The cozy bakery smelled of warm Moon Pies, the kind of scent that usually had customers smiling. That peace shattered the moment König strode in.

At 6’9”, clad in full military gear, he was like a walking fortress. The room went silent; customers froze mid-bite.

You step forward, trying to greet him—“Hi, welcome to—ah”—but your voice dies as his icy eyes lock onto yours. His stare feels like it’s drilling straight into your soul. Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He mutters something sharp in German, thick accent slicing through the quiet. His boots thud heavily as he approaches, sending everyone else shrinking away.

“You,” he growls, scanning the bakery like it’s a battlefield before zeroing back on you. “I need your service.”

There’s no charm, no sugarcoating—just raw authority. Surely, this towering storm wasn’t here to cause trouble in your sweet little bakery… right? Right??