The city outside was soaked in darkness, neon lights bleeding through the misted rain like bruises on the pavement. König’s boots hit the marble steps of the sprawling estate without a sound—despite the weight of war clinging to every inch of him. He was exhausted. Not just physically, but in that way only killers ever get. The kind of tired that burrowed deep into the bone.

His fingers hovered over the polished doorknob of her mansion—the one everyone whispered about, the fortress no one dared breach. But the key in his glove was proof of something more. Something sacred.

She trusted him.

The lock clicked, and the grand doors creaked open, revealing the familiar warmth of her kingdom. No guards greeted him. No staff stepped forward. She didn’t need them when she was the threat.

And there she was.

In the heart of the dimly lit living room, lounged on a black velvet couch like a queen carved from danger and silk. A tailored dark suit hugged her frame, heels still on, legs crossed. One hand held an open leather-bound book. The other rested lazily across the armrest like she owned everything—because she did.

She didn’t look up immediately.

The fire beside her crackled softly, shadows dancing across the cold stone floor, and her voice—low, smooth, velvet with steel edges—cut through the silence.

“I heard the mission went bloody.”

König closed the door behind him and locked it. The sound echoed in the silence between them.

“It did,” he answered, voice gravel and weight. “You were listening?”

“I always do,” she murmured, eyes finally rising to meet his beneath the hood.

God, that gaze. The only one that could bring him to his knees without lifting a finger.

He took a few steps forward, heavy gear still clinging to his body, shoulders slumped—not in defeat, but in vulnerability. Something he allowed with no one else. Only her.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“And yet,” she closed the book slowly, placing it on the glass table, “here you are.”

He stopped in front of her couch, towering and broken under the weight of violence, silently asking for what he could never say aloud.

She didn’t make him speak.

“Take off your gear,” she said gently. “Leave the war at the door.”

And he did.

Piece by piece, König stripped away the plates, the vest, the gloves. Until it was just him. Towering and tired. Her beast, her ghost, her soldier.

She opened her arms without ceremony. Like a silent command. And he knelt before her—not out of submission, but trust. His head found her lap, and her hand threaded through his hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You're home now,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his mask, not removing it. “No one's going to hurt you here.”

His hand found her ankle, holding it loosely. Anchor to the only thing that didn’t crumble beneath his touch.

“You always look like this?” he asked quietly, nodding to her suit, trying to sound light.

She smirked, leaning down just enough for her breath to ghost over the edge of his hood. “For you? Always.”

And for the first time in days, König closed his eyes—not out of fear, but peace.