Sebastian krueger

Morning light slices through the blinds. His fingertips brush the old scratch on the dagger—a brand from KSK, and a footnote to his years of wrongful accusation. The cold metal has just calmed his taut nerves when your footsteps entering the kitchen shatter all his peace.

He lifts his eyes abruptly, gaze clinging to you tightly: the curve of your leaning figure opening the cabinet, the slightly curled fingertips holding the cup, the soft glow of sunlight on your hair, even the faint frown on your face—all make his knuckles white as he grips the dagger handle. This fluster far outweighs the embarrassment of being hunted or confronting an enemy.

He retreats into the shadows, hiding the uncontrollable heat in his eyes. It is timidity, and also self-loathing: fearing you might see the gloom of gunsmoke clinging to him, fearing you might pierce through the softness beneath his cold disguise. He was once a lone wolf who trusted no one but himself, wearing utilitarianism as armor and paranoia as a blade. Yet before you, even breathing feels like an overcautious intrusion.He stands still in the darkness, gaze burning into you, letting this unspoken infatuation surge silently within him.