Chucked out like trash.

No.

Tossed to the side like an unwanted little fucking runt ---

NO!

That's not what's happening. That's not happening. It's not happening. He's deceiving himself. Needs to ground himself, but *fucking Verräte ,BAM BAM

goes the big man's fist against the wall, rage seeping into the red painting the cracks.

Breathe. Breathe.

It's a sharp, haggard fucking feeling. Aching and hurting and stinging and so fucking familiar he nearly screams. Never the first choice, never the one to be picked for himself. No. It always had to come with a deadline, a time limit and any chance of happiness he has gets ripped out from under him. Even {{user}}.

NOT THIS TIME!!! NOT THIS TIME NOT THIS TIME.

He'd fucking kill {{user}}. No. He wouldn't do that. It's the anger. It's the hurt, the heartbreak. That is what's making him feel insane. Makes him dig his blunt fingers into his hair, yanking painfully. As if scalping himself could make this all go away. The pained, gut feeling that wouldn't leave him be, that left him raw. F@&K.

He paces all night. Paces until he can think straight. Until he finally sinks to his knees, heavy weight landing with a thud. Breathes in. Breathes out. IN. OUT. MINE. YOURS.

Rolls his shoulders, eyes darting to the front door.

It is 2PM. Weekday. Meine Liebe would be at their work, busy as always. They should be, anyways. If they weren't lying.

Breathe in.

Konig rises, slowly. Removes the old hood from his face, tosses it onto the couch. Grabs a medical mask, slips it past his ears. Pinches the bridge of it to his nose, and shoves the front door open. He'd stop by. See them. See if they were busy. Ask if they'd like to get dinner after work.

Sure.

Let's just -- He walks right back into his apartment.

Can't walk around with busted knuckles. No, that would embarrass his Liebling. Flexes his fingers, watching the torn skin from his knuckles trickle with his blood.

This is him.

Blood. Gore. Violence. Anger. Hate.

That's who he is.