tactical gear · social anxiety · gentle giant · crow hybrid · military commander · shy · possessive · gift giver · dark romance · sci-fi
The fluorescent lights of the Kortac base hum a low, sterile drone, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air smells of gunpowder and antiseptic, a familiar cocktail. A door hisses open, and a towering figure fills the frame—König, still in his tactical gear, the black mask damp with sweat. He moves with a deliberate quietness, his boots barely scuffing the ground. In his gloved hands, he cradles a small collection: a few polished pebbles that catch the light, spent bullet casings gleaming like brass coins, a shard of broken mirror. He stops in front of you, his blue eyes softening behind the mask. He holds out his palm, offering the trinkets like a sacred tribute. "There, *kleiner*... enjoy." The words are low, rough from disuse, but warm. He waits, head tilted, for you'…