The Shatters of Black Stars

      The grand hall greeted Mikasa with hundreds of elegantly carved candles, their flames glinting off the countless crystals of the chandeliers. Light scattered across the polished floors and walls, making her shimmering gown sparkle like a thousand tiny stars.       Expensive fabric, lavish jewelry—mere decorations for the evening, eye-candy for the jaded tastes of the wealthy. And yet, wrapped in all of it, Mikasa couldn’t help but feel truly special tonight. Every gaze was fixed on her. They had gathered here to listen to her voice. Resting her hand gracefully on the ivory grand piano, she nodded to the pianist. His fingers descended gently onto the keys, conjuring soft, enchanting notes. A shiver ran down her spine, a single breath—and Mikasa began to sing.       The hall fell silent, save for her clear voice, echoing through the stone walls in a strong, steady stream that held her audience captive.       Singing was a pleasure. She felt the vibrations in her chest, listened to her own beautiful, tender voice, not even glancing at the hall—she knew full well that every guest was listening intently.       Even the most seasoned attendees, who often yawned their way through yet another ballet, were now fully absorbed in her voice. Why exactly—she never knew. She liked to believe it was the power of her singing that held them still, not allowing even a whisper to pass between neighbours. But deep inside, she knew exactly why she drew so many eyes.       The tight corset, laced so firmly her diaphragm barely lowered, pushed up her full chest, her slender waist curving gracefully above her hips. Mikasa longed for people to listen to her voice—but most of them were staring at her body instead. She knew well enough what awaited her after each concert: a line of admirers outside her dressing room, all hoping for one thing—a sign, even the smallest hint, that there might be more than polite gratitude waiting for them.       With quiet satisfaction, she focused instead on the few who truly listened, who loved music as she did, whose gazes weren’t drawn to her bare shoulders or devouring her curves, but who simply listened, allowing her voice to soothe their souls. It made her believe she was offering something important—even if she wasn’t fighting beyond the walls like others.       But those sincere listeners could be counted on one hand.       Her eyes swept across the hall—once again, familiar faces: officials, priests, council members, royal guests... Mikasa had long since grown indifferent to grand titles. They were no better than the drunkards in the brothels. At least the latter were honest—unapologetically crude, saying directly what they wanted without fawning or scheming. They lacked the brains for pretence.       She despised the arrogance of these wealthy, entitled men who believed they could buy absolutely anything. Even her.       But Mikasa was not one to bend easily. She knew how to handle the especially persistent admirers.       Another woman would have long since secured herself a place under the wing of some rich patron, but Mikasa couldn’t bring herself to do it. Neither her conscience nor her principles would allow it. Especially knowing that out there, beyond the walls, Eren was risking his life so she could sing. To betray that, to submit, to surrender her body to someone else—was unthinkable.       Her voice grew stronger. Filled with emotion, she stepped away from the piano, preparing to reach the soaring high note—and nearly lost her footing when she spotted him, standing there in the distance, half-hidden in shadow.       It was him again. Wearing an elegant, undoubtedly expensive suit, holding a bouquet of pristine white calla lilies.       Mikasa forced herself to focus, exhaling as she released the final, crystal-clear note. The hall erupted into applause. Guests rose from their seats, throwing flowers at the stage, but Mikasa offered only a brief bow before disappearing behind the curtains.       Her temples throbbed as her pulse hammered against her skull. A migraine was settling in. It felt as if a heated rod was being slowly driven into her temple. Her eyes stung with tears, but she quickly dabbed them with a handkerchief before her makeup could smear into blotchy shadows. She didn’t have the strength to redo it tonight.       She badly craved a cigarette—but not a single one was on hand. And she wouldn’t dare ask the guests for one. Heaven knows what they might assume. A simple gesture could be misconstrued, and Mikasa wanted none of it.       Collapsing onto the couch in her dressing room, she leaned heavily into the armrest, pressing her forehead into her clenched fist.       All she wanted was to split open her skull and release this unbearable pressure. The pain pulsed and throbbed, intensifying by the minute.       Damn you, Levi Ackerman.       Maybe she’d imagined him? He couldn’t possibly have come here, could he? Not with so many people in this room who’d love nothing more than to see him dragged off in chains.       A knock at the door startled her. She quickly stood, smoothing her gown. The guests were waiting—and she had to look presentable.       The door cracked open, and a short woman peeked inside.       "May I come in? The guests would like to see you at the banquet."       Damn. The banquet. Mikasa had completely forgotten. The last thing she wanted was to step into the blindingly lit ballroom filled with the buzz of champagne and conversation drowning out her own thoughts. Her throbbing head begged for the quiet of her small, stifling, but familiar room.       "Just a few minutes. I’ll be out shortly," Mikasa replied, and the woman closed the door behind her, leaving her alone again.       Mikasa flopped back onto the couch, wishing she could disappear. But this was her job. The guests would be disappointed if she didn’t appear tonight. And they had paid well for this concert. She hadn’t worked all these years to finally reach this stage, only to let a headache ruin everything.       The suffocating scent of flowers was already driving her out of the room. She quickly touched up her makeup and stepped out, hoping the stone hall would at least offer some cool relief.       Her hopes were dashed immediately. The hall was packed, and as she entered, every head turned toward her. She always felt awkward being the centre of attention like this. Singing on stage was one thing—mingling with these people was entirely another.       Forcing a polite smile, she nodded at one gentleman, then another, offering her hand for kisses, trying to behave more modestly in front of the women. She wasn’t a princess or anyone of real rank—but her voice had elevated her to heights women like her rarely reached.       Her gaze instinctively swept the room. Had she really imagined that prickly, persistent Ackerman?       Moving through the crowd in a daze, her headache growing sharper, she snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray. It would only make things worse, but at this point, what did it matter? She just needed to hold out until the formal program ended—after that, the guards would finally let her go. The doll had to fully earn her fee tonight.       But of course, the host was nowhere in sight to announce the end of the evening, and until then, she had to keep smiling, bowing, and offering her hand to one tedious gentleman after another. It was unbearable.       Someone nearby was chirping compliments about her voice. On any other night, Mikasa would’ve been glowing. Tonight, she barely managed a forced smile, offered a faint apology, and drifted toward the far end of the hall—to the balcony, where a cool breeze beckoned.       She sank into a chair. Even the glittering beads of her dress hurt to look at. Each tiny crystal stabbed at her eyes like a blade. When would this night finally end?       "Good evening."       Mikasa flinched, springing up from the chair and narrowly avoiding drawing attention. Behind the thin, swaying curtain at the balcony entrance stood a man. A dashing mask concealed his face, but the height, the hair, the build—it was screaming: Ackerman.       "Have you lost your mind? They'll arrest you," she hissed, sitting back down quickly before anyone noticed her distress. Inside, her nerves turned to ice. If a chase broke out now—heaven forbid a shootout—it would be a scandal she might never recover from.       "Already worried about me?" Levi smirked. Through the mask, his piercing blue eyes gleamed like two shards of ice. Mikasa caught herself staring, then flushed and averted her gaze as if she hadn’t spoken to anyone at all.       "Not even remotely. I don’t want any trouble. How did you even get in here? You need to leave, now."       A gentle tug on her elbow interrupted her protest. She barely had time to react before she composed herself, masking any emotion that might give him away. Slipping behind the curtain, Mikasa followed him out onto the cool balcony. The fresh summer night air filled her lungs, easing the pounding in her head slightly. She inhaled deeply, already resigning herself to the fact that she wasn’t getting rid of this man anytime soon. Yet, strangely, his company didn’t repulse her—only mildly irritated.       "Why the mask?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest and stepping back, just in case. You never knew what might be going through a criminal’s mind.       "Precaution. In case someone recognises me."       "I'm afraid your face isn’t exactly your most recognisable feature," Mikasa answered dryly, looking down at him. How could someone so small cause so much chaos in her life?       "You haven’t seen my most recognisable feature yet," Levi smirked, pulling off the mask. Mikasa caught herself once again noticing how handsome his profile was—and just as quickly pushed the thought away.       "You’ve got a couple minutes. Otherwise, they'll come looking for me. Talk fast."       "Why are you so angry with me?"       Mikasa gave him a loaded look. Really? He'd only used her as a human shield during a shootout, then mistaken her for a prostitute. Absolutely nothing to be upset about.       "Sorry I took you for a prostitute. Honest mistake," Levi said, finally catching on—but somehow making it even worse.       "That kind of mistake usually doesn’t happen," Mikasa muttered and turned toward the balcony door. She had no reason to keep standing here.       "Wait. These are for you," Levi said from behind, holding out the same bouquet of white calla lilies.       "I don’t need them, thank you," she shot back, her hands raised. The last thing she needed was to take flowers from a criminal, especially when her room was already drowning in them.       "Take them," Levi insisted.       "I said I don’t want your flowers!" she hissed, not even sure why her irritation flared so suddenly. Her head was pounding, as though someone was trying to yank her brain straight out through her eye socket. She was exhausted, sick, just wanting to lie down—and here she was, arguing with Ackerman over nonsense.       "I haven’t done anything bad to you," he said, and Mikasa arched her brow, amazed at his nerve.       The sharp pain clamped down on her temples like burning pincers. She couldn’t even get a word out—only hissed from the pain and clutched her hot forehead.       She felt Levi take her arm, steadying her.       "Your head hurts? You want me to get you out of here?"       "Of course not, what would people think?" Mikasa managed to say once her jaw unclenched enough to speak. She pulled her arm free, stepping closer to the door. She didn’t like how familiar he was getting. And yet, somehow, this conversation felt alive—real—in a way all the other vapid banter inside never did. Levi was blunt as a hammer.       "No one would notice. They’ve already forgotten you exist."       Mikasa inhaled deeply again. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to do anything anymore. She flashed him a sharp look, hoping he’d get the message and stop pressing his luck.       Oddly, she didn’t want him to get caught.       She hadn't turned him in to the police. She’d told herself the authorities didn’t always know what they were doing—they nearly killed Eren, after all, that spineless bunch of cowards. But even she knew these were weak excuses. She could have helped many people by handing Levi over. But she hadn’t.       Mikasa glanced back toward the ballroom. She’d been gone several minutes now, and worried someone might start looking for her—catch her standing here with a man on the balcony. The scandal would be enormous.       But no one seemed to care. Once again, Levi had been right. If she slipped away now, by morning no one would even remember her absence. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Every time she felt important, reality yanked her back down.       "I can’t do this," she whispered, and slipped quietly back inside.       She sat stiffly on the velvet chair, slowly sipping her champagne, trying to pretend everything was fine—that her head wasn’t splitting, that Levi Ackerman wasn’t on the balcony. That she was imagining it all.       A soft touch on her shoulder made her flinch.       "May I have this dance?"       For a moment, a strange flicker of disappointment flashed inside her as she saw one of the guests before her. What had she expected?       The middle-aged man—one of those who’d been sitting in the front row—was both a burden and a reprieve. Mikasa would gladly have declined, pleading fatigue, but this dance offered a perfect excuse to escape Ackerman. In the crowd, he'd surely lose track of her. It was easy to disappear among glittering gowns and shimmering beadwork.       She hesitated for a second, weighing whether to go, but the exhaustion pressing on her made the choice for her. Suddenly, Levi’s earlier offer sounded dangerously tempting…       "I’m sorry, it’s been a long evening…"       The man shot her a look of disappointment, stepped back, offered a stiff bow, and retreated into the crowd.       And in that moment, Mikasa faced a bitter truth—here she was nothing more than a commodity, a pretty object to be possessed. Everyone wanted to touch the nightingale that didn’t sit in a gilded cage, but flitted from garden to garden, trying to survive. No one cared what was inside that fragile bird.       And Levi Ackerman was no different. She knew he desired her, that’s why he kept chasing her all night—he simply wanted to possess her.       But no matter how hard she tried to convince herself he was just like the others… he wasn’t. There was something different about him. Was this what care felt like? No. Mikasa shook her head. There was no care here.       At least, with Levi’s help, she might get home tonight without further problems. And if he tried to cross any lines—he would quickly discover she was far less helpless than she appeared.       But where was he now? Maybe he’d already left…       Yet the urge to escape this suffocating, noisy ballroom was too tempting to resist.       Mikasa shot up, ran to the balcony, and leaned over the carved railing, scanning the darkness for any sign of Levi.       To her surprise, he was casually strolling down the path toward the exit. No one seemed to notice him at all. How did he manage to vanish so smoothly into this place?       "Hey!" she called, not knowing what else to say. She didn’t dare call him by name—not with so many ears nearby.       Levi paused, turned slowly. Even in the dark, she saw his smirk as he spotted her.       Mikasa instinctively straightened up. She hadn’t thought about the deep neckline of her dress, now exposed entirely as she leaned forward—but her pounding head pushed all embarrassment away.       Levi waved to her vaguely, then started walking back toward the gates.       Mikasa slipped through the crowd of guests, murmuring apologies as she passed. She knew full well that vanishing like this would surely stain her reputation, but right now, she herself was already crumbling—and the pain was becoming unbearable.       They met in the long corridor, and Mikasa quickened her pace. Her heels tapped softly against the carpeted tiles, each step sending a new surge of pain radiating through her skull.       "The guards won’t let me out," Mikasa finally said, but Levi only responded with that same sly, infuriating smirk.       "We’ll go around them. I’ve got my own exits."       For a moment, she allowed herself a weak, grateful smile. Her gaze flicked briefly to the crushed bouquet still tucked beneath his arm, to the sharp cut of his expensive suit, the polished shine of his shoes—he had clearly prepared for this meeting. And with that, Mikasa finally surrendered to trust.       He led her through the garden toward a small gate.       "For the black servants’ entrance," he remarked, flicking open the flimsy latch with a finger.       The ridiculousness of the moment almost made Mikasa laugh aloud. Such a secure estate, and yet here was this ordinary little gate, completely unguarded and unnoticed.       They slipped out onto the path. Her heels sank into the soft ground, her gown would no doubt be ruined—stained green with grass—but she was free, breathing in the cool night air, and the hammering pain in her head dulled ever so slightly. The scent of calla lilies still lingered faintly in the breeze.       Levi steadied her as she reached the road, where lanterns glowed softly in the dark. Mikasa leaned against the cold stone wall of someone’s house. The sudden burst of light stabbed through her pupils and straight into her brain. Everything inside her pulsed, as though her skull might simply split open. She barely registered that Levi was still beside her, his hand gently supporting her elbow.       "I’ll walk you home," he said quietly. Mikasa instantly peeled herself off the wall.       No. She couldn’t allow a criminal to know where she lived. She had nothing worth stealing, but she had always been careful to keep her private life sealed away, as far from prying eyes as possible.       "It’s fine. I live nearby," she replied, pulling herself upright.       "You won’t make it," Levi answered immediately, and Mikasa realised just how much she was still leaning into his grip.       "I’ll manage," she countered, though she knew perfectly well how much she needed the help. She hadn’t had a headache this vicious in a long time.       "You’re a stubborn one,” Levi muttered under his breath. “Will your brother meet you?"       "No, he… it doesn’t matter. Thank you for helping me get out, but I just want to go home."       She took a few steps forward, but Levi stayed close, still walking beside her. Mikasa glanced at him again—he must have seen it in her eyes: she didn’t want to argue anymore. She just wanted to lie down. But something turned inside her as she caught a flicker of genuine concern in his gaze. He clearly wasn’t about to let go of her arm.       "All right," she sighed. "But promise you won’t follow me or anything like that."       Levi smirked.       "As you wish. I won’t do anything like that. Everything else still allowed?"       Mikasa shot him a tired look, and Levi seemed to realise that this was not the moment for jokes. He sighed, finally released her arm, and simply walked beside her in silence.

⸻・⸻ ♤ ⸻・⸻

      Mikasa reached home quickly. She forced herself not to slow down, trying to walk as confidently as she could. She was nearly drained, but there was no way she would allow herself to collapse into some dark corner to catch her breath — not in front of Ackerman.       She stopped at her door, half-expecting Levi to simply turn and leave — but also ready for the possibility that he might try to push his luck. She didn’t trust men. Especially not men like Levi. And yet, time and time again, she had allowed him far more than she ever granted to those wealthy suitors who waved their money in her face.       "You sing beautifully," Levi said, breaking the silence. "I know you probably hear that all the time, but... I couldn’t not say it."       "Thank you?"       Mikasa hadn’t expected that. The fact that a criminal had taken the time to compliment her voice was... unusual. Even strangely pleasant. But the uncertain note slipped through her lips all the same.       Levi didn’t leave. She could feel it—that moment when a man usually made some disgusting suggestion, forcing her to shut him down, to push him away again, though tonight she barely had the strength for it. But Levi surprised her once more. He was unexpectedly gentle.       "I would like to see you again," he said softly, steadily, without that repulsive breathless adoration she so often encountered—that sticky, desperate hunger that always left her feeling exposed. With him, it wasn’t frightening. Nor disgusting. Strange. He really was... different. Perhaps she could allow herself to relax. Just a little.       Mikasa meant to tell him she wasn’t interested. That she had no desire for any of this. But something held her back. The words stuck somewhere in her throat and never came out.       "Maybe," she said. Even that felt difficult. What could she offer him? A date? Ridiculous.       "Maybe is already better than a no,” Levi smiled faintly. “And take the flowers—they’re beautiful."       Mikasa hesitated, then nodded and accepted the bouquet. They were beautiful indeed. And not cheap. The delicate calla lilies released a faint, unusual fragrance.       "Thank you."       She inhaled their scent—and the pain stabbed at her temple again. She’d have to leave the bouquet downstairs if she hoped to sleep tonight. But Levi still stood there, watching, waiting. His face, thoughtful and unreadable, looked nothing like it did when he spoke to her. The hard cut of his profile revealed something sharper beneath—strength, determination, and a will like tempered steel. His blue eyes sparked like cold lightning.       Not the gentle gaze he’d given her—no. That was something else entirely. What had he been through for his eyes to turn into such an impenetrable wall?       Mikasa exhaled.       "I’ll be singing at the gallery opening next week. You can come."       His gaze softened instantly. Levi nodded, turning to leave.       "I’ll be there," he said, lifting a hand in parting before disappearing into the night.