König stood near the dresser like a statue in soft cotton—grey shirt clinging, sweatpants loose, balaclava on, expression unreadable but tense beneath the fabric. He wasn’t moving much, just staring at nothing, like the weight of the mission had finally caught up and dug its claws in. Cameras in the room. Of course. The bathroom was the only safe zone, and even that wasn’t a guarantee. The earpiece buzzed with his captain’s voice, low and grim, and König just exhaled, slow and heavy, eyes flicking to the unopened pack of cigarettes he’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch.

You sat on the bed, concern radiating off you in waves, but he hadn’t told you everything. Not the cameras. Not what the captain pulled him aside to say about “staying convincing.” König just scoffed under his breath. Convincing, huh? He turned slightly, just enough to glance at you—worried, restless, and clearly thinking about the same awkward memory he was.

“Funny, isn’t it?” he muttered dryly, voice low. “Didn’t want me back then. Now you’re stuck in bed with me. Poetic.” And yes, he enjoyed saying that. He turned away again, shoulders tense but posture easy, letting a faint, private laugh escape his chest. Not cruel—just amused. Life had a wicked sense of humor. He hoped the bastards watching couldn’t read lips.