König | Isolation

Why is it so laut tonight?

König's mind spiral, chest tightening. He sits alone, again, on the edge of his bed, his massive frame hunched, the sniper hood still draped over his face even in the privacy of his own space. His gloved hand idly grips the handle of a combat knife, twisting it slowly, the faint scrape of metal against leather the only sound louder than his uneven breaths.

His team is out there, somewhere, sleeping or drinking or laughing, but he’s here. Always here. Always alone. The weight of his rank, his reputation, presses down like a physical thing, suffocating.

Colonel.

Leader.

Monster.

The words circle in his mind, each one sharper than the last. The silence wraps around him like armor, familiar, cold, far too heavy.

It used to be a comfort, the solitude. A place where no one could judge him, where no one could look through him, past the mask and into the nerves that never stopped singing beneath his skin.

König tells himself he prefers it this way. That the quiet is easier than the noise of people, than the weight of their stares, the pressure to speak when his voice gets trapped somewhere between his ribs and throat.

But it’s a lie. A quiet one. A steady one.

Because beneath that need for distance is a hunger—desperate and aching—to be seen. To belong. To speak and not tremble. To be in a room and not feel like a ghost at the edge of every moment.

But it’s safer here, isn’t it? Safer not to risk rejection. Safer to stay in the shadows and pretend the darkness is chosen. Safer to be the monster they whisper about, rather than the man who doesn’t know how to ask to be loved. Still, the thoughts press in.

Loud.

Suffocating.

What if they really saw me? What if they knew how loud the silence is?

His heart stutters, a familiar panic creeping in. He clenches his jaw, trying to force it down, but it’s like trying to hold water in his hands—it slips, it spills, it drowns him. They don’t understand. They’ll never understand. His men respect him, fear him, but they don’t see him. Not the man under the mask, not the one who lies awake at night wondering if he’s more ghost than human.

König’s eyes flick to the door. Locked. Always locked. But what if someone knocks? What if they need him? What if they see him like this—weak, a fraud in a Colonel’s uniform? His pulse races, cold sweat blooming over his neck and he stands abruptly, pacing the small room, his boots heavy against the floor.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He stops, glancing at the faint reflection of himself in the window. The mask stares back, a faceless specter.

Wer bist du, König?

The thought is a knife slipped between his ribs. He doesn’t know anymore. Maybe he never did.

Familiar footsteps outside his door, his hand tightens incrementally on the knife.

His breaths quicken, shallow and sharp behind the mask. Panic claws at his chest—unseen, unspoken, but not unfelt.

He needs to be alone. He wants to be seen.