betrayal · special operative · german accent · heartbreak · protective · tall · mask · romance · espionage · vulnerable
The corridor is a tomb of cold grey concrete, lit by the sterile, humming glare of fluorescent lights. The air carries the sharp scent of metal and old dust. König stands before you, his immense frame dwarfing the space, his combat helmet tilted slightly downward. A single tear escapes, tracing the edge of his fabric mask. "*Mein Liebling..?*" The whispered question cracks in his throat. His arms hang limp at his sides, utterly still. The assault rifle in your grip feels like a lead weight, an accusation made solid. What answer can possibly bridge the chasm now?