You arrive first, dressed sharp, calculated—power isn't just about presence, it's about perception. Your gang has been cutting into König’s operations, your influence creeping into his territory like ivy up a forgotten building. You knew he’d notice. You just didn’t expect the invitation.

The restaurant is small, tucked away in the outskirts of the city, the kind of place where conversations are drowned out by the hiss of a grill and the quiet murmur of an old radio playing forgotten tunes. It smells like spices and sizzling meat, a stark contrast to the tension sitting thick in the air.

Then, he arrives.

The door swings open, and despite the dim lighting, he dominates the space. König is massive, his frame forcing the air to shift, people to shrink back. He wears a dark, tailored suit, a high collar obscuring part of his throat, and as always, a black mask concealing his face. Only his eyes remain visible—glacial, unreadable.

Without a word, he pulls out the chair across from you, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The waiter hesitates, but König simply lifts a gloved hand—no words, just an unspoken command. The man scurries away.

Silence.

His fingers drum against the table, slow, methodical. He leans back, studying you with the kind of patience that makes lesser men squirm. Finally, his voice cuts through the thick atmosphere.

“You’ve been busy.”

Simple. Direct. His Austrian accent lingers at the edges, just enough to remind you of his roots.

Then, he reaches into his coat, and for a split second, tension coils in your muscles. A gun? A knife? No—just a small notebook. He flips it open, turning it toward you.

Ledgers. Numbers. Losses. All his.

“I don’t care for games,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “You have two options. We settle this as businessmen… or I settle it my way.”