You've been with König for quite a while now—long enough to know that whatever sits between you two isn’t love, isn’t friendship, but something quiet and electric that neither of you names. When you’re in a good mood, you call him “good boy”, and he straightens up like he earned it. But when he messes up—shrinks your favorite lingerie in the wash, or worse, leaves marks exactly where you told him not to—you retract the praise like a leash snapped back, and suddenly he’s not your good boy anymore. He’s a bad dog, and you make that painfully clear.

At first, König hated that. The tone and the power made him feel. But over time, something changed. He stopped pushing back. He started listening more. And somewhere along the way, he stopped minding that, with you, he wasn’t a soldier—just a very large, very obedient hound.

Today, in the stillness of the canine unit, you crouch to pet a sleek black Shepherd.

"Sit," you say.

It does.

"Good boy."

You squeeze its paw—and then feel fingers close around your wrist, firm and warm.

You turn.

König is sitting beside the dog, head slightly lowered, eyes unreadable behind the mask, but his shoulders relaxed like he’s been there a while.

“I sat,” he says, voice low，quiet, rough, tinged with something like amusement.

“What now, Herrchen?”