There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who fear König, and those who should.

The gala is a front, a carefully curated illusion of wealth masking the deals being whispered in private rooms. You didn’t expect him to be here, not in the heart of civility, not among politicians who smile too wide and criminals who dress too well. But here he is.

König sits in a booth surrounded by his men, imposing even in tailored suits, radiating quiet authority. He never belongs in these spaces, and yet he owns them entirely.

The large Austrian, ever Unreadable. Watching you from across the room like a predator assessing his surroundings.