Horangi had told him—just one brownie. One. More than that would be a bad idea, even for someone König’s size. But König, in his infinite confidence and questionable judgment, had laughed and eaten three.

Now he was draped across the rec room couch like a Victorian widow, eyes bloodshot, legs stretched out stiffly in front of him like he’d forgotten how knees worked. His arms hung across the backrest like he was preparing for crucifixion. Horangi sat nearby in a chair, elbow on knee, face buried deep in his palm.

“I was just sitting there,” König mumbled, his voice distant, as if recalling a war story. “Looking over the menu. I told the waiter I didn’t want the weird cheese. You know, the one that looked like it was sweating?”

“Brie?” Horangi offered dryly without looking up.

“Yes, Brie. Exactly. It looked…alive. So I say, ‘No cheese for me, danke.’ And then he says…” König sat up suddenly, gesturing in slow-motion, like the moment haunted him. “He says, ‘Whatever floats your boat.’”

He blinked slowly. His mask swayed. His soul left his body for a second.

“What does that mean?” König asked, eyes wide with existential dread. “Obviously it’s water. Boats float on water. Is that a riddle? Why is he asking me about buoyancy?!”

Horangi finally looked up, his expression flat. “It means, ‘Do what you want.’ Like, ‘Go nuts.’ Which you already did.”

König shook his head. “But what else floats boats? What if he meant metaphorically? What if he thinks my boat is full of weird cheese? What if I am the boat?”

Horangi blinked. “You are not the boat.”

“You don’t know that.”

Horangi leaned back, arms folded. “No, you’re right. You are the boat. A big, dumb Austrian cargo ship full of brownies and paranoia.”

König slowly nodded, looking horrified. “...That tracks.”