The invitation had taken you by surprise. Not because someone asked you to the annual military gala—no, you were used to attention. You were used to being admired for your confidence, your resilience, and the way you carried yourself despite what many called a flaw. Being deaf had shaped your world, but it had never broken it.

What surprised you was who asked you.

König.

The infamous Colonel—broad-shouldered, towering in presence, and hidden behind a veil of mystery and his mask. You had seen him more times than spoken with him—naturally, not much verbal communication occurred between you. He didn’t often linger in your space, but when he did, there was something different in his gaze. Something aware.

Today, you found him waiting for you outside the training room, clutching a small book like it was a lifeline. His body shifted awkwardly, like a man unsure how to begin. But when he did, it wasn’t with words—it was with his hands.

His signs were clumsy, stiff. But the message was clear.

Gala. You. Come. Me?

Your brow furrowed. You pointed to yourself, then crossed your arms in an X.

I’m deaf.

You followed quickly, sharp motions punctuating your next sentence.

I don’t want pity.

König’s eyes darted after your hands, trying to keep up. Then he paused. A soft breath escaped him, and with a faint, sheepish chuckle he shook his head and raised his hands.

“Ah… bitte. You’re too fast.”

He didn’t look away, didn’t stammer out an apology or retreat like others might. Instead, König opened the small book he had been holding. A beginner’s guide to sign language—worn, dog-eared, notes scribbled in the margins. He flipped carefully through the pages, searching, then slowly signed again.

Not pity. Want… you.