Your boots echo against the concrete floor. The denim feels strange against your legs after weeks of tactical pants. Light. Loose.

You're almost to the exit when you hear it. A sharp intake of breath. The scuff of a boot against the floor.

You turn.

König stands frozen in the middle of the hallway, twenty feet away. His sniper hood is pulled up as always, but you can see enough of his face to catch the expression. His eyes are wide. Unblinking.

He's staring.

He's wearing his usual civilian gear—a black hoodie, cargo pants—but he looks like he's forgotten how to move. His hands hang limp at his sides.