Chapter Text
It wouldn't be long now until winter would be in full swing. The streets would freeze and the people would too, gas stoves would be lit for heat, and those who could afford it would be dressed in nice coats and thick scarves. But there was still the occasional sunny day, warming the concrete and brick of the city, causing pedestrians to briefly shed their jackets and thinner layers to bask in the warmth. Affording much of anything in a city like Sina felt like a luxury post-war. It was impossible to find a steady job with the constant shifts in the market, and with a less than stable economy, it felt like more than most were down on their luck. Save for the politicians, the lobbyists, the trust fund babies.
You hated to say it, but Sina had almost treated you better during the war, though that was a time when any job was essential. You delivered things. That was all. Some companies would set you up with a decent car to get the job done, others would leave you to ride your bike. You were "freelance" in that way; you'd offer your services to neighbors, to anyone and any company up and down your street. It had become a familiar constant. It wasn't terrible at times. There was an old woman who lived on the floor above yours who'd have you deliver dinners to her factory-working son across Stohess for twenty cents, though sometimes she'd give you dinner as well. Or there was a butcher down the street who paid you fifty cents a delivery to take fresh cuts to these fancy restaurants in Orvud. He'd also give you a few cheap cuts from the day, or nicer, few-day-old cuts. It definitely helped you avoid starving, but constant deliveries were needed to meet your thirty bucks a month rent, gas bills, electric...
You hopped off your bike, straightening your trousers. Your bike leaned against the usual spot by the butcher's shop, the wall facing the alleyway, the broken kickstand taunting you. You'd been making deliveries long enough for the locals to know the look of your bike and the fact that you'd fight for it. You'd gotten more than a few bruised and busted knuckles from assholes trying to swipe it from under your nose. They'd learn to leave it be.
This was a slow time of day for the shop, as most people were reporting to their factory and department jobs and kids were at school. There'd be the occasional housewife wandering in, buying meat for dinner that night, or the stray customer buying something from the attached delicatessen. But you were there on business.
"Hannes. You got anything for me today?" You'd been coming in long enough that you and the man behind the counter hardly greeted each other anymore. He was probably one of the few people you'd be willing to call a friend in Sina.
Hannes was an older guy. Not old, but older than you. Maybe in his 40s or 50s? You couldn't say for sure, and you never bothered to ask him. Hannes never bothered to ask you why you wore clothes like the average man of the times, pants and collared shirts, so who were you to interrogate him about age? His blond hair was always cut short, and he wasn't that great at keeping clean-shaven. He wasn't married, so far as you were aware… But he always smelled of cheap beer, so you could make your guesses. But he was nice, fatherly almost, in his own rough around the edges type way.
He said your name in greeting, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. "I was wondering about you. I've got a single delivery for you today." At the confirmation of a job, he disappeared into the back, to the cooler. You leaned yourself against the counter, legs crossing at the ankles, your old boots squeaking softly as they rubbed together. There was many one or two other people inside, one of whom was a woman about your age, casting nervous glances in your direction.
It wasn't uncommon, rather, it was part of the routine now. Delivery with a side of judgemental stares. What was it? The cap on your head or the more masculine cut of your pants? And here you thought Sina would be a more progressive part of the country.
A crate of meat, wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine, was placed in front of you on the counter, Hannes passing it off. "I need this delivered to a place called Pot and Bird, it's on the outskirts of Stohess along 45th. Think you can manage it on your little bike?" He was teasing you, one elbow on the counter, that stupid grin on his face.
"Yeah, c'mon, you know I can handle it." You tugged the crate into your arms, bearing the weight with ease. Being the "delivery boy" certainly helped one put on some muscle. "I can be there and back in less than an hour, how's that?"
"I'll be watching the clock," he said. It was like a little game you had, betting on when you'd get back. Hannes always paid you when you returned anyway, but sometimes he'd throw in a little tip if you won your bet. If business was well enough.
The wind was growing biting against your cheeks as you rode, the crate of meat haphazardly fastened to the seat of your bike with your belt. Redneck engineering, many would say, but you called it working with what you had. Besides, if you attached an actual basket to the front of the bike, people would be more inclined to steal the damn thing.
Your legs were strong enough to stand on your pedals as you biked, yet another skill in doing this long enough. Your seat was reserved for packages and other such transported products if you couldn't hold them within your hands or coat pockets.
This wasn't an unfamiliar route. If you pedaled fast enough and avoided traffic well enough, it'd take you maybe twenty minutes to get there. On the way, you'd pass a flower shop falling apart, brownstone homes, little hole-in-the-wall restaurants of some sort (all of which you had delivered for before). On the corner of 28th was where a little black dog would sit, a mutt that was practically a puppy, but had slowly gotten bigger as you'd fed it. He'd chase you on your bike, tail wagging with glee, and he'd followed you home once or twice. He'd be yours if your apartment allowed dogs.
The Pot and Bird was a little restaurant you hadn't seen before, not that you came this way too often. It was charming, with flowers in baskets in the windows, an outdoor seating area of two tables. There was a simple, flipped "Open" sign in the door, leaning crooked through the glass.
Once more, you leaned your bike against the brick wall of the restaurant, carefully loosening your belt from its rigging and looping it back through your slacks. Then, with crate in hand, you pushed into the restaurant.
It also wasn't very busy, though you weren't sure if you could blame the hour or the seemingly new appearance of this restaurant. Almost immediately, a man peeked his head out from a back room, a grin appearing on his face. He stepped out completely, approaching you. He was styled neatly, not a dirty-blond hair out of place, his skin clear and shaven with care. He was tall too; you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Hello! Welcome to Pot and Bird, ah… How can I help you?" His eyes drifted down to the crate in your hands before going back to your face.
"Um… I have a delivery." It was difficult not to say so, like it were obvious. "From Hannes's butchery. You had an order, correct?"
The man blinked at you, once, twice, that smile still on his face, yet no thoughts in his eyes. When it seemed to click, he gently smacked the side of his head. "Right! My apologies," he sighed, offering his hands to pass the crate over. "I've been so busy, I completely forgot I had placed the order."
You handed it over, an amused brow raised. "You're new around here, aren't you?"
He chuckled, setting the crate of meat down on a nearby counter so he could search his pockets for his wallet. "I'm that obvious, aren't I? My name's Niccolo, I just opened this place up about a week or two ago. I'm still getting settled in."
That would explain why you hadn't recognized the place. You introduced yourself in turn, shifting on your feet. "People are always wary of new places in these parts. I hope you can hang in long enough."
"That doesn't make me nervous," he sighed, handing over the money for the order. You were quick to pocket it. "I'm from Marley, so I can't say I'm very familiar with the Paradis lifestyle yet."
"Fancy," you scoffed, though not rudely. Niccolo quirked a smile at it, even. "Don't worry. You'll adjust. Just make sure to bring your furniture and signs in at night, and maybe get a cage for your glass door."
"Noted," he sighed. And when you left, he waved you farewell. Maybe you'd make another employer out of this new, young chef.
The butcher was still empty when you entered. The sound of Hannes grunting in the back room filled the void of conversation, and a peek back confirmed he was cutting up some fresh cuts. "Hey, Hannes!" you called to him.
He cursed, setting his cleaver to the side and removing his gloves from his hands. As soon as he made his way to the front, his eyes darted to the clock on the wall. "Forty-five minutes. You scared the shit outta me, kid."
You grinned, sliding the money from the job across the counter. Hannes plucked it up, counting it in his hands and sliding your pay right back towards you. You counted. Thirty. Fucking thirty. "Hey, hold on," you said, sliding it back towards him, "I'm supposed to get fifty. You're short twenty cents."
Hannes groaned, pushing the money right back to you. "Look, kid, business is rough right now. This is all I can give you for this job."
It took more than you cared to admit to keep your temper in check. "…A warning would've been nice. You got anymore jobs?"
Almost solemn, Hannes shook his head. "No more today."
You stepped closer, palms planted on the counter as you leaned in closer. "Come on, Hannes, you gotta have something. My rent's due tomorrow and I can't get it in late again! Please, I'm just two dollars short."
Hannes stepped back, his face strife with confliction. He uttered your name like a curse, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. I have… I have a delivery you can do for me. But I know you won't like it."
I know you won't like it. That only meant one thing with him, and that was dealing.
"The last time I did your deals, I almost got shot." The silence in the shop suddenly felt too constricting, too unsteady. Like it would break at any moment, like someone would walk in and figure everything out. "Your people don't trust me enough to deliver."
"They trust me now. I'm on a tight leash, but they pay me when I need it and I'll give you a cut." His voice had dropped lower now, face inches from yours.
"You told me you'd stop dealing with the mafia, Hannes, what the hell?"
"You're broke. I don't have the money to pay you, kid, and I can barely keep this place open. I'm broke. I'm just an associate. I make sure shit gets moved and I need someone to do the moving. Either take it or leave it."
You were on the verge of walking out, of cursing at him for being such a damn idiot, that this wasn't worth his life. But what was better? Losing money, losing his business, his home? Rotting on the streets of Stohess? Or the risk of going quickly? The risk of getting caught up with the wrong crowd and getting yourself shot or tied to a cinder block and dropped in the harbor? You hated to admit how similarly you and Hannes thought. What was worth the price of just living life?
"Fine. I'll move your shit. I'll do your deals." It'd be better if you did it, anyway. If anyone were to get killed in the process, at least let it be the one with nothing to live for. Someone who contributes nothing to a rebuilding society. "But you'll pay me what I need."
"Deal."
The streets of Stohess were like the lines in the palms of your hands, twisting and familiar, even in the dark. Even when street lights flickered out, you didn't lose your way. There were couples wandering the streets, heading to bars and clubs, women dressed in their nice hats and furs, men with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Scandalous. There'd be too many people to be anything less than subtle, but there were plenty to cover up these damn dealings.
The club you were meeting in, The Castle, was certainly mafia-ran. Nobody knew exactly by whom, but you'd be an idiot not to notice. There was an excess of men in suits with serious looks on their faces, people sneaked upstairs to some mystery room. You had only witnessed it once before. The Castle was an exclusive club and bar in Mitras, hosting only the richest and those with the most connections, which meant it was incredibly difficult to be let in and the waitlist was, well, extensive.
So, naturally, you had found a way to sneak in.
And as much as you had wanted to that night, Hannes had actually given you a one way ticket inside with the orders of dressing in your nicest clothes. The suit you wore wasn't meant for you. The sleeves and the pants were a little too long, enough that you had to cuff them, and the mending in the hips where you adjusted the sizing wasn't quite right. But in the dim streetlights and the bustling crowd, nobody would notice. Especially not the parchment wrapped brick that Hannes had attached to your back, tied tightly with thin ropes and held in place by your dress shirt and hidden beneath your jacket. Strings and a dream. You only hoped it wasn't obvious.
Of course people complained as you skipped ahead of the line, the line going all the way down the block. Many would be there all night and not step a single foot into the club. Many probably wondered why some street rat got to cut the line when they all had to wait. They didn't see how desperately you tried to dry your sweaty palms on your dark slacks.
"Now hold right there," the bouncer stepped in as you reached the front, an arm held out in front of you. You were lucky you wouldn't need to do anything physical; this guy was obviously a bouncer for a reason, and that reason was he was fucking huge. "You're being awfully rude, don't you think?"
"I've got a package," you hoped the shake in your voice wasn't obvious, "for Red." It was vague and sounded like a stupid excuse. But it was exactly what was needed for the bouncer to let you slip inside.
His arm dropped, and he tilted his head towards the door. "Up the stairs. You'll know what to do."
It was scary how quickly it had kicked in for him. You helped yourself inside.
The club was filled with tables, warmly lit with candles and oil lamps. The furniture was made of dark wood and velvet, the bar was polished to a fine shine. The room was filled with music and the smell of cigars and cigarettes. You were sure there were a few people tucked in the darker corners of the room indulging in something much stronger.
The stairs were lined with men and women alike, a few getting a bit too handsy for your liking. You coasted by them, some looking at you with vague curiosity. Maybe if you wanted to stay innocuous, you should've picked something else to wear. This was the rare instance that you found yourself caring that people looked at your clothes. One way or another, after speaking to one or two more bouncers, you finally reached a room isolated from the rest of the club. It fronted an old door made from polished mahogany, with shining copper doorknobs. Fresh blue carpet lined the room, which almost appeared like some fancy waiting room. Velvet seats lined the walls. This guy had to be messing around in all sorts of dealings if he needed a damn waiting room.
You were let in almost right away. The room was dark, decorated with reds and greens, and blacks. And as you expected from most mafioso was a large chair behind the large wooden desk. The man, whom you were assuming was the boss, was accompanied by a man to his right who stood tall with his hands behind his back. Bouncers stood by the door.
"So," he started, drumming his fingers against his desk, "Hannes has got a little girl doin' his dirty work for him?"
You shifted, finding it nearly impossible to feign nonchalance. You could die here if they decided it, and everyone in the room was aware. "I'm just helping out, sir. He can't really move like he used to," you forced yourself to speak up louder. It was a terrible idea to mumble. "Is that alright, sir?"
"Sure," the boss waved it off with a pudgy hand, almost unnatural, large blue eyes taking you in. "But surely you understand how hesitant I am with new meat. You young ones have a more difficult time keeping your mouths shut."
You swallowed. "I assure you… I'm just the delivery person. I won't say a thing to anyone."
He hummed, brows falling as he seemed unimpressed. With a look to his consigliere, the man stepped up while the bouncers came up behind you. Quickly, at a speed you couldn't process, they grabbed your arms to hold you in place. You tried to kick out of it, but the consigliere's hands were on you, tugging up your dress shirt from where it was tucked into your trousers. You cursed at him, but all he did was untie the brick from your torso. The ropes had certainly left friction marks behind.
With the brick now in his hand, he waved for the bouncers to release you. They did quite promptly, but that didn't stop you from sending glares their way as you tucked your shirt back in furiously.
"This is only half."
Your attention snapped to the boss, your blood running cold. "…This was all that was given to me."
"I've been in this game long enough, and it's not like I know you, girl," he muttered, "my men do what they're told. They know what happens if they don't… So you expect me to believe that you didn't hide the rest for yourself?"
"I don't even know what's in there! I don't do drugs," you hissed. If you were a cat, your hackles would be raised. "I think you're just tryin' to get out of paying us what you owe us."
The light in the room seemed to dim as he zeroed in on you, blue eyes feeling like death itself. Your whole body felt like it was seizing up. "You accusing me of something?" He stood from his chair, and if it were any other circumstance, you would've laughed at his shorter stature. Instead, you only backed away, mentally searching for any kind of escape.
"I apologize, I… I didn't pocket anything. I picked it up, and this was all they gave me. The only time Hannes saw it was when he tied it to me. We both just wanna make rent." There was no taking back your reaction. You knew good and well that you had crossed a certain line with your attitude. Best case scenario, you'd never be asked to go on these stupid drug deliveries again. Worst case, well…
"Well, then, I suppose we'll need to speak to Hannes about this… In the meantime," he sat down again, waving his hand, "Grab her."
You reacted quicker this time, dodging the bouncers as they both reached for you. Tripping over yourself, you stumbled through the door. The boss shouted something unintelligible behind you. There wasn't enough time to think about it. Every nerve in your brain was blaring at you to get out, leave, go home right now.
Making it into the crowd meant two things: you had cover and it would be more difficult to get out quickly. There were thugs everywhere, standing beside every exit, and you were sure there were plenty of "customers" who were in cahoots.
The vents. You had sneaked in through them once, surely you could sneak out the very same.
You almost ran face-first into another towering bouncer, only to tuck under his outstretched arms. He grabbed your jacket and tugged, pulling you back as if grabbing a cat's scruff. Just as before, the first thing you thought to do was kick, which actually landed this time.
"You little bitch!" he grunted, stumbling back on his other foot. You pulled yourself from the jacket, hearing the fabric rip in the process. You didn't have many hopes of keeping it, anyway…
The crowd hardly seemed to notice the scuffle, and those who did pretended they didn't. The band was playing loud, and the singer was singing louder. The chatter bounced off the walls. No one could hear how he cursed you or how you cursed yourself.
You hid yourself along the wall, pressing your back against it as you fought to catch your breath. Every moment spent against that wall felt like hours with your chest heaving. There were bouncers all over, searching the crowd for you. Your height helped you keep hidden among the crowds but didn't aid you in much else.
Your next decision was to follow the wall, slipping behind taller patrons and using the wall as a guide. You just needed to find a loose vent grate and you'd figure out the maze of metal corridors from there. With blurred vision and hands shaky from adrenaline, you soon took note of a singular vent tucked against the back wall of the bar area.
The bar was, as expected, crowded with patrons hoping to fill their cups and glasses, paying for the kinds of alcohol nearly impossible to find at any old liquor store. It was especially smokey with an influx of men with cigars and women with their cigarettes sitting at the bar, smoke catching the light and blurring the surroundings. Your hip bumped the edge of the bar, the wood digging into skin. Instead of hissing from the slight pain, you dropped to your knees to crawl behind. The bartender was clearly in some sort of rush, mixing drinks and shaking cocktails for needy patrons. Hopefully, he wouldn't turn his back and find you sitting on the floor, frantically trying to pry open the vent with your apartment key. You tried slipping the edge of the key beneath the lip of the vent cover, prying. Too much noise, too little payoff. Then came the pathetic attempt to turn the screws, which, of course, was fruitless.
Panic surge through you. You were going to die here, like this, in this stupid club. Or worse, you'd be taken to the bay and dropped into the ocean with blocks tied to your ankles. You'd be lucky if the ropes fell and your body drifted to shore somewhere. Desperation clung to your bones. You braced yourself against the backside of the bar—the bartender shouting a startled "hey!"—and kicked at the vent as hard as you could. One, two, three, four… You heard the bartender shout for security. Five, six- the vent gave way beneath your assault. Just barely, just broken and flimsy enough that you could crawl yourself through.
The metal, rough and jagged, dug into your thigh as you dove in, hot paint bursting behind your eyes. You cried out, your leg jerking back roughly as you willed yourself forward on your elbows. The further in, the darker it grew. You could hear a man shouting something about covering all the exits and scouting the outer perimeter of the club. Jokes on them; you didn't even know if you'd be able to get out of the vents.
It was a game of patience, of letting your sense of touch lead you, ensuring you wouldn't plummet down tunnels you couldn't see.
Finally, a light. Slivers of it, shining down the metal corridor and finally touching your skin. You knew you couldn't relax yet, not until you were back in Stohess, but you couldn't stop the breath of relief you let loose.
Breaking this vent loose was a little different. There wasn't enough room in the vents to turn yourself around to kick it. With your cut up leg, you likely wouldn't have been able to do so anyway. Your brilliant idea?
Punching the damn thing. Because what else could be done, in your mind?
It hurt. Dented metal turned sharp and dug into the skin of your knuckles, rougher than concrete or drywall. It took longer than you thought, a nasty result of being unable to brace yourself against a wall. The blood from your leg had made the metal too slick for a solid grip.
When you got through, your knuckles were thoroughly raw and bloody. So much for going home unscathed. You never went home unscathed when running errands for the mafia. Maybe you had shit luck.
Half-dead, you dragged yourself out of the vent and into whatever alleyway it had led you to. It smelled like piss and garbage, the metallic smell of blood becoming too much for you to bear.
You willed yourself to stand, eyes darting to the cut on your thigh. Deep. Dark blood still oozing. It didn't hurt as much as it probably should have; maybe because of the adrenaline. You heaved, hunching forward, but held in any sickness that threatened to escape. Now wasn't the time.
You dipped deeper into the alleys of Mitras, keeping away from streetlights and limping in the opposite direction of the voices of men. Just in case. Hannes. The name rung out in your hazy mind, like a bird calling home. You needed to get back to Hannes. You needed to live long enough to make it back. That way the only person who'd remember you would know what had become of you… If you were to die, that is.
The alleyways grew darker and darker. Even as you approached one of the streetlights, your vision grew hazy. Were you seeing properly? Maybe there was something in your eyes.
You fell to your knees.
"Oh, shit," you breathed. And you prayed to whatever God would hear you before you fell completely. There, in that alley, that smelled of piss and blood.
You were surprised—and deep down, dismayed—to wake up again. Not in the alley, however, but in a bed. A surprisingly comfortable one, far nicer than the thin box-spring bed you had at home. You shifted abruptly, startled. Like it had hit you, the fact that you were in a bed that wasn't your own. Your hands landed on your torso, checking your clothes. Different. The cut on your leg was bandaged with surprising skin, so were your hands. What the fuck?
"Look who decided to wake up." A man's voice made you tense. Right off the bat, you could see he was shorter than you, but with an icy stare that could take down armies. "Don't worry, one of our women changed your clothes. Don't fret about it all."
He was sitting in a chair against the wall across from your bed, arms crossed over his chest and his ankle crossed over his knee. He was the figment of relaxed, but the look on his face was nothing short of a scowl. Neither of you trusted each other. That much was obvious.
When he stood from his seat, you tensed, quite visibly. And he quirked an annoying eyebrow, seemingly unamused by the guard you put up.
"What do you want from me? You mafia?" It was difficult to speak. Your throat was dry and your lips were cracked.
But he seemed to hear you loud and clear. "Not the one you're worried about. But we'll see how much of an issue you'll become for us." He walked toward the door, fine, polished dress shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. "Stay here."
And he left, the door shutting with the unmistakable click of a lock. Not like you'd have much a choice in going anywhere. "Bastard," you cursed him softly, slowly willing your legs over the side of the bed. It felt like burning all up and down your leg. Fuck, it hurt. You couldn't think of a single time you'd ever hurt yourself like this. At least nothing quite as painful as this.
Where was he even going ? What purpose did he have for kidnapping you if he wasn't part of the Castle's mafia? You were really in for it this time. Your mother always told you that you'd die in the streets, and here you were… It wasn't the streets, but probably close in her mind.
Your head fell into your hands, and for a second, it felt like a perfect time to cry. Crying wasn't something you let yourself do. You could excuse it in this case. The door swung open before your first tear could fall.
In walked a new face, followed by the same man from before. He closed the door behind them, leaning against it while this new person sat themself in the chair, scooting closer to you. "Well, it seems our sleeping beauty has woken up, huh?" Their voice was lighter than you expected from their gruff appearance. Maybe it was just the eyepatch… or the slightly crazed look in their eye.
"Hange Zoe, it's a pleasure to meet you," they stuck their hand out toward you, "You've gotten yourself into quite the pickle."
You eyed their hand with uncertainty, and they seemed quick to pick up on it. Hange pulled their hand back with a shrug, instead opting to fix the rolled cuffs of their sleeves. "You're the boss, aren't you?"
"Oh, the boss? Like the boss?" They snickered, resting their elbows on their knees. "Oh no. I'm flattered, but I'm rather, ah… What do they call it? The underboss? Second in command? However you'd like to put it."
Their light, almost carefree attitude did nothing to ease your nerves. "To cut to the chase, dove, we think you may have information we need." They shifted their chair closer once again, making you back up on the bed. They seemed to get some sort of twisted glee from that simple act. "Now, I hope Levi didn't scare you too much. He's a little cold, y'see?" Your eyes darted from Hange to the man, Levi, before looking right back, "But you'll find that I'm a little more… desperate to get the information I want. So, here's to hoping you'll cooperate."
"What information?" you rasped.
"I had some associates of ours scouting the inside and outside of the Castle, and many were quick to report a new face in the Reiss family mafia scene," Hange tapped their chin. It felt like taunting. "And I heard you were let straight upstairs to see the big man, huh? Though Rod had never been all that good at being secretive."
Levi sighed. "Get to it, three-eyes. You're monologuing."
Hange shot him a less than friendly look, but he didn't even blink.
"We're under the assumption that you're an associate of the Reiss family. Smuggling drugs, maybe smuggling weapons. We just wanna know what you can tell us… without having to pry it out of you."
God, how did you keep getting tangled up in this bullshit? Why did you keep having to convince people you didn't have a damn clue? "Yeah, I was moving drugs, but I have no idea what it was or how much it was supposed to be. I-I mean, I… Look, I was just trying to help out a friend. We both needed the money, and he said he'd split it. I didn't even know who the Reiss family actually was until you just told me!"
Hange stared at you, smile having slipped from their face. It was clear they were trying to decide whether to believe you or not. "Look! I was beat up as fuck!" you lifted you leg (the best you could) and displayed your knuckles. "They were tryin' to chase me out! They tried to say I stole some for myself, but I don't do drugs! I hardly smoke or drink, I know not to ask too many questions-"
Their hand shot out, grasping your jaw and effectively shutting you up save for the weak whimper that slipped from you. Hange had leaned close. Closer than before, your noses almost touching. You could smell smoke on their breath, could see every fleck of brown in their eye. "I don't like being lied to. You really want me to believe you're that much of an idiot?"
You were almost insulted, but they were right. "I am an idiot," you grimaced. You swore you'd have outlines of their fingerprints by the time they let go. "I just wanted to make rent. Honest to God."
"Hange," Levi said, standing stiffer. "…She's telling the truth."
As if he were some oracle, or some dog who could smell lies, Hange released you. They cursed under their breath, standing from the chair and giving a brief pace. You could only watch in silence. You could tell that Hange still didn't believe you. If you were in their shoes, you likely wouldn't either. Not like that, not with how stupid you sounded. It was likely Hange didn't trust many people anyway.
"We'll take her to Erwin," their voice was lower now, gruff. With their head turned to Levi, all you could see was their profile, the outline of their hooked nose, how brown hair tickled their cheek. You swallowed. This was a terrible time to be a dyke. "He'll decide where we go from there."
Hange finally looked at you again, head tilting but no smile. "You'll be staying with us for just a little longer. Just until I figure out what to do with you."