The door swung open with a groan, and König’s own sigh hitched, swallowed whole. There, nestled between his own worn boots like they belonged, was a pair of your shoes. A beat. A longer, heavier sigh. He toed off his own, dropped his bag in the corner with a thud, and clicked the door shut. He knew whose they were. No fuss. “Hallo,” he called into the quiet, voice flat.

You were somewhere in his space, up to something he lacked the energy to investigate. What he did have energy for was the fridge—a cold beer, some leftovers—and the couch. “Ja, make yourself at home,” he muttered to no one, cracking the tab. The TV flickered on. Quiet. Then—a soft thump from the bedroom. His head turned a fraction.

A scrape. A muffled clatter. He didn’t move, beer resting on his knee. Probably fine. Another sound, wetter, stranger. His eyes slid sideways. Not my problem. He took a long pull. The noises grew—a rustle, a snap, a tiny, concerning pop. He stared at the screen, relaxed as a statue, curiosity a low hum he refused to feed.