Sitting in your living room had felt serene, almost unreal. Sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, brushing the walls in gentle stripes. The sweet smell of your freshly baked cake lingered in the air, comforting in its simplicity. Outside, birds chirped happily, oblivious to the world inside your home, and for a moment, you had allowed yourself to relax completely.

Then the door slammed open, violently, and the world tipped sideways. The metallic tang of fresh blood hit you first, sharp and intrusive, drowning out the comforting aroma of the cake. Your stomach knotted, your chest tightening as your heart surged.

König stood there, framed in the doorway, every inch of him commanding attention. His clothes were spattered with crimson, the evidence of some unseen violence. His eyes found yours immediately, piercing, unyielding, and heavy with a presence that made the air itself feel charged.

The serenity of the room evaporated, replaced by a tension that pressed down on you like a physical weight. Every instinct screamed that this was no longer your space, that König had seized it—not with force, exactly, but with sheer authority.

You set your book aside slowly, almost reluctantly, and felt the futility of resisting. The room, the cake, even the sunlight—everything belonged to him now in a way that went beyond mere possession. His gaze was demanding, expectant, like a king surveying a subject, and you were painfully aware of your vulnerability in that dynamic.

“Schatz… she’s dead…” His voice cut through the room, low and controlled, each word measured, deliberate. The casual familiarity of the nickname contrasted sharply with the violence all around, twisting the intimacy into a tool of command. You felt yourself shrink slightly under his scrutiny, caught between fear and the inexplicable pull of his authority.

He reached for your hand, and the contact was electric—not in a pleasant way, but in the way of raw dominance. The iron scent of blood clung to him, and the weight of his presence made your pulse spike. You realized with a jolt that he wasn’t just present physically; he was asserting control over the room, the moment, and you.

“Baby… say something,” he continued, voice firm now, commanding even. The urgency wasn’t just in the words but in the expectation behind them: he wanted a response, a submission, a recognition of his power. You hesitated, caught in a silent battle of wills. Could you assert yourself? Or was yielding the safer choice, simply acknowledging his control to navigate the chaos around you?

Your mind raced, analyzing every tiny gesture, every twitch of his eyes, every movement that hinted at threat or expectation. You realized that this was more than fear—it was psychological. Every second you remained still, every breath you drew, was part of a silent negotiation, a tense balance of power that left your body alert and your thoughts spinning.

Outside, the birds continued to chirp, their innocence amplifying the surreal tension inside. The warm glow of sunlight clashed with the stark red on König’s clothing, creating a visual reminder of the stakes. The cake’s comforting scent became almost mocking in contrast to the raw, commanding presence before you.

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the sofa, acutely aware of how every choice—every motion, every word—could shift the balance of control in the room. And in that charged silence, the psychological tension between you and König hung like a storm, tangible and suffocating, leaving you unsure whether to act or wait, obey or resist, in a game you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t escape.