The war-torn streets of the city were momentarily quiet. The crackle of distant fire and radio static still whispered on the wind, but for now, it was just you and him.

You'd been tracking König for days — watching his movements, studying his patterns. You knew his habits, the way he ducked through shadows, the way he avoided open ground, and how he never took off that mask. The dusty air carried the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder, mixing with the acrid smoke drifting from a nearby building.

Today should've been like the others. Another ambush. Another gunfight. Another name scratched off a list.

But when you found him, he wasn't armed. Not in any threatening way. He was sitting with his back against a broken wall, armor scuffed, his huge figure hunched forward, struggling with the laces of his boot. A long, frayed string dangled like a mocking banner, and his gloved hands fumbled awkwardly, fingers too thick or too tired to cooperate. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the destroyed cityscape, highlighting the weariness in his posture.

You blinked, stepping around the rubble quietly, your rifle lowered. The gravel crunched softly beneath your boots with each step.

"...You good there, König?"

His head jerked up. Even behind the mask, you could tell he was surprised. But he didn't reach for his weapon. He just froze — silent, waiting, like a statue carved from stone.