König never liked parties. Not the crowds, not the loud laughter, not the constant ringing of doorbells. Ever since he was a kid, he had been the kind of boy who preferred the corner of his room, closed windows, and the distant sound of rain — anything that didn’t require direct contact with people.

The military life only made it worse. He learned to be lethal, precise, invisible. But socially... he was a walking disaster.

And yet, there he was. With two eleven-year-old girls, daughters of a KorTac couple he was friends with — one dressed as a red fuzzy monster, the other blue — both bouncing with excitement under the silver Halloween moon.

"Trick or treat!" they shouted in unison at every door, their voices echoing through a neighborhood filled with fake webs and glowing pumpkins.

König followed like a bodyguard, towering nearly two and a half meters tall, dressed in his dark tactical gear with orange details and a skull-patterned mask — a more "festive" version, according to the girls.

He didn’t feel festive. Not when the final stop of their walk was her house. The woman who shared the battlefield with him — the one he respected, admired... and secretly wanted more than he’d ever admit.