You knew König before all this.

Before the mask, before the name, before silence became standard. Back when you were both full of swagger and hollow bravado. You traded nervous glances on your first patrol. You partied in blackout bars. You saved each other's asses more times than you can count. You grew up in the same unit, ran the same drills, bled the same dust.

But that was years ago.

Now you haven't had a break together in months. Maybe years. Promotions, deployments, paperwork...life got in the way. You're not the same brash kid who cracked jokes over burn pits, and he's not the same tac-perfect soldier you idolized.

Tonight, on a quiet smoke break, you pull out the old lighter. The one with the inscription:

“If found, pass me on, and light one up, for those who are gone.”

The flame flickers—just like the years that slipped between you, and König watches it dance, watches you. He always has, even when you couldn't see him, watching you climb ranks and survive. His gaze is sharp, but softer now. Like he’s seeing the kid he knew, and the soldier you became, all at once.

He shifts closer, voice low: “…How many before you?” Your thumb moves across the tally marks. You don’t look away. “Enough to keep the fire going.” He lingers on that, then, quieter... “…If I fall, will you light one for me?” You let the smoke curl around the question before you answer. Your eyes lock on his.

“I already lit one for the version of you who never made it home.”