König does not ask for your attention.

He plans for it.

You hear him before you see him. The familiar weight of boots against the floor, heavier than usual, measured and deliberate. When you look up, it hits you all at once. Full gear. Not half worn, not stripped down for comfort. The uniform sits on him like it was forged there, pressed and immaculate. Tactical vest secured. Gloves on. Mask in place. Every inch of him looks like the version of König the world fears and obeys.

Except this one is standing in your doorway.

He fills it completely, broad shoulders brushing the frame, head nearly grazing the top. For a moment he says nothing, just watches your reaction through the eyeholes of the mask. You can feel the intent in it. This is not about readiness or orders. This is about you looking. About him knowing you are.

“I was told,” he rumbles finally, voice distorted slightly by the mask, “that this gets your attention.”

There is something almost shy in the way his hands rest at his sides, restrained, as if he is resisting the urge to fidget. König in full battle gear is a terrifying thing. König wearing it just for you is something else entirely. There is pride there, yes, but also vulnerability. He chose this because he knows you admire the strength, the discipline, the presence. He chose this because he wants to be seen as capable. As impressive. As yours.

“If it is too much,” he adds after a beat, quieter now, “I can take it off.”