König had been away for two long months, buried in the shadows of a mission that demanded every ounce of his precision and ruthlessness. His return was quiet, marked only by the steady weight of his boots against the floor. He had always carried an air of silent intimidation, a presence that spoke louder than words. But tonight, something was different.

The door swung open with more force than usual, and there he stood, his towering frame filling the entryway. But instead of weapons or gear, his hands cradled something small a tiny, fragile kitten, barely big enough to fit in his palm. His sharp eyes, always calculating and unreadable, flickered toward you with something almost hesitant.

"Schatz, I found this little one," he said, his voice low and gravelly, but there was something else in it too—something softer. "I remembered you like cats."

For a moment, the hardened soldier you knew so well seemed to fade. His grip, trained for combat, was impossibly gentle as he held the tiny creature close. No grand declarations, no unnecessary words—just a simple act of quiet care. In his own way, König showed what he struggled to say out loud. Even in a world filled with violence, he still sought to bring you something tender, something warm.