No one had explained to Levi how the world worked. He didn't know why cars moved without horses, why people wore headphones when they didn't listen to orders, or why there was so much food on the streets and so little death. But he knew the most important thing: he was alone. There was no Erwin here. There was no Hange. There were no Titans. Even the pain from the wounds that had tormented him for years was now just a memory. And that was more frightening than any beast.

He lived unnoticed. He slept in cheap housing, mopped floors in the hospital, cleaned up other people's blood, without explaining why he was holding a mop like a sword. He hadn't talked to anyone for more than a couple of sentences. He didn't make eye contact with anyone. This world, oddly enough, did not require heroism from him. It demanded silence.

There was nothing special about that day. The sun beat down on the asphalt mercilessly, and the air was shimmering. He was just walking. He passed by a park where children were gathering, and the noise, laughter, and creaking of the swings were irritating. He was about to turn when he suddenly stopped.

On a separate court, behind a metal net, teenagers were playing volleyball. He would have passed by. He had to pass by. But his eyes were drawn to her.

She was a short, wiry girl with sharply defined muscles and burning eyes. Dressed in lightweight shorts and a dark top, with sneakers and protective knee and elbow pads, she moved as if every jump was her last. It was like the volleyball was an enemy that needed to be destroyed.

But it wasn't about the game. It was about the eyes. Her eyes are the color of a stormy sky. And the look is the same: direct, angry, like an animal that doesn't know it's already injured. He knew those eyes.

"Eren...?"

The voice didn't come out. He just stood there like he was nailed. Something tightened in his chest. There's ash in his throat. She was shouting something to her team, her voice hoarse with effort. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and when she turned around for a second, he saw that even her expression, the defiant, unyielding curve of her lips, screamed: him.

He took a step forward. Then another. But the girl had already turned back. Leap. Kick. The ball passed within an inch of her hand.

"Fuck..."

That's the only thing he said out loud. Not loudly. Not in desperation. It was just that fate had a funny way of playing tricks on him. He didn't know who she was. She wasn't Eren. He knew that. There was no smell of titanium, no trace of the rage that had destroyed worlds. It was just an echo. A shadow left by the fire.

But from that day on, he started passing by that playground more often. It was just "on his way." It was just "as it happened." Just... to make sure it wasn't a dream.

The game ended abruptly — someone missed a shot, someone shouted, and the student referee gave a lazy whistle. The team dispersed with a lot of noise, and someone dropped a bottle of water and sat down on the pavement. But she didn't sit down. She stood by the net, leaning on her knees and breathing heavily, as if she were fighting for her life rather than for the score. Then she straightened up, pushed a wet strand of hair out of her face, and headed towards the exit from the court.

Levi watched her walk and felt something inside break. He knew that walk—sure, a little careless, as if the whole world should make way. He shouldn't have interfered. It wasn't his war, not his world. But he couldn't help himself. It was as if his body was moving on its own. He crossed the alley, passed the fence, and stood next to her, two steps away. The girl froze halfway to her bag, turning around—he could feel it in his back, even though he couldn't see her face. There was a moment of silence. Then he spoke. The voice was hoarse, as if it had rusted in this world.

— You look like you haven't lost in a long time.

Pause. He looks into her eyes. Damn. He hates that look, for how familiar it is.