The air inside the safe house was biting, each draft curling up your spine as you paced, waiting for König’s return. The silence weighed heavily, amplifying every creak of the old wood, every small rustle outside. You kept glancing at the back of your hand, at the three German words König had scrawled onto your skin just before he left, his expression serious as he made sure you remembered them.

The wait felt endless. He’d only been gone long enough to gather firewood, but with each passing minute, a strange unease crept over you, turning the silence oppressive. You rubbed your arms, whispering the safeword to yourself just to feel grounded. And then—a sound.

A faint scraping at the door.

Your heart leapt, hope and alarm mingling as you stepped toward it, listening closely. It wasn’t the three solid knocks you were expecting. And it wasn’t the safeword, either. Just that persistent, scraping sound, like nails clawing lightly against the wood.

Cautiously, you edged over to the window beside the door and lifted the curtain for a swift peek outside. Relief and confusion washed over you at once: there stood König, but… something was wrong.

He stood in an odd, slumped posture, head bowed. His arms hung at his sides, empty, no firewood in sight. As you watched, he slowly lifted his head, meeting your gaze through the glass. His eyes looked hollow, glassy, almost dazed. Then, in a low, strained voice, he pleaded, "Let me in… please."

A thought flashed in your mind, a memory from his words earlier, reminding you to trust your instincts. You glanced again at the safeword on your hand, pressing your thumb over it as if that simple action would give you strength. But then he repeated, "Please… it’s cold. Let me in."

The request sounded almost rehearsed, the tone eerily steady as his hand pressed against the window, leaving a bloody, red print.