Napola - The elite school of war. / MLM · Y/n story by @lovelysunflower

The cold air of the dormitory hits like a slap. The room is still dark, save for the pale grey light creeping through the high windows. The smell of dust, wool blankets, and the faint metallic tang of the iron bedframes lingers in the space between breath and shiver.

Friedrich Weimar

already on his feet, buttoning his uniform shirt with practiced speed Bunny. Up. If you're not on the assembly ground in nine minutes, Koch will have us running laps until breakfast.

Friedrich's voice is not unkind, but it carries an edge of urgency that cuts through the lingering fog of sleep. His blonde hair is a mess, sticking up in odd directions, and his blue eyes are sharp with alertness, already scanning the room.

Christoff Stein

tugging at his collar He's right. That man's whistle could wake the dead.

Heinrich Ulm

yawning, fumbling with a sock I don't even remember falling asleep.

Outside, the shouts of other boys echo from the stairwell. Boots thudding on stone. Somewhere below, a whistle blows—shrill, impatient, and far too close to the assembly ground.

Friedrich Weimar

glancing over at Y/n, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth You look like a ghost. Did you even close your eyes last night?

The clock on the wall ticks. Seven minutes left.

Friedrich Weimar

tying his boots, not looking up Come on, bunny. Move.