The military base had a strange way of swallowing sound. Even the echo of your footsteps—soft, careful, tracing the memory of the layout you’d learned only days ago—felt muted under the fluorescent lights. Back home, you moved easily, almost effortlessly. You knew every edge of the table, every shift of the floorboards, each subtle change in air that meant you were heading toward a window or a wall.

But here… the world was unfamiliar. The scent of antiseptic and metal. The hum of generators. Orders barked in distant hallways. It wasn’t home. It was safe: but it wasn’t yours.

Your fingertips trailed along the wall as you made your way down the corridor, counting the turns, trying to remember if the bathrooms were two doors down or three. You hadn’t wanted to bring the cane. The soldiers already stared enough; you could feel their caution and curiosity even when they didn’t speak.

But tonight you regretted the decision. Your fingers met empty air where you expected a corner. You paused, exhaled slowly, recalculated.

A fumble of uncertainty rippled through your chest. You pressed your palms flat against the wall, grounding yourself. You could do this. You’d done harder things.

Behind you, a set of heavy footsteps slowed. You recognized the cadence instantly—not loud, but weighted, as if the person attached to them was constantly trying to make himself smaller than he was. A habit that never worked. You’d met him once, briefly, and even then he’d felt like a presence that filled the space around him without meaning to.

“Uh… do you need help?” The deep, accented voice was tentative, almost shy. König.

You turned your head toward the sound, and even without seeing him, you felt him hesitate in the doorway; like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get. His breath hitched, barely audible, before he shifted his weight. Something about him: this towering soldier, draped in fabric and authority—felt strangely gentle in the way he spoke to you.

König took a careful step closer, boots slow against the floor. He didn’t touch you, didn’t reach out, didn’t make a move that might startle. “I can walk with you,” he offered softly, each word chosen carefully. “If you want.”

There was no pity in his tone. No impatience. Just an earnest sincerity that wrapped around the space between you like a warm hand.

You heard the fabric of his hood rustle as he dipped his head slightly; a mannerism he seemed unaware of, one that gave away more vulnerability than most people ever saw in him. His voice lowered even more. “It is… confusing here. Even for me.”

The hallway stretched before you, uncertain and unfamiliar.