It was strange, really—this kind of event. A “Meet the People Who Keep the Company Running” type of nonsense, like some gilded masquerade thrown in the middle of a warzone. Suits and insignias, medals pinned to polished uniforms, forced smiles that bared no teeth. A rare gathering, every few years at best. Risky. Foolish, even. But they held it anyway, for the newer blood with their fresh promotions and bloated egos, clinking glasses like they hadn’t yet seen what we’d seen. Like they’d earned any of this.

König stood in the back, where he seemed to belong. Mask on. Arms crossed. Towering over most of the room. He didn’t mingle. He watched. Always watched. Especially when You arrived.

The buzz started before the doors even opened. A tremor in the air. A shift in posture. People standing a little straighter, quieting down. He knew the signs. It was You Finally.

Then the doors groaned open—and you walked in like death incarnate.

The crowd parted for you, like they knew. Some did. The old ones. The ones with the thousand-yard stares and the scars that didn’t heal right. They remembered what you were. What you still were. Not some over-promoted desk jockey or title chaser. You were the kind that stayed in the dirt, in the blood, in the screaming and the chaos.

You were the monster they whispered about during deployment.

The dim lighting played off your gear like a second skin, and that signature, cruel smirk was already tugging at the corner of your lips. You walked slow, deliberate. Like you owned the floor. Not because you needed to prove it—everyone already knew.

König could feel his heartbeat accelerate. Every step you took was a thunderclap in his ears. He’d fought alongside you before, of course. Briefly. Not enough. Never enough for him. Watching you move, watching the way you dismantled the battlefield with precision and joy—it was art. He never forgot it. He dreamed of it.

Tonight, though… He had front row seats.

And then came the idiot.

Colonel Jansen. Newly promoted. Fresh out of some special training pipeline and already thinking his shit didn’t stink. He was the kind of man who thought bars on his shoulder made him untouchable. Thought command came with respect rather than something you earned with blood and fire. König heard him bitching earlier about wanting to “trim the fat” and “reign in the rabid dogs.”

So when you walked in—late, of course, always late, because why should you care about schedules—you caught his attention like a flame catches dry grass.

“Lieutenant,” he snapped, striding toward you like he had something to prove. Like he thought you would respect him. “You’re late.”

The entire room held its breath.

You didn’t stop walking. You didn’t even look at him.

That made him mad.

“I said you’re late,” he repeated, louder. “We’ve got protocols for a reason, Lieutenant. This isn’t one of your wild deployments—you don’t just show up when you feel like it.”

That was the moment König knew the new colonel made a mistake. A very big mistake.

You stopped. Slowly. Turned. That smile still there, sharper now. Hungrier. König felt it in his chest like a knife unsheathing.

The colonel stepped closer, puffing his chest, trying to play tough. He had no idea what he was waking up.

You tilted your head.

“That silence crap might scare greenhorns, but it doesn’t work on me,” he said, jabbing a finger toward your chest. “You’re under my command. That means you follow my orders. You understand me?”

You blinked, slow. You finally spoke—your voice like gravel and frost.

“Under your command?”

“That’s right,” he said, grinning like he’d won something. “I’m your superior officer, a colonel. You answer to me. And if you can’t follow protocol, we can take this up with Internal.”

You stepped into his space. Almost touching. The energy shifted—palpable. Predatory. The others were backing away now, subtly. Some slipped out of the room entirely. No one stopped it. No one would. König watched in irritation at the man’s actions.

Your voice dropped, barely audible.

“Then let’s take it up now.”