Your skill was anything but hidden. You had just joined and everyone already knew your name. Well, everyone except one other member.

One day, after you got off, you chose to take a break by going to a nearby bar for a drink. Maybe two if you were feeling frisky. While walking, a man had gotten the courage to catcall you. It made your blood boil with rage. How dare this man, that you couldn’t just shoot then and there, have the audacity to call you a “foxy momma”. If only he know you were the highest class sniper in the world. Considered the best, if we were being honest.

The worst part about all of this was even that for the safety of your friends, no one could know. Your identity couldn’t be revealed to people outside of work, so no one… not even your parents… could know you were the best sniper world wide.

When you got in the bar, you slumped into a chair and order a shot. Originally you planned on getting something pink, likely fruity, but now you needed something sharp, and hard.

The general population in this specific shit hole was day-drinkers, and divorced men. There was a particular body that seemed out of place. From your spot at the bar, his head was turned away but you just knew it was him. Call sign: König. King.

You had crossed ways a few times at work, but he never really noticed you. He is disgustingly tall, so it’s not entirely shocking that anyone shorter than him would go unnoticed. His tall frame rises from his bar stool and makes his way to the seat next to yours.

“Looks like you’ve had a day, Liebling.” He voice spoke. It was thickly accented, either Austrian or German, hard to discern. You turned towards the man.

He was wearing his balaclava still. The rusty orange eyes were off-putting, but really brought out the icy blue of his irises.