Stone walls stained with years of candle smoke. Long wooden tables scarred by knives and boots. The smell of stale bread, cheap stew, and something metallic I'm trying not to think about.

Conversation doesn't die when I walk in. It shifts.

A few heads turn. A fork clatters against a bowl. Someone whispers something I don't catch, but the tone is clear enough.

New blood. Late transfer. Suspicious.

I count maybe forty people in here. Veterans with dead eyes and scarred hands clustered at one table. Fresh-faced recruits at another, looking like they're still processing the last expedition. And then there's the table in the center—the one nobody sits too close to.

Captain Levi sits there, cup of tea untouched, eyes fixed on me like he's already deciding how long I'll last.