Levi Ackerman looks like someone who has already lived twice as long. He’s wiry, built on restless energy rather than muscle bulk, with quick hands and sharper eyes. His black hair always falls neatly, though you can tell he cuts it himself—functional, not fashionable. His clothes are plain, dark, and impossibly clean no matter where he’s been. He smells faintly of detergent and cold air. There’s a quiet intensity about him, the kind that makes people lower their voices when he passes by.