features—anger, grief, exhaustion, shame. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said, voice stripped bare. “Every move I make is another step into the trap.”

Levi’s hand closed around his wrist—firm, grounding. “Then let me help you.”

Erwin looked at him, truly looked, and for the first time allowed himself to see the truth in Levi’s eyes: stubborn loyalty, yes, but also a kind of desperate hope. It was almost enough to make him believe in a way out.

He took a shaky breath. “If we do this—if we fight back—it can’t just be me. It can’t just be you. We’ll need allies. Evidence. A plan.”

Levi nodded, a small, ferocious smile breaking through. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

They stood together, not speaking, letting the enormity of what they’d decided settle between them. It was the beginning of something reckless and dangerous, but it was also the first thing in weeks that felt honest.

Across town, in the plush quiet of his private office, General Zackly read through a series of neatly folded messages. He exhaled a plume of cigar smoke, lips pursed in a smile that never touched his eyes.

The rumors had reached him—of course they had. He’d stoked them himself, a little at a time, knowing how fear sharpened loyalty and blurred the lines of accountability. He savored the thought of Erwin, isolated, scrambling, desperate to hold on to his precious Corps. All according to plan.

A knock at the door. An aide entered, bowing, passing a sealed envelope.

“From the Council, sir. Re: the investigation.”

Zackly took the letter, opened it with casual indifference, but his eyes sharpened as he read. “They want a statement. Interesting.”

He considered, for a moment, the game board laid out before him. He still held every meaningful piece, but he’d underestimated one thing—the loyalty of men like Levi. Dangerous, unpredictable, unwilling to play by rules written in other people’s blood.

No matter. There were other ways to win.

He began to write, each word a tightening of the snare.

That night, Erwin sat at his desk, Levi across from him, the hush of the sleeping headquarters broken only by the slow ticking of the clock.

Levi slid a folded paper across the table—a list of names, contacts in the underground, a plan slowly taking shape. “If we’re going to bring him down,” Levi said, “we do it our way. Quiet, careful. We get proof. We turn the game on him.”

Erwin took the list, hands steadier now. For the first time, he allowed himself a fragile hope.

But as they began to plot, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside—heavy, deliberate. The doorknob rattled.

A voice: “Commander Smith. Orders from the High Command. You’re to come with us.”

Levi reached for his blades, silent as a promise.

Erwin stood, the mask slipping back into place. “It begins,” he whispered.

The door swung open. Shadows spilled into the room.

And everything changed.