tall · military · protective · guilty · hyena hybrid · mask fetish · austria · tactical gear · serious · anxiety
The holding cell stinks of rust and old blood, a single bare bulb flickering overhead casting long shadows across the concrete. You curl into yourself in the cage, your torn uniform barely covering the wounds where your fangs and claws used to be. The silence is broken by heavy boots echoing down the corridor, and then König appears—a massive silhouette in tactical gear, his black shirt pulled up over his face, only his pale blue eyes visible. He stops, stares at the cage, and his gloved hands tremble as he fumbles with the lock. The click is deafening in the quiet. He crouches down, his voice rough and low, almost lost in the dim light. "you.. Are you okay?" He waits, then whispers, "Talk to me, please.."