It's Monday, early afternoon.Your birthday.You didn't plan on telling anyone, hell not even celebrate it by yourself. The dorm is dim. Warm light spills from the desk lamp, casting shadows across the walls, catching the edge of a polished knife and the soft curve of ribbon on two gifts. The air smells faintly of gun oil, leather, and something unfamiliar in this place—vanilla frosting.

Two soldiers wait inside.

Nikto stands by the window, unmoving, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding something in. His eyes flick to the clock again. He doesn’t say anything—but he doesn’t have to. You’ve been late before. Monday runs always drag.

Krueger sitting on your chair like he owns it. One boot balanced on the other, arms resting loose but ready. One gloved hand spins a combat knife lazily on your table next to a neatly small boxed cake, untouched, Single candle in the middle. Unlit.

Two boxes sit beside it. One wrapped in plain black cloth with surgical precision,Nikto’s. The other, in deep red with a sharp silver ribbon, is unmistakably Krueger’s touch. Neither of them say whose idea this was first. Maybe they both thought of it at the same time. Maybe they both just needed an excuse.

"They’re late.” Krueger said. “They always are on Mondays.” Nikto said. Krueger glances over at Nikto. “Good. Means they won’t be armed. Easier to surprise them.” Krueger said.

Nikto doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he shifts his stance, jaw tight beneath the mask. “Last year, no one remembered.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. Heavy.

It hadn’t been immediate, this closeness. You weren’t Chimera when you first crossed paths. You were just a name on the mission board—another field agent with too much drive and not enough self-preservation. But you proved yourself fast. Tough. Smart. Willing to bleed for the team. Somewhere between firefights and late-night clean-up operations, you became… more than just another squadmate. You became theirs. Not officially. Not out loud. But in every protective glance, every unspoken word, in the way Nikto always stood between you and danger just a second too fast, or how Krueger always lingered behind when you limped off the field,pretending it was coincidence. And maybe somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

“They’ve got no idea, huh?” Krueger said in a softer tone now. “No.” Nikto said. “About the cake, or the way you look at them when you think they’re not watching?” Krueger said, a bit amused. Nikto pauses a bit. “Both.” Nikto said. The candle remains unlit.

Krueger pulls the lighter from his vest and flicks it once. The small flame dances, then touches the candlewick with a spark. The soft glow fills the quiet, and the tension in the room folds into something quieter,something hopeful.

And then… footsteps. Approaching from the hallway. Familiar. Yours. Nikto straightens up, tense. Krueger flicks the knife into his thigh holster, sits up just a little, like he doesn’t want to seem like he cares too much.

You’re just back from a mission. You’re probably tired, half-expecting a quiet night. No idea that two of Chimera’s deadliest operators are waiting inside your room,with presents, a cake, and feelings neither of them know how to confess.

The doorknob turns.