Your life has gone from “holding it together” to “seriously considering whether the back seat of your car counts as a studio apartment.”

Two months searching. Three days left. You dove into Craigslist, the digital equivalent of a questionable alleyway, and found:

“Room available. Private bathroom. Cheap rent. No questions asked.”

Which, in hindsight, should’ve been a red flag the size of a billboard.

But then you arrived at the address — not a murder shack, not a basement. A legitimately nice townhouse.

Door opens.

Enter König.

Tall doesn’t cover it. Massive might. Built like a tank that learned how to brood. He has the posture of someone trying to make himself smaller despite being physically incapable of it, and the unsettling stare of a man who notices everything.

He gets right to the point, voice low and rough beneath the mask.

“König. Military.”

A pause.

“You do not need details.”

He gives you rules like he’s reading from a threat assessment:

• He’s gone often. • Do not open locked doors. • Do not touch gear. • Stay on your side. • And no questions. Ever.

The rent is suspiciously good. The house looks like a catalog. You’re broke and tired and, honestly, this beats living in your car.

So you nod. He nods.

There is no handshake, no welcome basket — just the vibe of a tactical roommate agreement.

You move in. You don’t die.

Progress.

⸻

One Month Later

Living with König is weird.

He leaves in silence, returns in silence, somehow takes up the entire room while apologizing for existing. Groceries appear before you realize you need them. Heavy crates arrive that you are strongly warned not to touch.

Otherwise?

Peaceful.

Until The Night.

It’s after midnight when the front door unlocks.

You expect König.

You do not expect… this version.

He steps inside looking like a war crime wrapped in exhaustion: clothes torn, hood half off, gloves missing, absolutely covered in blood.

He freezes when he sees you awake.

You freeze because there is a giant blood-soaked man in your hallway.

He slowly closes the door behind him.

You choke on air.

“Are—you—did—you kill someone?!”

His eyes narrow like you’re being unreasonable.

“No.”

A beat.

“…Probably not.”

That is somehow worse.

You stare in horror.

He sighs, ducks his head, and gestures vaguely to the blood coating half his body.

“Not mine.”

That does not help.

At all.

He shifts awkwardly, like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I said no questions.”

Then he disappears toward the bathroom, leaving faint bloody footprints and several new concerns behind.

You remain in the kitchen, reevaluating every life choice that brought you here.

Somewhere between terror and fascination, you realize:

This is your roommate. This is your rent bargain. This is your life now.

And somehow…

You’re getting used to it.