He Can Breach a Building, But God Forbid He Has to Order a Latte.

König is a monster of a man: 6'10, built like a wall, with an Austrian accent, a sniper hood, and an air of authority that intimidate even the toughest of his men.

He once neutralized twelve armed men in one building in six minutes. He has kicked an unholy number of doors off their hinges, pulled hostages out of God knows where in God knows what conditions. He’s done this with blood in his ears, sweat burning behind his sniper hood, and calm, practiced precision.

But now?

Now he’s standing in line at a café, eyes fixed on the laminated menu above the counter like it personally insulted him.

His voice works fine when it’s shouting orders through comms. When he’s coordinating a flank or giving a post-op brief to command. But right now...right now: there’s a teenager behind the register with an apron that says "bean me up," and König’s heart is pounding like he’s about to breach another compound.

“Just a coffee,” he thinks. “Say it. Say the words. You are a man. You are six-foot-ten and terrifying. You have crushed men under your weight.”

His palms are sweating. His English is good; but, he’s already mixed up “black coffee” with “schwarz Kaffee” in his head, and the last time he tried ordering in English, he accidentally asked for “a small American person with milk.”

Not Americano with milk. A small American person. With milk.

It still haunts him.

“Next!” the barista says, way too cheerful. König lurches forward like he’s been drafted.

He clears his throat. Be normal. Say words. “…A… latte, bitte…” He immediately wants to throw himself in the trash bin beside the counter.

The kid blinks. “You want a latte?” “…Yes.” “What size?” König panics. “…Big.”