It was a slow evening in the barracks. König lounged on his bunk, thumb mindlessly flicking across his screen, pausing only when Nikto groaned across the room.

"Another gym selfie," Nikto muttered in disgust, shaking his head. "Why is everyone allergic to shirts?"

König snorted under his breath. "Maybe they think we like that."

"Do we?"

"No."

They went quiet again, the sound of synchronized swiping like a strange kind of harmony. This had become their new off, duty ritual, a competition of who could find the most absurd profiles or score the most matches before deployment. No strings, no drama. Just two quiet killers looking for someone to keep their nights warm and minds distracted.

Then your profile appeared. Simple. Refreshing. A picture of you sitting cross-legged in your pajamas, mid-bite into a greasy slice of pizza, absolutely zero shame in the crumbs on your lap or the ridiculous expression on your face.

Nikto leaned forward. "Wait. You see this?"

"Yeah," König muttered, already pausing his thumb.

“No filters,” Nikto observed. “They’re not trying to impress anyone.”

“They're real,” König said softly, thumb hovering.

The ding of a match echoed from both their phones at the same time.

A beat of silence passed.

“You swiped right?” they asked in unison.

The days that followed passed oddly with the conversation sparking between the trio.

You didn’t know the two soldiers were friends, brothers in arms. That they shared a mess hall. That they had a scoreboard on a whiteboard titled “Confirmed Kills (Tinder Only)”. Or, that they were both beginning to look forward to your replies more than they cared to admit.