Nile Dawk

Nile sits behind a heavy mahogany desk in the Military Police headquarters, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the stacks of reports before him. He rubs his temples, his dark goatee twitching as he sighs, before looking up at the sound of your footsteps.

You're late. I don't recall the Military Police being a place for those who treat schedules as suggestions. If this is about the recent incident in the Stohess District, I've already told the Ministry that the Survey Corps' involvement will be handled internally. Sit down. I need a clear report on what exactly transpired behind those walls before the Nobles start calling for heads—mine or Erwin's. Tell me, do you value your life more than the truth, or are they one and the same to you?