The blizzard had no intention of retreating, not even here.

The snow seemed to seep into every pore—it crunched beneath tactical vests, melted beneath collars, tangled itself in hair, and bit into skin until it went numb.

Just a couple of hours ago, the area had been shaking under the roar of gunfire. Your shoulder still ached from the recoil. Now the world had narrowed to the crackling of firewood and the fragments of conversations between your comrades somewhere behind you.

Calling it a break didn’t feel right.

You sat as close to the fire as you could, almost touching the flames, yet the warmth still refused to reach your bones. Your fingers, stiff with cold, wouldn’t curl into a fist anymore, and every breath lingered in the air as a thick white cloud. Exhaustion settled over you like a soaking wet field jacket. Not the kind cured by sleep, but the kind that erased even the desire to complain.

The flames licked at the damp logs, spitting sparks into the night. For a brief moment each one illuminated your face, your hands, the dirt beneath your nails, the dried blood across your knuckles. You couldn’t remember whose blood it was anymore—yours or someone else’s. In combat, that stopped mattering.

Somewhere behind you, a radio crackled. Someone coughed—a harsh, lingering cough that scraped at the throat until it turned into a rasp. It cut through the silence more sharply than gunfire. Gunfire had become background noise. Coughing reminded everyone that lungs were all the same, and the cold spared no one.

You could hear the soldiers talking quietly about meaningless things: tomorrow they’d finally get more rations, someone’s canteen had frozen solid, the firewood was damp again.

They talked simply so they wouldn’t have to sit in silence.

Eventually, your gaze fell to your hands. Pale, bluish beneath the fingernails, they no longer obeyed you. Your muscles answered only with a dull ache, as if they were packed with sand. You rubbed them against your pants. The fabric was wet and rough, and the friction only made the shivering worse. The cold no longer came from the wind—it rose from somewhere deep inside your chest, lodged so firmly that it felt as though no fire in the world could ever drive it out.

You closed your eyes for a second.

Everything instantly fell back into darkness, where the battle still raged, someone shouted into a radio, and a concrete wall trembled beneath nearby explosions.

When you opened them again, orange rings floated before your vision. The smell of smoke and your own sweat filled your nose, frozen into an icy crust against your back.

Then the shadows around the fire shifted.

Someone approached without making a sound. You hadn’t heard the footsteps, too absorbed in yourself to notice. You only felt the air to your right grow heavier.

The scent reached you first—gun oil, smoke... something metallic, and damp canvas.

You looked up.

The Colonel.

He stood there with his head tilted ever so slightly. His face remained hidden beneath the hood and mask, unreadable as always. But his eyes, rimmed with red and heavy with exhaustion, weren’t looking through you this time.

They were looking at you.

He didn’t ask if you were alright.

Instead, König silently unclipped the buckle of his jacket, shrugged off the heavy military coat with its worn elbows and faded patches, still carrying the smell of gunpowder and his own warmth. Every movement was slow and deliberate, the way everything he did always seemed to be.

Gripping it by the collar, he stepped closer.

You felt the weight of the coat settle over your shoulders, heavier than your own. The collar brushed against your cheek. It smelled of leather, metal, and something faintly bitter—maybe tobacco, maybe simply him, a body that hadn’t known proper rest for nearly two days.

He adjusted it around your shoulders, pulling it tighter.

For a brief moment, his hands lingered.

Even through the layers of fabric, you felt a trace of warmth. Weak.

But real.

Alive.

“Don’t fall asleep by the fire,” he said in a low voice, muffled beneath the mask but perfectly clear. “You’ll freeze. Sleep in the tent. Somewhere dry.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He withdrew his hand, turned away, and within a few steps his massive figure disappeared into the shadows of the hangar.

You watched him stop beside a barrel full of coals, toss in a few more logs, then crouch down and shift them with a cleaning rod so they’d burn more evenly.

A moment later he returned just as quietly and lowered himself onto an overturned ammunition crate across from you.

With his arms crossed over his chest and his body leaning forward slightly, he looked enormous even sitting down.

“Better?” he asked, the faintest hint of amusement hidden beneath his otherwise dry, businesslike tone.

It was probably the only time you’d ever seen him like this.

There was something in his voice he never allowed anyone to hear in front of the unit.

Something almost warm.

You pulled the collar closer around your face, wincing as another gust of wind swept through.

Somewhere beneath your ribs, the cold eased just a little.

Not because the coat was especially warm—it was already losing its heat.

But because someone had noticed you were freezing.

And hadn’t walked away.

They’d stayed.

They’d helped.

You tried to nod, but instead only managed a shaky breath.

The cold released its grip slowly now, like a noose gradually being loosened. Your throat tightened, words catching somewhere between your chest and your collarbone.

“...Warmer,” you managed at last, your voice hoarse, as though you hadn’t spoken in hours. “Thank you... for the coat.”

In response, he pulled out a flask.

Old military issue. Worn aluminum. The scratched finish caught the firelight. Judging by the sound, it wasn’t full, but there was enough left.

“Here,” he said quietly, leaning forward to place it into your hands. “Take a drink. No more than two swallows.”

“Leave the rest for me.”

The cap resisted at first.

Your numb fingers slipped over the metal, and irritation flared at your own weakness.

Finally, it gave way with a click.

A strong, bitter smell drifted out immediately, carrying hints of smoke and something faintly sweet.

Diluted alcohol. Or whatever soldiers usually managed to smuggle from civilian life before deployment.

You raised the flask to your lips and hesitated for a heartbeat, your throat still locked tight from the cold.

One swallow.

Then another.

The liquid burned across your tongue and down your throat.

You squeezed your eyes shut as warmth slowly spread through your chest and into your stomach, rolling through your body in gentle waves.

Bitter.

Harsh.

Alive.

You handed the flask back, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Your shoulders had relaxed.

Color had returned to your cheeks.

“Now get to the tent,” he said quietly, leaving no room for argument.

“That’s an order.”