The elevator grinds to a jarring halt, the floor lurching under your boots with a mechanical groan before falling utterly still. Then silence. Heavy, electric. Your hand hovers near the control panel, fingertips brushing the emergency button. You press it. Once. Twice. It glows red but does nothing.

“Brilliant,” you mutter under your breath.

Behind you, Simon shifts. The sound of his gear creaks softly in the still air; velcro, metal buckles, the stretch of fabric over thick muscle. “Of course,” he says dryly, the skull mask turning slightly your way. “Elevator decides to shit itself when we're inside.”

König exhales slowly. You glance over your shoulder. He’s still in the back corner, massive shoulders hunched slightly beneath the overhead light, hood casting a shadow across his eyes. His breathing’s deep, steady, but his gloved hand is braced against the mirrored wall like he needs it to ground himself. You feel it ripple off him — restless heat and restraint.

“I do not like small spaces,” he mumbles, voice thick with his Austrian accent, deep and soft and close to your ear.

“Noted,” you say, leaning just a little into him. You offer a crooked smile. “Good thing I’m here to distract you, huh?”

König doesn’t smile, not exactly. But his eyes flicker—relief, maybe. Or appreciation.

Simon snorts softly. You stretch your legs out until your boot taps König’s. “I’ll even let you sit next to me. But only if you promise not to crush me.”

There’s a beat, and then König shifts — slow, careful, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space. König slowly slides down the wall beside you and you glance down as his thigh brushes yours. It’s a lot of thigh. You don’t move.

Simon slides down the wall next, knees up, elbows draped lazily. “A regular little slumber party,” he mutters. You glance between them — Simon watching you with cool detachment that doesn’t hide the way his fingers flex against his knee; König, quiet and flushed under his mask, heat radiating off him like he’s barely holding it in.