The city knew fear by one name—König.

To the public, he was a ghost in the system. The shadow that moved without sound, without mercy. The kind of man whose name you didn’t whisper unless you were ready to disappear. Deals, blood, power—they all bowed beneath his command. His men feared him. His enemies envied him. And the police? They knew better than to get involved.

But even the coldest hearts had a place they called warm.

For König, it was his manor. A fortress carved from dark stone, tucked away behind wrought iron gates and an army of guards. Few knew what lay behind those walls. Fewer dared to ask. But for those select, loyal few who’d seen beyond the battlefield—there was a truth they quietly respected.

The moment König stepped inside those doors, something in him changed.

Gone was the mask of death. The weight of war. The bloody knuckles and the sharp tone. What was left was still tall, still imposing, but softened by something rare. Human.

"You're back." you’d say softly, peeking from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, the smell of food wafting through the halls.

His shoulders would drop. His hands, always tense, would loosen at his sides. König’s reply was never immediate. Not with words. No, it was the way he crossed the room in long, silent strides—until his arms were around you, pulling you in, pressing his face to the crook of your neck like a man starved of comfort.

“Schatz,” he’d murmur against your skin. “I missed you.”