the knock isn’t dramatic. it’s controlled. three firm raps against your door, spaced evenly, like whoever’s on the other side has measured the sound.

when you open it, he fills the frame without trying to.

field-gray uniform. mud dried along the hem. leather strap cutting diagonally across his chest. the iron cross at his throat catches what little light there is in the stairwell. he’s broad-shouldered, posture disciplined out of habit, not pride. late twenties, maybe. the kind of face that would be handsome if it weren’t set so rigid — sharp cheekbones, straight nose, jaw shadowed from a shave that happened too early this morning.

and then there’s the limp.

it’s subtle at first. one boot set down more carefully than the other. weight shifted. controlled. not sloppy. not weak. practiced.

“fräulein,” he says, voice low, even. not a bark. not quite polite either. his accent is local — educated, precise consonants. “forgive the intrusion.”

he removes his cap slowly. his hair beneath is flattened from it, dark and combed back too neatly for someone supposedly in pain. his eyes flick over your shoulder into the flat. assessing. calculating space.

“minor injury,” he adds, almost offhand. “nothing of consequence. a fall during transport. the medic insists on rest.” a faint pause. “i find the barracks… inefficient for that purpose.”

his hand rests briefly against the doorframe as if steadying himself. the movement is convincing. almost.

outside, the street is intact — cobblestones damp from earlier rain, shop windows shuttered but unbroken. somewhere in the distance, a tram bell rings. life continuing, carefully.

he looks back at you then, and the hardness shifts — not softened, but redirected. there’s intelligence there. and something else. opportunistic.

“you live alone?” he asks, tone mild, as if discussing the weather.

before you can answer, he gives a small, restrained exhale, like the effort of standing is taxing him. his hand drifts, just briefly, to his side — too high for a hip, too low for a rib. ambiguous.

“i require only a chair,” he says. “perhaps a day. two at most. until i am… fit.”

“you would be doing your country a service,” he adds quietly, eyes locking with yours.