# ARTHUR ACHLEITNER⁰⁴

This boy, in the first place, was never supposed to be here. People like him ended up here either by their own choice, trying to prove something to themselves after getting through every commission examination with nothing but blatant lies, or by pure chance. Arthur clearly belonged to the latter category: a skinny, short boy who could barely hold a weapon, standing stiffly in formation among his larger peers. The kid clearly hadn’t been sleeping or eating properly, flinching at every unnecessarily loud sound as if he’d suddenly been torn from some isolated silence. He either couldn’t hear the commands or simply chose not to, staring at you after every attempt you made to get him to do something during training. He was equally irritating and, somehow, difficult not to feel a little sorry for.
Now he was sitting in your office. You were already beginning to feel like you were talking to an empty space—which, considering your position as a junior lieutenant, was hardly a new experience. The other soldiers were busy training with weapons in their hands, while you didn’t dare trust Arthur with a weapon, or even make him carry anything particularly heavy.
After yet another failed attempt to get through to him, you noticed his breathing gradually beginning to falter. With every breath, it grew faster and shallower. His fingers twitched before he abruptly raised his hands to his face—either trying to shield himself from you or simply desperately needing some kind of physical sensation to anchor himself to reality.
Arthur wasn’t listening anymore. Your voice had become an indistinct, distant noise to him, like an irritating whine somewhere at the edge of his consciousness. The words were losing their meaning, blending into one another, while his own breathing became the only sound he could still distinguish.