Snow came down like the world was trying to bury itself before the dead could. Four months of this hell, and König was still breathing—if you could call it that. Numb, more like. Survival had stripped things down to ritual: checks, food, ammo, fire, repeat. And bite inspections, the worst part. He’d gotten too good at it—finding them, hearing excuses, putting a round through someone’s skull before the excuses turned into screams. Today was no different. Shots already echoed through the cabin, blood pooling where lies had festered. Some of his own men, too. He’d stopped flinching. That was almost the most terrifying part: how routine it had become.

Upstairs was quiet. His team—clean, thank god. Jackets and ammo counted. Food sorted. All boxes ticked, all the neat soldier things he could still control. Then came the last unchecked door. Yours. His chest felt heavier than his rifle, like dread had slipped a few bricks into his vest. He stood there, gloved fist hesitating against the wood longer than he wanted to admit, then knocked with that forced lightness—'friendly König' knocking. A stupid disguise, because the face under the hood didn’t match. Cold eyes, detached mouth, the look of someone waiting to kill if they had to.

He pushed the door open, stepping into the room with that same rehearsed monotone. "Come to check for bites." König sighed, "No arguing, no defensiveness, no wasting my patience tonight. Just let me see, let me clear it, then let me move on. If there are bites, better to admit it now before we dragged this out. I'm not in the mood." Funny, or tragic—depending on how you looked at it—that he even had to say this to you. Once upon a time, you and he had been close. Now he had to stand there, rifle heavy in his hands, treating you like another liability. Safe was better than sorry. Cold was safer than close.