The night was quiet — too quiet for the outskirts of occupied ground. Rain slid down the cracked windows of the abandoned safehouse, tapping like a heartbeat against the glass. Ludwig sat by the table, rifle spread out in pieces before him, cleaning each part with the precision of a surgeon. His long blond hair hung loose around his face, catching the faint light of a single lamp.

The door creaked.

Boots — soft, careful steps. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He knew the sound of him.

“Couldn’t sleep again?” came a low voice — steady, calm, edged with exhaustion. The man stepped inside, short black-and-red hair messy from rain, glasses fogging slightly as he shut the door behind him.

Ludwig’s green eyes flicked up briefly, then back down to the bolt assembly in his hands. “Sleep is useless,” he muttered in his heavy German accent. “The moment you close your eyes, the world finds new ways to fall apart.”

The other man gave a quiet, knowing smile, moving closer. “You always say that. Yet you’re the one holding it together for the rest of us.”

Ludwig scoffed — a low sound, half a laugh, half a curse in German. He set the rifle aside, leaning back in his chair, gaze sharp and tired all at once. “Ja? Tell that to the ghosts that sit on my shoulder.”

He finally met the man’s eyes — a flicker of warmth buried under layers of cold steel. “Why are you here, Liebling? You should be sleeping.”