Chapter 37: Leo and chaos
The sterile hum of the SICU waiting room fractured under the weight of Armin’s words. The phrase pharmaceutical profile hung in the air, a clinical term that felt more invasive than any bullet.
Levi didn’t move. His hand, resting on Leo’s head, went still. “Explain.”
Armin’s fingers were a blur over the keyboard. “It’s a request from a doctor at this hospital, directed to an outside pharmacy database. It’s asking for her full medication history. Everything.”
“So?” Eren snapped, pacing a tight line on the linoleum. “She’s unconscious. They need to know what drugs she’s on.”
“It’s flagged as ‘pre-admission screening,’” Armin said, his voice tight. “But she’s already admitted. She’s in surgery. This isn’t for treatment. It’s reconnaissance. They’re building a psychological profile. They want to know her weaknesses. Her dependencies.” He looked up, his blue eyes wide with realization. “Anti-anxiety meds. Anti-depressants. Anything that controls her PTSD. They’re looking for leverage.”
Mikasa’s hand went to the hidden blade at her back, a gesture as instinctive as breathing. “They want to know how to break her when she wakes up.”
A cold, clear fury settled over Levi. It was a different temperature than the blind panic of the woods. This was calculable. This was a tactic. They weren’t just trying to kill Aria; they were trying to map the cracks in her psyche to pry her open.
“Can you stop it?” Levi asked, his voice low.
“I can delay it. Redirect it to a spoofed server with a fabricated history.” Armin was already typing, command lines flashing on his screen. “But if they have someone on the inside, a nurse or a doctor, they’ll just look at the chart. It’s all there.”
“Then we need the chart,” Connie said, leaning against the wall.
“We are not stealing a medical chart from an ICU,” Jean muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. He’d just returned from the cafeteria, his recon yielding nothing but bad coffee and a view of the still-parked black SUV.
“We don’t steal it,” Levi said. His gaze was fixed on the pale blue door. “We just… monitor it.”
A sharp, metallic clatter ripped their attention away. Jean cursed, hopping on one foot. “Son of a—!”
The massive, hulking shape of Leo’s Alaskan Blue convertible car seat lay on its side at his feet, one of its cup holders rolling away under a chair. Leo, now awake and strapped into it, merely blinked, unperturbed by the sudden tilt.
“This damned thing!” Jean hissed, crouching to right the seat. “It’s a tank! Who needs a car seat that turns into a spaceship? It’s wider than my torso!” He grunted, heaving the seat back upright. Leo gurgled, kicking his feet.
“He likes it,” Sasha offered softly, from where she sat chewing on a protein bar wrapper. “He always settles in it. It’s his… cockpit.”
“It’s a defensive bunker,” Jean retorted, clicking the seat into its upright position. He wiped his brow. “Kid, you’re gonna need a semi-truck to cart this thing around when you’re five.”
Levi watched his son pat the padded armrest of the throne-like seat. It was true. The car seat was a monstrosity of modern safety engineering, all soft blue fabric and plastic curving around Leo like a protective shell. In a world of uncertainty, it was a fixed point. Aria had spent weeks researching it, reading reviews from the “Stellar Product Testing Panel,” declaring it the safest, the best. Levi had balked at the price. She’d just looked at him, her gray eyes steady. “It’s for Leo.” He’d paid without another word.
Now, its absurd bulk was a comforting anchor. A portable piece of the life she’d built for them.
A nurse pushed through the SICU doors, not the one from before. This one was older, her face a roadmap of long nights. She went straight to Levi.
“Mr. Ackerman? Your wife is being moved to a private room in the Medical ICU. She’s off the ventilator. She’s breathing on her own.”
The words were a tidal wave of relief so potent it left Levi lightheaded. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling the ground solidify beneath him.
“Can we see her?” Mikasa asked.
“One visitor at a time. She’s heavily sedated for the pain, but she’s stable. The doctor will explain more.” Her eyes flicked to the group, to the car seat, to Jean’s scraped knuckles. “You should all try to get some real rest. The family lounge on the fourth floor has pull-out couches.”
They moved as a unit, a weary caravan. Levi carried the duffel bag of bloody clothes. Jean, grumbling, shouldered the giant car seat with Leo content inside it, his small hands exploring the toy attached to the harness. Sasha gathered the discarded fast food wrappers. Connie and Eren took point, scanning the halls with a vigilance that looked out of place in the bright, quiet hospital.
The Medical ICU was less intensely monitored than the Surgical ICU, but the atmosphere was the same—a hushed, beeping purgatory. Aria’s new room was dim, lit only by a soft light above the bed and the ghostly glow of the monitors. The ventilator was gone. A simple nasal cannula fed her oxygen. The mountain of bandages on her torso remained, but the lines and wires had been reduced. She looked less like a machine and more like a person sleeping a profoundly deep sleep.
Levi stood in the doorway. The fear that had been a live wire in his chest since the farmhouse softened into a heavy, aching throb. Alive. Breathing on her own.
He walked in and sat beside her. He didn’t take her hand, afraid of disturbing the IV. He simply looked at the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest under the thin hospital blanket.
The others took turns. Mikasa stood sentinel at the window, looking down at the parking lot. Eren lingered for only a minute, his jaw working, before he stalked out to patrol the hall. Sasha pressed a gentle kiss to Aria’s forehead and whispered something about trying a new ramen place when she was better.
Jean, after wrestling the car seat into a corner of the family lounge on the fourth floor, returned and slumped into a chair. “The black SUV’s gone.”
Armin, who hadn’t left his laptop, nodded. “They got the message. They know we’re on guard. They’ll wait.”
“For what?” Connie asked, slumped against the wall.
“For a mistake,” Levi said, his eyes never leaving Aria’s face. “For us to lower ours.”
Night deepened outside the window. A different, night-shift doctor came and explained the complexities of liver trauma, the risk of secondary infection, the long road of recovery. Levi listened, filed it away. Threats to assess. A battle plan.
Later, in the silent lull of the early morning hours, it was just Levi and the soft beep of the heart monitor. Jean and Connie were dozing in the lounge. Sasha had gone to find more snacks. Mikasa and Eren were walking the perimeter of the hospital grounds.
Leo fussed in his car seat, now positioned beside Levi’s chair. The boy was tired of confinement, of the strange smells and lights. He reached his arms out, making a soft, pleading sound. “Dada. Up.”
Levi unbuckled him, lifting the solid, warm weight of his son onto his lap. Leo immediately curled into his chest, his head tucked under Levi’s chin, one small fist clutching the clean fabric of his shirt. He smelled of baby shampoo and the faint, sugary scent of apple juice.
Levi held him, one arm secure around his back, the other hand resting on the bedrail near Aria’s sleeping form. He existed in that triangle of contact: his son’s steady breath against his neck, his wife’s sedated slumber beside him, his own weary heartbeat keeping time between them.
He thought about the pharmaceutical profile. About the vulnerabilities they sought. They were looking at prescriptions, at diagnoses. They wouldn’t find what truly made her strong. They wouldn’t find the stubborn hope that painted walls pink and played Taylor Swift too loud. They wouldn’t find the resilience that faced down Titans and now fought silently in this sterile bed. They were looking for cracks, but they didn’t understand she was made of river stone—worn, but unbroken.
Leo’s breathing evened out into sleep. Aria’s monitor continued its steady ping.
Outside, the world was dark, and their enemies were waiting. But in this small, quiet room, under the dim glow, Levi held his ground. He watched over the two hearts that held his own. He waited for the dawn, and for the war it would bring.
He waited for the dawn, and for the war it would bring. The sky outside the window lightened from black to a bruised gray. The shift change brought a new nurse, her shoes squeaking on the floor, her cheer obscenely bright for the hour. Levi watched her check Aria’s lines and vitals with a predator’s stillness, assessing her for any flicker of undue interest. She left, and the room settled back into its watchful quiet.
Leo awoke with the sun. He did not stir gently. One moment he was a warm, limp weight against Levi’s chest, and the next he was a coiled spring of toddler energy, pushing himself upright with a determined grunt. He blinked, gray eyes—Aria’s eyes—scanning the sterile room with instant, disdainful boredom. “Down,” he commanded, patting Levi’s knee.
Levi, whose rules for the world were ironclad but for this one small person, set him on the floor. He knew what came next. He allowed it.
The boy took stock. His mother was asleep in the funny bed. That was not interesting. His daddy was sitting in the chair, looking at mommy. That was normal. The door to the hallway was slightly ajar. That was opportunity. He toddled toward it, his gait a confident, swaying walk.
“Where’s he going?” Jean mumbled, jerking awake from his slumped position in the corner chair. He’d spent the night.
“Exploring,” Levi said, his voice flat, his gaze still on Aria.
Jean sighed and pushed himself up to follow. In the hallway, Leo paused. He looked left at the boring nursing station. He looked right at Connie Springer, who was asleep sitting upright against the wall, his mouth open. A slow, mischievous smile spread across Leo’s face. He changed course.
He walked directly to Connie, reached out a chubby hand, and pressed it firmly over Connie’s mouth and nose.
Connie snorted awake, flailing. “Wha—hggh!” He saw the baby and gently peeled the hand away, gasping. “Hey! No suffocating the help, kid.”
Leo laughed, a delighted, gurgling sound. He then turned his attention to Connie’s shoelaces. With surprising dexterity, he pulled one end, untying the complex double knot in seconds.
“Oh, come on,” Connie whined, leaning forward to retie it.
As soon as Connie’s head was down, Leo patted his spiky hair with both hands, then tried to stuff a discarded straw wrapper into his ear. Jean watched, arms crossed, a reluctant smirk on his face. “He’s like a tiny, cheerful saboteur.”
“Chaos agent,” Levi corrected from the doorway, having followed the sounds. He didn’t intervene.
Having thoroughly conquered Connie, Leo spotted his next target. Eren was pacing at the end of the hall near the water cooler, a bottle of green tea in his hand, talking in a low, tense voice to Armin on the phone. Leo beelined for him.
He didn’t say a word. He walked straight up to Eren and wrapped his arms around his leg, burying his face in his jeans. Eren, mid-pacing, stopped short. “Uh. Hey, buddy.” He looked down, then at Levi, confused. This was unusual affection.
It was a trick. The moment Eren stopped moving, Leo leaned back, using all his sixteen-month-old strength, and bit Eren’s kneecap through the denim.
“Ow! You little—” Eren yelped, hopping back. Leo released him, plopping onto his diaper-padded bottom, giggling uncontrollably.
“He’s teething,” Levi offered, the ghost of something near a smile touching his lips.
“He’s feral!” Eren rubbed his knee, scowling. “Why do you let him do this?”
Levi simply looked at his son, who was now trying to dismantle the base of the water cooler. “He’s proficient.”
The chaos found its pinnacle when Jean, finally caving to caffeine withdrawal, returned from the vending machine with a scalding black coffee. He’d just taken his first careful sip when Leo, having abandoned the water cooler, noticed the shiny, tempting cardboard cup.
“No, no, no, Leo. Hot. Very hot.” Jean held it high.
Leo stared. He did not cry. He turned, waddled back to his massive Alaskan Blue car seat throne, and began to push it. It was a behemoth, but on the polished hospital floor, it slid. He grunted, shoving it with all his might, inching it across the hall until it blocked the entrance to the family lounge.
Satisfied, he climbed into it, buckled the chest clip himself with a loud snap, and looked at Jean. His message was clear: if you want to pass, you must pay the toll.
Jean stared at the barricade, then at the baby smugly ensconced in his fortress. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Levi.”
Levi finally moved. He walked over, not to move the seat, but to crouch beside it. He met his son’s determined gaze. “What’s the requirement?”
Leo pointed a firm finger at Jean’s coffee cup.
“Absolutely not,” Jean said.
“He’ll scream,” Levi stated, clinically. “Aria’s room is thirty feet away. The sound will carry.”
Jean’s eye twitched. He looked from the stoic father to the silently demanding son in the tank-like seat. With a groan of utter defeat, he unscrewed the lid, poured a scant teaspoon of coffee into it, and handed the minuscule, bitter offering to Levi. Levi blew on it carefully before passing it to Leo.
Leo took the lid, brought it to his lips, took a tiny sip, and immediately grimaced, sticking out his tongue. He looked profoundly betrayed. He handed the lid back to Jean with a disappointed grunt and unclipped himself, abandoning his fortress to go find Sasha, who he knew would give him apple juice.
Jean exhaled, dragging the car seat out of the doorway. “I hate that I just negotiated with a terrorist.”
“He’s efficient,” Levi said, watching Leo trot away. “You provided a suboptimal resource. He re-evaluated his position.” Jean just shook his head, taking a long swig of his coffee, which was now tepid.
The brief, absurd interlude of normalcy dissolved as Armin walked back into the hallway, his laptop clenched under his good arm. His face was tight. “The SUV is back. It’s parked in the same spot. Two people inside. They’re just sitting there.”
“They’re waiting for the profile,” Mikasa said, her voice a low monotone from where she stood guard at Aria’s door.
“I sent them a profile,” Armin replied. He didn’t sound triumphant. “A perfect, boring one. Allergies to penicillin and ragweed. A prescription for a mild sleep aid from six months ago. Nothing useful. Nothing psychological.”
Levi absorbed this. A temporary fix. A digital bandage. “They’ll know it’s fake.”
“Eventually. It’ll take time to disprove. It’s a placeholder.” Armin ran a hand through his hair. “It buys us today, maybe.”
The door to Aria’s room opened and the day-shift nurse, a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes, stepped out. “She’s coming around a little. The sedation is wearing off. It’s… it’s going to be very painful for her. She might be disoriented. Frightened.”
Levi was already moving past him. The room felt different. The silence was no longer total. A thin, pained whimper leaked from the bed. It was a sound that bypassed his ears and hooked directly into his sternum.
Aria’s brow was furrowed. Her fingers twitched against the starch-white sheet. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting the weight of drugs and trauma.
He was at her side in an instant. He didn’t grab her hand, afraid of jostling the lines. He leaned over, putting his face in her line of sight. “Aria.”
Her eyes opened. They were glassy, clouded with opioids and raw shock. They skated past him, unfocused, seeing nothing. The whimper built into a shallow, panting gasp. Her heart monitor responded, its ping accelerating into a frantic, beeping rhythm.
“She’s panicking,” the nurse said quietly, moving to check her IV drip.
Levi knew that particular flavor of terror. It was the prelude to the void that sometimes swallowed her whole. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice softer than his words. “You’re in a hospital. You’re safe.”
Her gaze snapped to his face. Recognition flickered, then drowned in a wave of pure agony. A sharp, broken cry tore from her throat. “It hurts.” The words were slurred, choked. “Levi, it… it really hurts.”
“I know.” His hand hovered, then settled gently on her forehead, pushing sweat-damp hair back. “The nurse is here. They can give you something.”
“No.” Her breath hitched, a wet, terrible sound. Her free hand fumbled across the blanket, searching. He understood. He laced his fingers with hers, careful of the pulse oximeter. She gripped him with a strength that was shocking, her knuckles bleaching white.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “Just match me.” He took an exaggerated, slow breath in, held it, let it out. Her eyes were locked on his, wide with animal fear. She tried to mimic him, but it shattered into a gasp halfway through.
“The pain is astronomical,” she rasped, tears welling and spilling over, carving tracks through the pallor of her cheeks. “I can’t… I can’t get a breath.”
The nurse injected a clear fluid into her IV port. “This will help. Give it a minute.”
They waited. Her grip on his hand was a vise. The beeping of the heart monitor began to slow, incrementally. The terrifying sharpness in her eyes blunted, softened by a new wave of chemical relief. The tension seeped from her shoulders, leaving behind a profound, wrecked exhaustion.
“Leo?” she whispered, the word barely audible.
“He’s here. He bit Eren. Drank Jean’s coffee. He’s fine.”
A faint, ghost of a smile touched her cracked lips. It vanished. “They shot me.”
“Yes.”
“They were… professionals. Not raiders.” Her voice was drifting, the drugs pulling her under again. But her mind, the strategist’s mind he loved, was clawing its way to the surface. “They wanted the drive. They wanted… to clean up.”
“We know. We have it.”
Her eyes were closing. “They’ll come back. For me. For it.”
“Let them.” He said it with a finality that left no room for doubt.
She was sinking fast, but her fingers tightened once more, a spasmodic clutch. “Don’t leave.”
“Never.”
As she slid back into a mediated sleep, he kept his vigil. The sun was fully up now, casting hard squares of light across the floor. The smell of institutional breakfast—reconstituted eggs, stale toast—drifted down the hall. Normal life, happening around their island of crisis.
Jean appeared in the doorway, his phone in his hand. “Falco and Gabi just pinged me. They’re three hours out. They said to tell you they’ve ‘got the gear.’ Whatever that means.”
Armin nodded, a spark of actual hope in his eyes. “If anyone can build us a digital fortress here, it’s them. We can lock her records down for real. Maybe even trace the query back to its source.”
From the hallway came the sound of plastic wheels on linoleum. A different nurse pushed a mobile workstation on a cart, heading for Aria’s room. She offered a polite, professional smile as she passed Jean. “Just here to update the patient’s electronic chart.”
Levi’s gaze tracked her. She was young, competent-looking. She scanned her ID badge at the door and entered, giving Levi a respectful nod before turning her attention to the computer mounted on the wall.
She typed quietly, clicking through screens. Levi watched her every movement, the angle of her shoulders, the focus of her eyes on the monitor. She inputted vitals, noted the pain medication administration.
Then her cursor hovered. She clicked open a new tab. A pharmacy interface. She began to type: Reyes, Aria. Request: Full Pharmaceutical History.
Levi was already standing. He made no sudden moves. He walked to the foot of the bed, positioning himself where he could see her screen. She felt his presence and glanced up, her smile still in place but growing thin.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“You’re requesting her pharmacy records.”
“It’s standard for post-op care,” she said smoothly, too smoothly. “To avoid contraindications.”
“Her doctor already has that information.” Levi’s voice was quiet, conversational. Deadly. “It was provided on admission. Why are you requesting it again?”
A faint flush crept up her neck. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. “I’m just following a protocol. It’s automated.”
“Cancel the request.”
“I really can’t. The system generates it.”
In one fluid motion, Levi reached over and placed his hand flat over the mouse. He didn’t shove her. He didn’t raise his voice. The pressure in the room spiked, crystalline and sharp. “Cancel it.”
Her professional facade cracked. Fear flashed in her eyes. She looked from his hand to his face, and whatever she saw there made her breath catch. She quickly clicked a series of buttons. “C-Cancelled. See? It’s fine.”
“Who asked you to pull her full profile?” he asked, his hand still covering the mouse.
“No one. It’s just procedure.”
“You’re a bad liar.” He removed his hand. “Leave. Send someone else for the rest of her checks.”
She didn’t argue. She backed out of the room, the wheels of her cart squeaking in her haste.
Levi turned back to Aria. The monitor beeped its steady, oblivious rhythm. The war wasn’t in the woods or in a parked SUV. It was here, in the quiet clicks of a keyboard, in the lies of a stranger wearing scrubs. They were already inside. He looked at Armin, who had witnessed the whole exchange from the hall.
“She wasn’t just curious,” Armin whispered.
“No,” Levi agreed. He finally sat back down, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. He took Aria’s hand again, the one without the IV. He watched the slow, medicated rise and fall of her chest. Outside, the black SUV sat patient as a spider. Inside, the first wave had just broken against the wall. He closed his eyes, just for a second, listening to the dual rhythm of the heart monitor and his own pulse. Waiting for the next one.