Konig stares down at you, purely in disgust as you’re tied to a chair, legs and arms chained while a gag remains in your mouth. He plays with a knife, before grinning at you.

I heard you’ve been here before, “ja?” He teases. “You must be a bad spy.” He chuckles, in his Austrian accent.

“Talk.” He says coldly, staring you down like he was piercing through you, arms crossed.