The sealed envelope weighs heavy in your hand, though it's light as paper should be. Your fingers graze the wax—Erwin's personal seal pressed deep into crimson—again and again as if touch might reveal something the contents refuse to say. You've been standing outside his office for six full minutes, unmoving, save for the subtle rhythm of your thumb brushing along the edge.
You are not the sort of soldier to be summoned without cause.
The morning light slants through tall windows lining the corridor, cold and golden. Dust hangs suspended in the air, each mote drifting like time slowed to a crawl. The silence settles over your shoulders heavier than your uniform.
When the door creaks open from the inside, you stiffen.
"Come in," Commander Erwin calls, his voice even.
You step into the room. The air changes—warmer, but weighted. There's always something quietly reverent about Erwin's office, as though it remembers every loss that's passed through it. The scent of wax, old paper, and worn leather greets you.
He sits behind the desk, posture commanding, but his hands are relaxed—palms down, fingers steepled loosely. Hange leans against the far windowsill, legs crossed, arms folded, their smile a crooked line of private amusement.
You nod to both. "Commander. Hange."
"Take a seat," Erwin says.
You obey without hesitation, settling into the stiff wooden chair across from him. Your spine is straight, but not tense. Not yet.
"You've been selected for a delicate infiltration assignment," Erwin begins without preamble. "The target is Lord Silas Vaergan. A nobleman in Wall Sina with deep pockets and dangerous ambitions. We believe he's funding Titan experimentation—using kidnapped civilians from the Underground."
You don't flinch, but your stomach tightens. The room seems colder now.
"I'm assigning you to infiltrate his estate," he continues. "As a guest. You'll assume the role of minor nobility—someone with enough social standing to be invited, but low enough not to provoke suspicion."
You nod slowly. "Understood. Am I going in alone?"
There's a pause. You know that pause. You've given that pause.
"No," Erwin says. "You'll have a partner."
You keep your face blank, but your breath stills.
A second knock comes. The door swings open again.
You don't need to turn around to know who it is.
Levi Ackerman moves like a shadow with weight—controlled, heavy, deliberate. His steps are soft but full of warning. The air shifts.
He stops just inside the room, gaze flicking first to Erwin, then to you. His expression does not change.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says flatly.
You feel Hange's grin without looking.
"You'll be posing as a married couple," Erwin says, voice as level as if announcing the weather.
Levi's head snaps toward him. "Absolutely not."
You don't say it aloud, but the sentiment is mutual.
Still, you manage a carefully neutral tone. "I assume the cover is already arranged?"
"Your identities are confirmed and registered in Mitras," Erwin says. "You are Lord Edward Marchand and Lady Elowyn Marchand. Newlyweds. The Marchand name fell into disgrace after their estate was seized during the uprising, but their title remains. This return—an attempt to align with the Survey Corps—will be seen as distasteful to some, but believable. Your presence at Vaergan's estate will raise few questions."
"Why me?" you ask.
Erwin meets your eyes. "You have noble lineage on your mother's side. You're fluent in highborn etiquette and politics. More importantly, you know how to move through dangerous circles without drawing undue attention."
"And me?" Levi asks sharply.
"You're a ghost with a blade and a reputation," Erwin says simply. "You'll protect her. And no one questions a nobleman who says little and watches everything."
Levi shifts beside you. You don't look at him.
"There is no one else with the necessary combination of field intelligence, combat capability, and noble fluency," Erwin says. "You're the only option. Both of you."
The silence stretches.
Then Levi mutters, "This is a mistake."
You smile thinly. "Afraid you can't pretend to be in love, Captain?"
His glare cuts like broken glass. "Pretending's not the issue."
"Then what is?"
He doesn't answer.
Erwin's voice cuts in before either of you can escalate. "You have five days to memorize the Marchands' history, social network, and court etiquette. Hange will oversee your domestic coordination. You're dismissed."
You rise first. Levi doesn't move for half a beat.
As you walk past Hange, they whisper, far too gleefully, "Try not to kill each other."
You don't answer.
—
The hallway is silent but charged, the kind of quiet that hums behind your ears. Levi stalks beside you, his presence a taut line just within arm's reach. Neither of you speaks as you exit Erwin's wing, but once you hit the stretch between the map room and the library hall, you slow your pace. He does not.
"I assume you're thrilled about this," Levi mutters behind you.
You stop, pivoting halfway to face him. "Thrilled that I get to pretend to be your blushing bride? Beyond ecstatic."
Levi exhales sharply through his nose. "We need to talk about what this is going to look like."
You arch a brow. "Marriage?"
"Boundaries."
"Right," you say dryly. "Because nothing screams newlyweds like boundaries."
He stops walking. "We need to agree on what's necessary and what's not."
You fold your arms. "Fine. What's 'not'?"
"No improvising. No unnecessary touching. No flirting unless we're being watched."
You blink at him. "Do you think married people don't touch in private?"
"They don't touch like you do."
You take a step forward. He doesn't move.
"Maybe they do. If they're in love. If they're new to it. If they're desperate to make it believable."
He narrows his eyes. "Desperation doesn't look like giggling and leaning into every breath."
You pause. "What does it look like to you, then?"
He's silent.
Then: "Conviction. Restraint. Stillness that means something."
For a second, you don't know how to respond.
Then, voice low: "You're afraid if we play this too well, you won't know what's fake."
His expression doesn't shift. "I always know what's fake."
You nod slowly. "Then this should be easy."
You walk away first this time, boots quiet against the stone floor. He doesn't follow right away.
But you know he will.
—
You find a quiet spot in the west courtyard by late afternoon, the kind of place soldiers rarely pass through unless on patrol. Ivy climbs up the stone columns, and the sunlight falls dappled and soft across the flagstones. You have the dossier open across your lap, studying the lines you're meant to wear like a second skin.
Lady Elowyn Marchand: daughter of a disgraced noble, fiercely loyal to the Survey Corps. Elegant. Clever. Newly married to Edward Marchand after a swift but passionate courtship.
You trace the forged dates. The fake wedding location. The list of mutual acquaintances you'll be expected to name on command.
"You fidget with your ring too much."
You don't look up right away.
Levi stands a few paces away, arms crossed, eyes on your hands. You hadn't realized you'd been spinning the gold band around your finger.
You raise a brow. "You've been watching me?"
"I watch everything."
He walks closer, then sits beside you—stiff, silent, his body angled slightly away. Not far. Not close.
You close the dossier partway. "You think people will believe us?"
He doesn't answer at first.
Then: "They'll believe what we give them."
You glance sideways. "So give them something. Say something husband-like."
He exhales slowly. "You're exhausting."
You grin. "Convincing."
You shift, resting your elbow on your knee, fingers lightly brushing the back of your hand where the ring sits. "If we're supposed to be newlyweds, you should at least pretend to like me."
"I'll do what's required."
You hum. "That's not the same as intimacy."
He's quiet. But you can feel his gaze again—watching the movement of your hand, the ring, your breath.
You try one last line, soft and playful—more mischief than sincerity.
"Darling," you say lightly, with a flutter of lashes he can't possibly miss, "won't you come walk with me before supper?"
It's a tease. The mission hasn't started. You're not in character. Not officially.
But it's fun to pretend.
He doesn't move.
But his eyes don't leave your hands.
And he doesn't say no.