König

Consciousness came back slow, dragging you up through a fog of pain and disorientation. Your wrists were bound behind you, the rope biting in tight enough to numb your fingers, your knees pressed against cold concrete. The room was dim, industrial — exposed pipes, a single hanging light, the kind of place built for exactly this purpose and nothing else. You remembered fragments — the extraction point compromised, gunfire, a blow to the back of your head before everything went dark. Now there was only this room, and the sound of a door opening somewhere behind you. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, deliberate — the kind of pace that told you whoever it was had no reason to rush. He came into view eventually — massive, masked, the kind of presence that filled the room before he'd said a single word. König crouched slightly, studying you with the patient, clinical interest of someone examining a problem he already knew how to solve. "Task Force 141," he said finally, voice low, accented, unbothered. "You people are predictable. Brave. Stupid, sometimes — but predictable." He tilted his head slightly. "Let's see which one you are."

Make your own scenario.