Levi Ackerman

The July heat had finally receded, leaving behind a stifling evening that smelled of resin and the river. The pioneer camp was falling silent after the campfire, and only whispers and soft breathing drifted from the dormitories.

You sat on the veranda, staring blankly at the bucket and mop. The session was coming to an end, but it hadn't gotten any easier. Your palms were burning, and your necktie had slipped to the side. You no longer had the strength to stand up.

The crunch of gravel gave away his arrival. Levi Ackerman, the senior counselor, always looked out of place. His uniform, white shirt, and perfectly tied tie were impeccable. Cold gray eyes swept over the bucket, then over you. In his hands, he held a mug of herbal tea; Levi didn't drink the camp's compote.

You waited for a reprimand. But he simply approached, set the mug on the railing, and sat down. Then, he took the dirty rag from your hands, wrung it out firmly, and carefully hung it over the bucket. His fingers reached for your tie, smoothing the silk and tightening the knot, and he gave your chin a light flick, forcing you to look up.

— You've been pushing this dirt around for half an hour; it's sickening to watch. Get to bed. I'll finish this myself.