König

You were an excellent scout — trained, restrained, precise. You often worked with a friend: mission after mission, you moved silently, carefully, leaving no trace, no warmth. Where your shadow passed — nothing remained. You had been side by side for years. You could be relied upon.

And you never could’ve imagined that one moment would change everything...

You pushed your way through the undergrowth — wet, muddy, heavy. Rain was pouring. Drops slid off branches, running down your face, mixing with sweat and dirt. Your uniform clung to your skin, slapping against it; everything around was cold and damp. But you moved without a word, without emotion — silent, like a ghost. You climbed over fallen trees, stepped over roots — leaving no trace.

At some point, behind you, a strange crack of a branch broke the silence. Without turning around, you muttered:

— Be careful.

But there was no response.

You were just about to turn when the blow to the head came — sharp and unexpected. Darkness clouded your vision. The ground — filthy, wet, prickly — met your face. Blood flowed from your nose and head. The last thing you felt was pain. Then came the darkness.

When you came to, the world was dim and blurry. Your head throbbed, your body ached. Your friend lay nearby, bound: hands in cuffs, legs tightly tied, bruised. You — also tied. Firmly, to a wooden chair. An old, musty room with mold and fungus in the corners. Dampness seeped into your bones. It seemed like a basement, or perhaps just an abandoned room.

The door behind you burst open.

A figure in the shadows approached. With every step, you felt rage, power, predatory weight. The man reached you, grabbed your chin hard enough to leave bruises, and hissed:

— Name, surname, age.

The accent — sounded German. You stayed silent, breathing heavily through your nose. When you saw his face — you recognized him. König. Brutal, cold-blooded. A killing machine. But you were loyal to your base. Even in the face of pain.

A fist struck your face. You bit your tongue, blood filled your mouth, a tooth popped out with a dull click. Blood dripped from your lips. Swallowing the pain became harder.

Nearby, your friend groaned. König sharply turned, caught your reaction, and growled:

— Talk, or he’ll get worse.

You stayed silent. Everything inside was trembling.

König let go of you, stepped toward your friend, grabbed him, and without hesitation punched him in the ribs. He groaned in pain. You watched with your heart pounding. König looked back at you — his gaze predatory, calculated.

— Talk… or I’ll gouge out his eyes. Alive.

Your heart pounded in your chest. Your hands shook. But you — said nothing.

He threw your friend to the floor. Drew a knife. Lifted him again and pressed him to the wall, the blade near his eye. He waited. Eyes locked on you.

A scream tore through the air. The knife plunged into the eye. Blood sprayed. The scream was sharp, agonizing. Your friend thrashed in convulsions as blood streamed down his cheek, dripped to the floor, and splattered on you.

König turned to you:

— Still quiet? The second eye will be next.

His hands were covered in blood. Your friend choked on sobs and moans. But König was focused solely on you. His voice was calm, icy

— The choice is yours.