**Rebirth in Darkness**

The machines surrounding me beeped and whirred, a cacophony of sounds that grew louder and more insistent as the hours ticked by. I lay there, trapped in my own mind, unable to escape the darkness that had consumed me. Hange's grip on my hand remained firm, his fingers intertwined with mine as he whispered words of encouragement, his voice a gentle breeze that soothed my frazzled nerves. As the medical team worked tirelessly to stabilize my condition, I began to feel a sense of detachment, as if I was floating above my body, watching myself from afar. The doctors and nurses moved with precision, their faces a blur as they adjusted the settings on the machines, administered medication, and checked my vitals. I saw it all, but I was disconnected, a spectator in my own life. Time lost all meaning as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remembered snippets of my life before the titan attack – laughter, tears, and quiet moments with Hange. Our memories played out like a movie reel, fragmented and disjointed, but full of love and joy. I recalled our first meeting, our first kiss, and our first adventure together as members of the survey corps. The memories were bittersweet, a reminder of what I had lost and what I might never regain. Hange's voice cut through the haze, his words a lifeline that kept me tethered to reality. "Levi, can you hear me? Please, respond." I tried to move, to twitch a finger or blink an eye, but my body remained still, a statue of broken flesh and shattered dreams. The endotracheal tube made my voice sound like a muffled whisper, but Hange heard me, his eyes lighting up with hope. "Yes, Levi, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." His words were a promise, a vow that he would stand by me, no matter what the future held. The days blurred together, a never-ending cycle of pain, medication, and therapy. I underwent surgery after surgery, each one a step towards recovery, but also a reminder of the long road ahead. The medical team was optimistic, but I knew the truth – my spinal cord was severed, and the chances of recovery were slim. As the weeks turned into months, I began to adapt to my new reality. I learned to communicate through a system of blinks and nods, my eyes speaking for me when my voice couldn't. Hange was my rock, my confidant, and my everything. He sat by my side, holding my hand, and talking to me for hours on end. One day, as the sun filtered through the hospital window, casting a warm glow over the room, Hange's expression changed. His eyes sparkled with mischief, and a sly grin spread across his face. "Levi, I have a surprise for you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as Hange pulled out a small, sleek device from his pocket. It was a communication device, one that would allow me to speak to him and the medical team without the need for the endotracheal tube. The device was connected to a computer, which translated my typed messages into spoken words. With trembling fingers, Hange helped me navigate the device, teaching me how to type out messages and hear my own voice for the first time in months. The sound was strange, yet familiar, a voice that was mine but also not mine. I typed out my first message, my heart racing with excitement: "Hange, I love you." The response was immediate. Hange's face lit up, and he replied, his voice filled with emotion, "I love you too, Levi. Always have, always will." In that moment, something shifted inside me. I realized that I was not just a broken body, but a mind, a soul, and a heart that still beat with love and determination. The road ahead would be long and arduous, but with Hange by my side, I knew I could face anything.