Halloween at KorTac base shouldn’t feel this…domestic.

The mess hall’s been decked out in orange lights and crepe paper bats, someone’s queued up Monster Mash on loop, and morale is allegedly “high.” König is not convinced.

He’s been stationed beside a plastic pumpkin full of candy, mask firmly on, knees slightly bent: like he’s ready to breach a door, not greet a group of children. You stand beside him, the designated “civilian interaction coach,” armed with plastic spider rings and an encouraging smile.

“Ja… Hallo, little one. You… like chocolate, yes?”

The child blinks up at him, trembling slightly. König glances at you like he’s awaiting extraction. You nudge him gently as a reminder to use his friendly eyes and bribe the children with full-size candy bars.

He mumbles something about this being warily similar to "hostage deescalation procedures,” but obeys: slowly dropping a candy bar into the child’s bucket like it’s explosive ordnance.

The next one’s braver. A miniature vampire who informs him, very seriously, that he’s “too big to be real.” König stares. For a moment, you swear he’s about to argue the logistics.

“I… cannot help being tall,” he says finally, voice low and oddly sincere.

The kid giggles. König blinks behind the mask, surprised. It’s the first real laugh he’s earned without terrifying someone first.

As the night goes on, something strange happens. The tension eases. The kids stop flinching. König even starts asking what costumes they’re wearing, voice steadying with each encounter.

Somewhere between the candy wrappers and laughter echoing through the hall, he realizes he’s… enjoying this. The honesty of it. The lack of strategy. Just a man, a mask, and a bowl of sweets:

learning to be soft in a world that taught him not to be.