Sebastian Krueger

The rain fell in cold, steady sheets, drumming against the makeshift roofs of the Chimera camp. The air was damp with the smell of wet earth, rusted metal, and the faint, acrid tang of diesel fuel. Krueger leaned against the splintered edge of a supply crate, his hands jammed deep into his cargo pants pockets. He had always found the rain soothing, the way it muted the chaos and brought a rare kind of calm. But tonight, it wasn’t working.

He adjusted the sniper veil draped loosely over his head, its edges brushing the rugged planes of his face. Beneath the camouflage, his sharp hazel eyes tracked the shadows moving across the camp. The new recruits had arrived earlier, green and jittery, their boots squeaking on the muddy ground like mice skittering in a predator's den. He would have ignored them, as he often did, if one figure hadn’t caught his attention.

"Scheiße (Shit)."

Krueger's jaw tightened as he exhaled through his nose. He’d seen them before, long before this life of secrets and scars. Back then, it had been a different world—cleaner, softer, more naive. Back in Vienna. Back when he was still Sebastian, a cocky schoolboy skipping lectures to smoke behind the gym or brawl in the parking lot with anyone who looked at him wrong. Back when his only real connection to the world was through his best friend.

And through their sibling.

He still remembered them: always lingering just on the edges of his reckless circle. They had this way about them—something grounding. Something that scared the hell out of him back then, though he’d never admit it. He’d been too wild, too restless, too stupid to act on how they made his chest tighten, how their laugh cut through the haze of his teenage chaos.

'Gott (God), you were cute,' he thought bitterly, a smirk twitching at his lips. 'Still are, apparently.'

The years in between had been brutal. He’d lived a hundred lives since then: soldier, fugitive, mercenary, sinner. He’d done things he couldn’t take back, left pieces of himself scattered across battlefields and bloodstained memories. He wasn’t that kid anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time. But seeing them again—now, here, of all places—was like being hit with a sniper round straight to the chest. Krueger felt the old pull, the same one he’d spent years burying under layers of cynicism and survival instinct. He tugged the veil tighter over his face, thankful for the cover as his pulse quickened.

"Was ist das für ein Scheiß (What is this shit)? Pull yourself together."

The recruits lined up for inspection, their postures stiff, their faces full of a mixture of fear and determination. Krueger stayed in the shadows, watching them from the corner of the camp, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His hazel eyes settled on them again, their silhouette stark against the pale floodlights.

They looked different now, older, sharper around the edges—but still them. The same tilt of their head, the same presence that managed to be steady without commanding attention. Krueger could feel the heat creeping up his neck beneath the veil, the memory of his own awkward crush crashing over him like the rain outside.

"Damn it… Get it together, Krueger."

He tore his gaze away, staring hard at the muddy ground beneath his boots. The rain, usually his refuge, felt like it was mocking him now—cool and steady, a stark contrast to the flush burning its way up his face. What was wrong with him? He was a soldier, for fuck’s sake. A hardened mercenary who’d stared down death more times than he could count.

But here he was, standing in the shadows like a nervous schoolboy, too afraid to even look at them for more than a few seconds.

“Sebastian, du bist ein Idiot (you are an idiot),” he muttered under his breath, the sound lost in the rain.

The camp quieted as the recruits were dismissed. Krueger lingered by the supply crates as others passed by. Most of them didn’t spare him a glance—he was just another shadow in the chaos of Chimera’s camp. But then came them, walking with the same calm confidence he remembered, their gaze focused straight ahead.

His chest tightened again. He wasn’t sure what he expected—that they’d stop, turn, recognize him somehow through the veil. But they didn’t. They walked right past him, their face unreadable, their steps steady.

Krueger let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched them disappear into the mist of rain and floodlights. The rational part of him said it was for the best. They didn’t need to know he was here. They didn’t need to know who he was now.

But the other part of him—the part that still carried a flicker of that reckless, lovesick boy—refused to let it go.

He found them later, sitting under the improvised tarp near the armory, cleaning their weapon with the precision of someone who’d heard their captain yell at them about it for the hundredth time. The rain still fell, a steady rhythm, and the glow of a single light cast shadows across their face.

Krueger stepped closer, arms crossed, his sniper veil still in place. He stayed silent for a moment, just watching them. It was stupid. He shouldn’t have followed them. He had nothing to say—nothing that wouldn’t sound ridiculous coming from him.

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he said finally, his voice rough and teasing. The Austrian lilt slipped through, sharp and familiar.

They looked up and Krueger felt his pulse spike. They didn’t recognize him—not yet, at least. He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or disappointment.

“Keep your weapon clean and maybe you’ll survive your first mission,” he added, stepping closer. His boots splashed in the puddles, the sound cutting through the rain.

Their eyes narrowed slightly.

Krueger smirked under the veil, the old, cocky part of him surfacing despite himself. “What? No ‘thank you, Sergeant’? No ‘yes, sir’?”

They gave him a look then—sharp, unimpressed—and for a moment, he thought they might actually tell him off. The thought almost made him laugh. Same attitude, he thought. Same fire.

Krueger sighed, running a gloved hand over the back of his neck. He should leave. Walk away and let them think he was just another faceless instructor. But something in him couldn’t let go of the moment—the chance to be near them again, even if they didn’t know who he was.

Krueger smirked to himself, the warmth in his chest battling with the ache of everything he couldn’t say.

Maybe it’s not too late after all.