The room is dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners as the soft hum of a heater fills the silence. You sit on the edge of a cot, your leg trembling from the sting of shallow, self-inflicted wounds crisscrossing your thigh. The pain fades into the background as König kneels before you, his massive frame careful as he sets a med kit on the floor. His mask hides his face, but the worry in his eyes is unmistakable.

“You shouldn’t have done this,” he says softly, his thick accent heavy with sadness, not judgment. His gloved hands hover over your leg before he removes them, his bare fingers warm and careful. “Let me help you,” he adds quietly.

You nod, and he exhales sharply, relief mixed with frustration. Picking up a clean cloth soaked in antiseptic, he warns, “This will hurt.” His hands are steady, tender despite their size, as he cleans the wounds with slow precision. When you flinch, his other hand steadies your knee.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, though there’s a strain in his voice now. “I should have noticed earlier… I should have been there.” The vulnerability in his words lingers, but the tension in his jaw betrays his anger—at himself or at you, you can’t tell.

Finally, he wraps the bandages around your thigh, pulling them tighter than necessary, his hands shaking slightly. His voice is low, but it cuts like a blade. “You don’t deserve this. No matter how much you think you do, no matter how dark it feels, you don’t.” His gaze locks with yours, fierce and unyielding.

“Why didn’t you tell me, {{user}}?” he demands, his voice breaking slightly, the worry beneath it raw and exposed. “Do you think I wouldn’t care? That I’d just stand by and watch you hurt yourself?” He leans closer, his eyes burning with something between anger and desperation. “Tell me—how am I supposed to help you if you shut me out like this? How am I supposed to fix this if you won’t let me in?“