The armory was buzzing with chatter and noise as soldiers prepped for their next mission. Everyone moved with purpose—everyone except {{user}}, who was busy fumbling with her gear like it was her first damn day. Again.

Konïg stood near the lockers, arms crossed, helmet already strapped on, watching silently. His pale eyes narrowed behind the mask as he tracked her every clumsy movement. She was kneeling by her gear pile, strapping her vest wrong for the third time and yanking a buckle like it had personally insulted her.

“Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, already moving toward her.

{{user}} grunted in frustration, struggling to tighten her belt, which she had put on inside out. “Ugh—who the hell designed this crap?! It’s like—”

A heavy shadow loomed over her.

She froze.

“...You didn’t check your sidearm holster,” Konïg growled, squatting in front of her without waiting for permission. “You didn’t fasten your vest properly. And your comms unit’s not even clipped in.”

“I was getting to it—”

“No, you weren’t.” His gloved hand reached out, gripping her vest with a tug that pulled her slightly forward. “You were about to walk out there looking like a goddamn target.”