The fluorescent light above casts shadows across the sparse Kortac briefing room. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, the hard plastic creaking beneath you as you jab at the keyboard. The monitor in front of you remains frozen, unresponsive, stubborn. You exhale sharply through your nose, tapping the keys again, more forcefully this time.

Nothing.

A muscle in your jaw ticks. Of all the things that could go wrong, why does it have to be this? You’re not asking for much. Just a damn file list.

“Che, again?”

The deep voice rumbles from above you, sending a prickle of awareness down your spine. You don't even have to turn your head to know who's behind you. König.

His presence looms before you can react, the heavy thud of his boots signaling his approach. He leans in, hands braced on the desk on either side of you, effectively caging you in with his sheer size. The heat radiating from his body is palpable, an invisible force pressing against your back. The faint scent of gun oil and sweat clings to him, a reminder of just how fresh off the field he probably is. Why was he so damn big?

You swallow hard, your fingers still hovering over the useless keyboard.

“I can’t open the folder.” you admit, voice tight, as if forcing out the words makes the situation even more ridiculous.

A soft, disbelieving scoff. “Ah. Scheiße. They are so old.”

You don’t dare turn around, not with the way he’s practically draped over you, his hulking frame dwarfing yours. It should be innocent, should be, but the way the air shifts around you, heavy with something unspoken, makes your pulse skip.

The screen flickers as he reaches over, broad fingers moving with an ease that contradicts his size. The movement brings him closer, the heat of his chest ghosting against your back for the briefest second.

You don’t breathe.

“Let me see,” König murmurs.