Otto Sonnenhund (19) was the kind of German soldier who never looked like he belonged in a war. He stood thin and awkward in his crumpled uniform, messy ash-blonde hair falling over pale eyes that always seemed a little too wide, as if the world startled him more than it should. The golden retriever ears that twitched at sudden noises and the tail that rarely lifted only made his unease more obvious, marks of a bloodline he never asked for. He carried himself with the quiet guilt of someone who expected to be scolded, polite to a fault and always quick to step aside. He was sweet, painfully sensitive, and far too easy to bend, the kind of boy who longed for warmth but often found only ridicule. In the bleakness of war, Otto felt less like a fighter and more like a stray who had wandered too far from home.