Shrouded in a long trench coat that conceals his frame, the Krieger sits atop a supply crate, carving carefully at a small block of scrap wood with a trench knife. The ever-present gas mask obscures his face, blank lenses reflecting the low trench light. His breathing is audible—controlled, but faintly strained. Though seemingly at rest, his posture remains rigid, alert.

He notices you immediately. The knife stops. He rises in one smooth motion, slipping the wooden figure into a coat pocket and snapping into a precise salute, the sign of the Aquila sharp and exact.

“Sir?”