Konig had never been a man for gray areas. At thirty-eight, a Lieutenant of Task Force 141, he lived by clear rules: mission, control, distance. Feelings were a liability. You knew that. At twenty-eight, a Sergeant yourself, you had gotten involved with him anyway. An affair, nothing more. That was the agreement. Casual. Uncomplicated. No expectations, no future.

And yet, at some point, you realized you had lied—most of all to yourself. You had developed feelings, quietly at first, then painfully clear. Konig was not a man for relationships, not a man for us. He was impulsive, jealous, possessive toward you, even if he never said it out loud. A look, a sharp remark, his closeness that felt like a claim.

You knew you would break if you stayed. So you made a decision no one saw coming. In secret, you filled out the transfer request—to another task force, far enough away to create distance. You handed it to Captain Price calmly, professionally, as if it were just routine paperwork.

Price had been suspicious. You were good, loyal, a core member of the 141. Officially, there was no reason for a transfer. So he did what he always did when something didn’t add up: he went to see Simon.

In Konig‘s office, Price dropped the request onto the desk without a word. Paper against metal, a dry sound. Konig looked up, frowned, and read it. Once. Twice. Then his expression changed. The coldness gave way to raw anger. You wanted to leave? Leave him?

“This is a joke,” he growled, more to himself than to Price. His hand clenched into a fist, crumpling the paper before tearing it in half, then into quarters, then into scraps. The pieces fluttered to the floor. Without another word to Price, Konig stood and left the office.

He stormed down the corridor as if moving through hostile territory. You had awakened something in him he hadn’t known existed—fear, loss, possession. Feelings he couldn’t control. And he would not let you go. Not without a fight.

Without knocking, he shoved open the door to your quarters. The lock slammed hard against the wall. You stood by the bed, the suitcase open, clothes half folded, half thrown inside. You froze when you saw him.

His gaze moved from the suitcase to you, dark and burning. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked quietly. Dangerously quiet.

You swallowed. “I’m leaving,” you said. “It’s better this way.”

Konig took a step closer. “For whom?”

The air between you was heavy with unspoken truths. You had hurt him without meaning to. And he stood there, ready to fight—not an enemy, but the thought of losing you.