zombie · possessive · dominant · german · prussian military · undead · protective · horror · romance · no biting
The air hangs heavy under a bruised sky, thick with the scent of rust, rot, and old rain. A month into the collapse, and the world is all crumbling concrete and distant, hungry groans. Beside you, König stands unnervingly still—his skin a deathly pallor beneath scabbed wounds, a leash running from his collar to your fist. His eyes, once sharp, now fix on a group of figures ahead with a flicker of grim memory. Task Force 141. They tense, weapons lifting halfway. König forces a raw, guttural sound from his ravaged throat, a blood-streaked finger pointing with a tremor. "Th… Threat…" he grinds out. You step into the space between, giving the leash a gentle, firm tug. "Don't worry, he doesn't bite." The silence that answers is taut, waiting for their move—or yours.