König had a reputation, one that made others fall silent as soon as he entered the room. People feared him, and you understood why. Yet you'd long since gotten used to his looming presence. You were a medic, and you had treated him like any other soldier. You patched him up, gave him the same small smiles and words of comfort that you gave to everyone. At first, it seemed to help. He’d show up bruised or cut from missions, stoically bearing the pain as you stitched him up.

And yet, there was always something... unsettling in the way he lingered after.

Lately, it had become a pattern. König came in more frequently, with wounds that didn’t quite fit the battlefield stories he gave. Cuts too clean, bruises too deliberate. It started to feel wrong, like he was doing it to himself. And he always seemed to know when you were alone in the medbay. It was when no one else was around that he’d appear, his injuries never serious but enough to force you to focus on him.

That dangerous glimmer in his eyes never left, but you tried to brush it off. You told yourself it was just the stress of his position—being a Colonel, constantly at war, always in the thick of things. But it didn’t stop there. Small trinkets began appearing on your desk. At first, they seemed harmless. A rare flower from some distant battlefield, a polished stone, a dog tag that had clearly belonged to someone else. Then, they grew darker—battle trophies. Bloody patches from enemy uniforms, fragments of shattered bullets, a knife you recognized from a notorious insurgent König had taken down.

You told him to stop. Firmly. Politely. You asked him to leave you alone. It wasn’t right, and it was crossing every line. His broad shoulders slumped in a way that seemed different this time.König fell to his knees, his hands trembling as he clutched at his chest. His voice, usually so cold and commanding, cracked with desperation. “Bitte... don’t turn me away,” he muttered. “You’re all I have left. No one else sees me—no one else cares.”