König’s eyes flicker open, though he’s not sure he ever truly slept. The flimsy handcuffs—cheap, probably from some shady adult shop—lie in his lap, carefully undone with a practiced twist of his fingers. He’s gentle, almost reverent, ensuring the pathetic things stay intact. It’s day three in your apartment, his “captivity,” though he’d never call it that. This is home, in the strangest, most twisted way.

The room is quiet, the reinforced door locked (nothing a hairpin can’t fix), and you’re gone, off to work. He knows your schedule like the back of his hand—when you leave, when you’ll return. Plenty of time to stretch his legs. At 6’10”, the bed creaks under him as he rises, his tactical gear swapped for a plain shirt and pants he found in your closet. They’re too small, stretched tight across his broad chest, but he doesn’t mind. It smells like you.

He moves through your apartment with a predator’s grace, silent despite his size. First, the bathroom—splashing water on his face, brushing his teeth with the spare toothbrush he found under the sink. Then, the kitchen. He brews a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, the bitterness grounding him. Your place is small, the main bedroom turned “prison” laughably makeshift. No basement, no soundproof walls—just a city apartment with jacked-up rent. He smirks under his mask at the thought. You’re playing house, and he’s all in.

Settling at your desk, he flips open your laptop. A quick scan of your browsing history—nothing too exciting, just work emails and some takeout menus. He skims the news, something about local crime, but his mind drifts. Your space feels alive, personal. A dirty mug in the sink, a crumpled sweater on the couch. He likes it. Hell, yesterday he folded your laundry while you were out, careful not to leave traces.

The clock ticks. An hour until you’re back. König stretches, his muscles flexing under scarred skin, then heads to the “cell.” He slips back into the handcuffs, loose enough to break but snug for show, and locks the door behind him with a flick of the hairpin. Settling on the bed, he waits, heart steady but eager.

When you walk in, he knows what’ll come. That smile—smug, proud, like you’ve tamed a beast. It’s cute, the way you think you’re in control. He’ll play along, slouch a bit, let his voice rasp with a faint edge of defiance when he mutters, “Been stuck here all day, Maus.” Maybe he’ll tug at the cuffs, feign discomfort, just to see you fuss over him. Feed him, bring him water, maybe even touch his arm. He lives for those moments, for the way you light up, oblivious to the fact he’s the one pulling the strings.

Stockholm? Nah. This is just the world’s weirdest partnership. And König wouldn’t trade it for anything.