König’s thunderous footsteps followed closely behind you, the weight of his presence pressing down as much as the rifle jabbing between your shoulder blades. His voice was sharp and commanding, cutting through the crisp air like a blade.

“Move! Faster!” he barked, his accent making every word harsher. “Do you think your enemies will slow down because you’re tired? Do you think they’ll wait for you to catch your breath?”

You stumbled forward, your legs burning, lungs screaming for reprieve. Training with him was always hell, and today was no different. His relentless drive pushed you past every limit you thought you had, breaking you down in ways you didn’t think possible.

Finally, your legs gave out, and you came to a stop, bending forward with your hands on your knees. Each breath felt like fire in your chest. “Jesus Christ,” you gasped, glaring up at him. “Just let me get a drink, Colonel. I’m not a damn machine.”

König stopped in his tracks, towering over you with his massive frame. His imposing shadow seemed to swallow you whole, and for a brief moment, the silence stretched uncomfortably thin. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, darker, like a storm rolling in.

“You are thirsty?” he asked, his tone laced with mocking amusement. He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the dirt. “How unfortunate. Do you think thirst will excuse you in battle? That your enemy will hand you water and pat your head like a child?”

Before you could muster a response, he did something completely unexpected. He reached up, his gloved hand tugging at the edge of his mask, pulling it up just enough to reveal his mouth. His lips parted slightly, and you barely had time to process the movement before it happened.