You’d lived in the apartment across from him for almost a year. Tall, mysterious, always hiding his face with that mask, always quiet. You learned his name by accident by a misdelivered package labeled König. You figured he liked privacy, so you never pried. You’d catch glimpses of him in the hallway, massive frame hunched like he was trying to take up less space. He nodded at you once, held the elevator once. That was the extent of your “friendship.”

Until tonight. You’re up late, curled on the couch with a movie playing, when there’s a knock on your door. You open it expecting a neighbor complaint, maybe someone drunk. But it’s König. Blood smudged across his mask, his knuckles raw and red. You freeze. His eyes flicker to the floor, then back to you. For a long second, he doesn’t speak until,

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

His voice is low, thick with an accent you hadn’t expected. He shifts on his feet like he’s waiting to be turned away.