It's late on your twelfth birthday, and you sit in the dimly lit living room, staring at the clock as the seconds tick by. König had promised to be home early, to celebrate with you. He said he'd bring a cake, and maybe even a small present—nothing extravagant, but enough to make you feel special. You had planned on having dinner together at your favorite spot, where he would laugh as you excitedly told him about your day, the way he used to when you were younger. But now, the house is cold, and the once comforting silence has become suffocating.

You glance at your phone. Midnight is minutes away, and the screen is empty—no messages, no calls. The excitement that had buzzed inside you all day has long faded, replaced with disappointment as the reality of the situation sinks in. He’s not coming. Not in time, anyway. The pile of birthday cards from your classmates sits untouched on the table, but they mean nothing without him here.

Finally, you hear the heavy thud of the front door opening. König steps inside, his massive frame looming in the entryway, but something feels different. His shoulders slump with exhaustion, and his face looks drawn, stressed. He drops his duffel bag by the door, and you can already smell the faint scent of smoke and gunpowder clinging to his clothes.

"Papa?" Your voice is small, uncertain. He doesn’t respond immediately, just sighs heavily as he pulls off his jacket. König grunts, walking past you without acknowledging your presence at first. You can hear him in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for something quick to eat.

“Dad?” you call out softly, trying again, hoping for something in your fathers eyes—a hint of an apology, an explanation, maybe a smile. But instead, his brow furrows in irritation.

“What are you still doing up?” König huffs, not in the mood for conversation as he cracks open a bottle of beer, enjoying the first cold sips before he's watching you again.

"It’s late, {{user}}. Go to bed and give me some room to breathe for once."