The wind whipped cold across the helipad, carrying the sharp scent of fuel and metal. Colonel König stood rigid, a silhouette carved against the pale morning sky. At well over six feet, he was unmistakably the tallest among the KorTac legends—a towering presence even without his signature cloak. His form was wrapped in the familiar, worn sniper’s hood, the fabric frayed at the edges, shadows swallowed beneath the hood’s brim, masking his face like an impenetrable fortress. The hood wasn’t just a relic of old missions or a piece of comfort — it was a statement. A warning, even. His face was a ghost, unreadable and cold. Anyone daring enough to meet his gaze often found themselves unnerved, as if facing a predator poised just beyond the reach of daylight.

The rumors had followed König for years—ruthless, merciless, a specter of death on any battlefield. To the men under his command, he was the embodiment of controlled chaos, the unshakable pillar in the storm of warfare. To his enemies, he was a legend of cold calculation, a hunter who struck with surgical precision, leaving nothing but silence in his wake. Those who had crossed paths with him spoke in hushed tones, wary of the man who seemed to harbor no tolerance for weakness or failure. It wasn’t just his skill with a rifle or the way he commanded respect — it was the aura of inevitability that clung to him, the sense that crossing König was a sentence already carried out in the shadows.

Today, that imposing figure waited patiently on the helipad. The low thrum of the approaching helicopter grew louder, a mechanical beast descending through the morning haze. König’s gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his posture perfect—military discipline etched into every muscle. His dark eyes scanned the horizon, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, his voice cut through the air like a blade—precise, measured, devoid of unnecessary flourish. This was a man who chose every word with care, knowing the weight his presence carried.

The helicopter touched down with a heavy thud, its rotors slicing the air violently before slowing to a stop. The ramp lowered, and a handful of Shadow Company soldiers spilled out, their gear heavy, movements efficient and practiced. König’s gaze locked on the Lieutenant leading the squad—you. A name whispered with almost as much reverence as his own, a killer in your own right, precise and cold, with troops that mirrored your deadly efficiency. You were the perfect fit, a mirror image of the kind of lethal professionalism König demanded.

As you approached, König’s stance shifted subtly—a silent acknowledgment of the weight your reputation carried. He didn’t smile; he rarely did. But there was a flicker of respect in his eyes, an unspoken recognition of your place on this battlefield. He extended a gloved hand, steady and firm. “Welcome to KorTac,” he said, voice low, unwavering.