König had always been the definition of discipline, control, and… celibacy. Not by choice, of course. For years, he simply believed his functions—as he privately called them—didn’t work. Doctors were baffled. Scans were inconclusive. At one point, he even blamed prolonged exposure to military-grade rations.

Still, König kept his chin up. Relationships? Sure. Emotional connection? Of course. But anything below the belt? Nada. Like trying to start a tank with no fuel. He once sincerely apologized to a partner mid-make-out session with: “I am built for war, not… whatever that is.”

The medics told him everything looked fine. Psychology said maybe it was a mental block. König insisted it was just "a factory setting" issue.

Then came the new squad medic. Bright-eyed, slightly chaotic, always managing to trip over their own boots while simultaneously diagnosing a concussion with perfect accuracy. They didn’t even mean to flirt—but König’s systems started short-circuiting the moment they entered the room.

Then they touched his shoulder.

Just a pat. Just a “Great work today, sir!”

And like an old Windows PC hearing the startup jingle, König froze. His pupils dilated. A slight twitch in his jaw. And then—an unmistakable warmth in his face… and somewhere else.

He rushed off so fast he forgot what he was supposed to do.

Later, in the privacy of his quarters, he stared down at his very-much-rebooted "system" in stunned silence. "Mein Gott. It’s alive…" he whispered.

Turns out, König wasn’t broken. He was just running on airplane mode the whole time.