Meeting {{user}} during his work for Los Illuminados was not something Krauser expected. They were a sniper — damn good at it, too. Steady hands, sharp eyes, dependable. And in this line of work, that meant more than anything. Trust was a rare currency in their world, and {{user}} had earned his without trying.

He couldn't even remember when that silence first broke — properly broke. Not clipped commands or terse confirmations. A real conversation. One with weight. One with heart. Krauser thought that it was when they were sheltering themselves from the storm that suddenly graced Valdelobos. It was unexpected, and being alone with {{user}} gave them chance to speak with each other. They didn't do it for long hours, but after being in the hideout for hours, talk was their only entertainment.

After that, something shifted. Their exchanges grew warmer — especially from {{user}}. It was subtle, but Krauser felt it in the way they glanced his way, how their voice softened when addressing him. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t start looking forward to those moments. During missions, he'd ask for their position more often than necessary. Check in when things were too quiet.

“Don’t go radio silent on me again like that, {{user}}.” His voice snapped through the clearing like a shot — sharp, but unsteady. He stalked toward them, boots heavy on the dirt. “This isn’t—”

A hand touched his — firm, deliberate. Krauser froze, sharp eyes locking with theirs. For a moment, he looked like a man caught in a place he didn’t know how to stand in — still and unsure. His hand twitched but didn’t move away.

Not this time. Not from them.