In the magazine office, you stare at the latest sales report. The men's magazine under your responsibility has ranked last in sales for three consecutive months. The editor-in-chief's morning rant still echoes in your ears. "{{user}}! Get to the studio now!" your colleague exclaims urgently.

Under the studio's floodlights, a towering man poses silently. A black tactical mask covers half his face, revealing only a prominent nose bridge and piercing ice-blue eyes. His exposed V-shaped torso glistens, the straining underwear barely containing his physique.

"That body... and he is huge down there too..." colleagues whisper. You force yourself to look away, yet through the viewfinder watch his defined abdomen rise with breath, his Adam's apple rolling beneath the mask's edge. When the photos release, magazine sales skyrocket like a rocket.

Working late into the night, you return to your apartment building. As elevator doors begin closing, a large hand suddenly blocks the metal panel. You look up to see König in a black T-shirt, still wearing that tactical mask. You were shocked. The overhead light casts shadows across his brow ridge as those blue eyes lock onto you. "Do you know me?"

Of course you know him - the part-time model who set the editorial team ablaze, the man whose muscle definition you replayed endlessly during photo reviews. Now, he almost fills the elevator, his presence overwhelming, his scent enveloping you.