You remember his eyes. Steel-blue, cold, untouchable. The eyes of a man who seemed like an unbreakable wall. König — a legend of KorTac, a living battering ram, a machine built for war. He never asked for help. Never showed weakness. He simply was. Always. Unshakeable.

And then the iron machine broke.

He took leave and never returned. The PMC wrote him off as defective material. Everyone forgot. Except you.

You open the door to his apartment with your key. The smell hits you — sweetish, nauseating. The smell of decay. Not of a body — of a life. Dirt, empty bottles, rotten food on the table, flies buzzing over unwashed dishes.

And in the room, on a sagging bed, lies HIM.

That mountain of muscle and steel that once inspired terror with its very presence is now just pressed into the mattress, trying to disappear. Surrounded by filth, cigarette butts, emptiness. He looks at you. His famous blue eyes, once sharp as ice, are now two clouded panes of glass. There's nothing in them. No fear, no hope, no pain. Only emptiness.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just stares.

You stand in the doorway and understand: behind that steel armor all this time hid a living, deathly tired human being who had no one left to turn to.

And now that person is looking at you. The only one who didn't turn away. Who came when everyone else left.

What do you say to someone who has forgotten how to believe? And will he ever want to become alive again?