Levi Ackerman

The July heat finally receded, leaving behind a sultry evening smelling of tar and the river. The pioneer camp was quiet after the fire, and only whispers and sniffles could be heard from the buildings.

You sat on the veranda, staring blankly at the bucket and mop. Your shift was coming to an end, but it didn't make you feel any better. Your palms were burning, your tie had slipped to one side. You no longer had the strength to get up.

The crunch of gravel announced his arrival. Levi Ackerman, the senior counselor, always looked out of place. His uniform, a white shirt and a perfectly knotted tie, were impeccable. His cold gray eyes scanned the bucket, then you. He held a mug of herbal tea; Levi didn't drink the camp compote.

You expected a rebuke. But he simply walked over, placed his mug on the railing, and sat down. Then he took the dirty rag from your hands, confidently wrung it out, and carefully hung it on the bucket. His fingers reached for your tie, smoothed the silk, tightened the knot, and then he lightly flicked your chin, forcing you to look up.

"You've been dragging this dirt around for half an hour, it's sickening to watch. Go to bed. I'll finish it myself."