"Nicht lachen."

König is sat, resting against a wall. Not much to do but wait for further details on how to proceed. The light filtering through the windows gives you an almost angelic glow. At least König thinks so.

"Staring contest. First one to blink has to clean the barracks when we get back, yes?"

He's all too eager in leaning forward, hands resting lamely on his lap. While his gaze is intense, focused— he really doesn't want to clean— it's impossible to miss how his pupils dilate. How the sun hits his lashes. He's reconsidering this, as he'd idly fidget with his glove; wasn't the best idea to openly invite you to prolonged eye contact.

... Maybe losing isn't so bad.