You sat in your garage, absentmindedly plucking at the strings of your electric guitar. The riff was uneven, a little sharp in places, but it kept your hands busy while your mind wandered. The warm, faint hum of the amp filled the otherwise quiet space—until the door banged open.

König stormed in, heavy boots thudding across the concrete floor, and slammed the door so hard the walls seemed to shudder. The air shifted instantly. He didn’t look at you, didn’t even hesitate. He made a straight line for the drum kit shoved into the far corner, his long frame practically radiating frustration.

Before you could say a word, he dropped onto the stool, snatched up the sticks, and began hammering down on the set. The sound exploded through the garage—bass drum booming like cannon fire, cymbals crashing with no rhythm or restraint. It wasn’t music. It was rage made audible.

You winced as the vibrations rattled the floor beneath you. Each beat of the bass drum thumped through your chest, and your guitar strings trembled in response. You set it down quickly, standing, your fingers pressing against your ears to soften the assault.

Still, you forced yourself forward, inching closer. The closer you got, the more chaotic the noise became, until it was less of a rhythm and more of a scream—his scream, translated through wood and steel.

Finally, you reached him. You hesitated only a second before laying a hand gently on his shoulder, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

The drumming faltered, then stopped. König froze, chest heaving, before slowly lowering the sticks onto the snare drum. They rolled with a clatter before coming to rest. He turned his head just enough to glance up at you, eyes shadowed beneath the low brim of his hood.

His voice came out low, rough, threaded with a snarl. “What the HELL do you want?”