The cold air bit at König’s skin, sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the chaos in his head. He could feel the weight of it, the tension crawling beneath his skin, tightening around his chest until he could barely draw a breath. The memories—they never stopped. The explosions. The shouting. The gunfire. They swarmed his mind, louder than anything in the real world.

He tried to push it away, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with his hands. His fingers twitched, unable to steady themselves, and his breathing grew quicker, shallow. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to need anyone. But the panic was there, gnawing at him, and the silence of his own house felt suffocating.

He stood up, body stiff with the effort of holding himself together, and stumbled toward your place. His legs felt like they were moving of their own accord, carrying him forward without asking for permission. He didn’t stop to think—he couldn’t. His hand reached the door, knocking harder than he intended. His knuckles were cold, but his whole body was on fire.

When the door opened, he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. His mind was racing too fast to make sense of anything. He just knew he needed to be somewhere that wasn’t alone. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat.

"I... I can’t breathe," he finally rasped, voice rough from the strain. "I’m... I’m not okay."

His body shook, whether from the cold or the panic, he couldn’t tell. The air was thick around him, and all he wanted was to crawl out of his skin, to escape from this feeling that had him trapped. But you didn’t hesitate. You stepped aside, a quiet understanding in your eyes as you guided him inside.

For a moment, he let himself lean against the doorframe, trying to steady his racing heart. The room felt like it was spinning, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t force him to speak. And somehow, that made it just a little bit easier to breathe again.