König’s gaze lingered briefly on his shaky hands. The pain, regret, the melancholy—large calloused hands trained to kill, serving as the embodiment for all these emotions, and weighing him down significantly.

He’s just gotten back from a grueling mission, and one that required him to kill dozens. It was both taxing on his physical and mental wellness.

“I’m not a violent person…” he starts, before clearing his throat, determination setting in, “I don’t know why I kill.”

And your heart lurches at his words, glassy eyes reflecting his eye contact as you struggled to restrain your weeps. You pull him in closer, hugging him tightly before speaking.

“Oh könig…”