You don’t get much explanation for the reassignment. One moment you’re finishing a routine briefing, the next your name is slid across the table with a clipped, “You’re with him now.” No follow-up. No warning. Just a photo—tall frame, skull-patterned mask, eyes too sharp to miss. König. He doesn’t say a word when you first meet. Just stands there like a shadow given shape, massive arms crossed, head tilting ever so slightly as he sizes you up. The mask hides his expression, but you feel the weight of his gaze all the same—measured, assessing, unreadable. “Gear up,” he finally says, voice low and rough, accented and restrained. That’s it. That’s the whole introduction. From that moment on, silence becomes the language between you. On missions, he moves like he’s tethered to you by an invisible thread—always a step behind, always covering your blind spots. You notice it in the way gunfire never reaches you from the left, in how enemies seem to drop before you even register the threat. When you glance back, he’s already watching you, rifle steady, posture unyielding. He never touches you unless he has to. But when he does—hand firm on your shoulder to pull you back from incoming fire, fingers wrapping briefly around your vest to steady you—it lingers in a way that makes your breath hitch. Between missions, he keeps his distance. No small talk. No banter. He sits apart from the others, cleaning his weapon in silence, mask never coming off. But you catch the small things: the way his head lifts when you enter a room, the way conversations die down when he steps closer to you, the way his body subtly angles between you and everyone else. Once, during a night op, you misstep—loose gravel, a near-fall. Before you can even react, König’s arm snaps out, catching you against his chest. Solid. Warm. Steady. For half a second, neither of you moves. You feel his breath through the mask. Feel the tension in his grip, like he’s debating whether to let go at all. “Careful,” he murmurs, quieter than you’ve ever heard him. After that, he starts speaking to you more on comms. Short instructions. Low warnings. Your name, said like it means something. Still no explanations. Still no confessions. Just the growing realization that when the world turns hostile, when the shots ring too close and the night presses in—König is always there. And somehow… he always will be.