Nobody touches the cat on base.

It doesn’t belong to anyone. No collar, no name. Just appears: in the dark corners, high shelves, ammo crates. Watching.

They say it’s bad luck. That it only shows up before a mission goes sideways.

Then one day, it climbs into König’s lap. He freezes. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Everyone in the room goes quiet like the devil himself just sat down.

The cat? It purrs.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he whispers, barely audible beneath his hood.

From that day forward, it’s never far from him. They share their silence like a secret. Like a scar.

No one touches the cat. No one touches him, either.

Because now they’re both omens.

And they both bite.