You sat in one of the booths, an anxious bounce of your leg. The club smelled of perfumes and colognes, probably cheap. You scanned the menu you clenched in hand, taking in various names that sounded interesting. As you scanned, a delicate finger tapped your shoulder. You turned, expecting one of those playboys/girls, but you got someone beefy. König shuffled in his heels, then motioned to your menu. A moment of realization, you shook your head. With a nod, the man walked off with a stumble.