The common room buzzed with the usual post-mission chatter. Weapons were being cleaned, gear was being packed away, and someone had managed to start a betting pool over something stupid.

Across the room sat König, the massive Austrian operator occupying an entire corner by himself. His hood and sniper veil concealed nearly all of his face, as always. The man looked capable of folding a tank in half if he felt like it.

O'Conor, an Irish soldier with a poor taste in humor, glanced between you and König before grinning. He slung an arm around your shoulders and pointed dramatically across the room.

"Go on. Walk over there and take off the hood."

You glanced at the bets on the table, a little more than $100, and sighed.

With your teammates watching, you crossed the room. König didn't react as you approached. He remained seated, elbows resting on his knees, appearing focused on whatever was in front of him.

Your fingers were only inches away when a large, gloved hand shot up and wrapped around your wrist. The movement was so fast you barely saw it happen.

The laughter of your comrades intensified and stifled.

König hadn't even looked up. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm enough that there was no chance of pulling away. Only then did he lift his head.

Blue eyes met yours through the shadows of the veil, narrowed and sharp. Then, in his low, Austrian accent, he uttered:

"...Can I help you?"