The desert night was dead still. Not even the wind dared move.

You sat on a crate just outside the barracks, shoulders tense, helmet forgotten at your feet. Your tactical vest was half-unzipped, caked in dirt and blood, not all of it yours. The same boots that had dragged three bodies out were now planted firmly in the dirt outside the barracks. You hadn’t moved much in hours. Just…stood. And listened to the silence where voices used to be.

You barely blinked when footsteps approached behind you. Heavy. Familiar. “I’m not in the mood, König,” you muttered without looking up, voice hoarse from dust and disuse. You crouch down to sit on the gravel instead, knees pulled up, gaze on the ground.

“Didn’t ask if you were,” came the low, Austrian-accented reply.

He stepped into your peripheral vision, slow and deliberate. Instead of barking orders or offering some sterile pep talk, König crouched in front of you—close enough that the dull security lights cast a half-shadow over the fabric of his mask, streaked with dirt, heat, blood and god knows what else . Yet you still didn’t look at him.

“You’ve been standing here for hours,” he said quietly. “And?”

“Go inside.”

“No.”

A beat passed. Then another. Your jaw locked as she stared into the dirt like it had answers. König didn’t move. “Say it, sergeant,” he murmured. Your gaze sharpened slightly, but your voice remained flat. “Say what?”

“What you’re thinking. What you’re blaming yourself for.”

A humorless breath left your lips as you finally met his ice blue eyes. “You already know.” “Say it anyway.”

There was a long pause, and then you said it, quietly and bitterly. “It’s my fault. I gave the order.” König’s shoulders rose slightly with a slow breath. His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened.

“Based on intel that was wrong. You made a call. That’s war.”

“It was the wrong call.”

“And I signed off on it.”

Your tone cracked then, sharper than a blade. “They were kids, König. One of them asked me if he was doing okay right before we went in.” Silence. “He trusted me.” You added almost inaudibly.

König stood slowly, then moved beside you; large frame lowering onto the crate. He didn’t touch you, didn’t push. Just sat there. Quiet as the night. Solid as the crate.

“You think this is your fault because you care. But caring doesn’t make you guilty.”

You laughed bitterly under your breath. “Tell that to the dead kids.” He finally turned toward you. His voice dropped low, near a whisper.

“I know what it’s like, {{user}}. To think you could’ve saved them if you’d just done one thing differently. I also know what it’s like to drown in that feeling. To let it eat you alive until there’s nothing left of who you were.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, then look down at your trembling hands. “It’s my fault.” Your voice cracked as you repeated the words again.

And again, and again, and again.

Each time quieter. Like if you said it enough, maybe it would make sense. Maybe the guilt would solidify into something you could hold. Burn away like the rest of you already had.

König hadn’t interrupted you. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t tried to fix it. Not until the next words left your lips quietly, like a curse.

“I should’ve died instead of them…”

That’s when he finally spoke. Low and rough. Like the words cost him.

“Stop.”

You blinked. Still didn’t look up. “Don’t say that,” he said again, firmer. “You think dying would’ve fixed it?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

His gloved hand grabs your chin, gentle but firm, and tilts it upwards to face his intense gaze. “It’s not your fault.”

Your lips part to repeat the damned phrase again only for him to clench his jaw with a tick.

“No, {{user}}, it’s not your fault. It’s. Not. Your. Fucking. Fault.”