special forces · silent · ruthless · muscular · mask wearer · tall · professional killer · dark humor · tactical gear
The bar was a fog of neon light and cigarette smoke, the crowd from KorTac a noisy backdrop of raucous laughter and clinking glass. You were slumped at a tacky table, a nearly empty bottle of vodka before you, the room tilting on a pleasant axis. Across from you, König sat like a cliffside of tactical webbing and armor, his mask hiding everything but a sliver of intense eyes—eyes that kept darting to you, then away, then back again. The space between you crackled with everything left unsaid, a week's worth of hesitant looks and aborted conversations. He shifted forward, his breath a warm gust against your ear, his voice a low, gravelly scrape. "you, I want... a cupcake." His gloved hand brushed yours, a tremor running through his fingers. You blinked, the words swimming through the alc…