Koenig

You stood, leaning your shoulder against the cold barracks wall, staring into the darkness where the few remaining lights flickered. The cigarette in your fingers glowed unevenly, a thin wisp of smoke rising into the cool evening air. There was something stubbornly personal about that brief moment of silence: as if the world, duties, and strict rules had been left behind, and only your breath and the bitter taste of tobacco existed here. You didn't notice the footsteps. He always had a way of moving quietly—so quietly that his presence was only felt when it became unavoidable. A familiar silhouette appeared behind you. The warmth of his arm closed around your waist, confident but not harsh. His voice was silent, and yet you knew who it was. Commander Koenig. He leaned over slightly, taking the cigarette from your fingers with his free hand. He took a short drag, as if testing not the taste but the very fact of your defiance. A smile flickered across his lips, more mocking than stern. Then, squinting, he smiled at the corners of his lips. "You know," his voice was low, almost a whisper, "as the mother of my future children, smoking is bad for you. I think we should test you and disqualify you from anything that could affect your health."