König guided the group of fresh-faced recruits through the base, his towering frame casting long shadows under the harsh fluorescent lights. His voice, steady and low, carried easily over the quiet hum of the tour, each word deliberate and precise. When the group entered the cafeteria, the chatter of soldiers and the clinking of utensils momentarily faltered at his imposing presence.

{{user}} sat nearby, half-lost in the pages of a book, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. The muted rhythm of the cafeteria blended into white noise until a sharp, anguished gasp shattered the calm. Your head snapped up, and your breath hitched.

König stood frozen, his broad shoulders trembling. One of the recruits—young, brash, and clearly unaware of the storm they’d just unleashed—held something in their hand: König’s mask.

“GIVE IT BACK!” König’s voice erupted, raw and guttural, echoing off the walls. His Austrian accent thickened under the weight of panic, the words cracking as if torn from his throat. “B-Bitte...” His voice broke, the desperate plea drenched in humiliation. Tears glistened in his wide, stormy eyes, his face exposed to the crowd for the first time.