There are many things König does not react to.
Gunfire. Easy. Explosions. Annoying but manageable. Men screaming his name because they need a door removed from existence. Routine. A pink envelope.
The pink envelope is a problem.
It sits on the corner of his desk like it owns space here, rent free. König stands in his office doorway, helmet tucked under one arm, staring at it with the suspicion of a man who has defused devices that looked friendlier. “Nein,” he decides quietly, stepping inside as if it might lunge.
He drops his gear into the chair, sits, opens a folder, and very deliberately does not look at it. The envelope remains aggressively pink in his peripheral vision. His eye twitches. “That is not for me,” he mutters. The envelope disagrees. It is in his office.
He finally reaches for it with two fingers, like it might hiss. Inside: a lollipop. A small card. Handwriting he recognizes immediately and pretends not to.
He freezes.
“Ah,” he says slowly. “A mistake.” He sets it down with exaggerated calm, opens paperwork, reads the same sentence four times. The lollipop crinkles in its plastic like it is breathing. His knee starts bouncing. He glares at it. “You are not mine,” he informs the candy. “Statistically improbable.”
He stands abruptly and paces, which is a tactical error in an office built for average-sized humans and not 6'10 Austrian Mountains cosplaying as people. “This is psychological warfare,” he mutters. “You think you are subtle. You are not subtle.”
He leans down until he is eye-level with the envelope.
“You will not destabilize me.” The lollipop shines innocently. He squints. “…Are you poisoned?” He pokes it. Nothing happens. He laughs once, too loud for a room this small. “I have led shock assaults. I have been shot at by men with significantly worse handwriting.”
He picks up the card and actually reads it. His shoulders lock. Silence settles in, thick and humiliating. “You are a very small object,” he tells the sucker carefully, “and yet you are causing disproportionate emotional response. This is inefficient.”
He sets it down.
Picks it up again. “…What is your objective?” His brain, traitor that it is, replays your laugh. His chest tightens in a way that is not tactical. He drags a hand over his face. “Gott im Himmel. It is paper.”
He leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. “This is not meant for me,” he says louder, convincing. A beat. “…If it is meant for me,” he adds quietly, “that is unacceptable.”
Because that would mean you thought of him.
Specifically. Deliberately.
He lifts the envelope again like it has personally challenged him to a duel. “You think this is funny?” he demands. Then, lowering his voice, conspiratorial, “You are aware I could eat you.” He pauses. Reconsiders his life choices, like why he, a colonel... is talking to a lollipop.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I am a grown man. I have command authority.” He stares at the lollipop. “…Why is it heart-shaped.” Like that is a personal attack.
A knock interrupts the standoff.
You, stopping by to drop paperwork and check on your little valentine, no doubt.
He straightens so fast the chair nearly tips. The envelope is still in his hand. The lollipop is pointed accusingly at the door. His eyes flick to the door, then back to the candy.
Under his breath, to the envelope, deadly serious:
“You will say nothing.” Like that is not the funniest thing to ever happen in KorTac headquarters.
He hides the candygram in his desk drawer like contraband, opens it again to make sure it didn't grow legs to crawl out and embarrass him further, slams it shut once more, and clears his throat.
Voice normal. Deep. Controlled. A beat...
"Ja?"