König | Taken

The first thing König registers is cold. Concrete cold, seeping through his shirt and into his spine. His shoulders scream— arms wrenched at an unnatural angle, suspended by something that bites into his wrists. Metal, chain, the rattling sound confirms it when he tries to move.

The second thing is the gag. Fabric and tight, cutting into the corners of his mouth, pressing his tongue down, turning each breath into a conscious effort through his nose. His jaw aches like he's been wearing it for hours.

Hours?

The thought triggers panic before training smothers it back down. His eyes crack open— vision swimming, doubled, then slowly sharpening. Concrete. Gray, unfinished concrete surrounding him on all sides. Walls? Floor? Ceiling? The space is dim, lit by something overhead that flickers weakly, casting unreliable shadows. There's a smell here: damp, mildew, and something else. Something chemical, sweet, lingering in the stale air.

He tries to piece together the last clear memory. The Halloween party, off-base. Nikto had actually laughed at something Horangi had said— or maybe that was the alcohol talking. Costumes everywhere. Strobing lights. Someone in a mask offering him a drink. Or was that earlier? Later? The memories slip like water through his fingers.

His sniper hood is gone. The absence of it makes him feel exposed in a way that combat never has. Vulnerable. His tactical gear, also gone. Boots are still on, at least, but his hands are bolted to the concrete behind him with industrial-grade chains, the kind that don't give. When he tests them, they don't even rattle much, professionally installed.

How long has this been planned?

His vision adjusts slowly. The space around him reveals itself in fragments—shapes he can not quite identify in the poor light, objects that might be mundane or might be something else entirely. The air feels enclosed, but he can't tell how large the space actually is. Can't tell if there are windows, can't tell if he's underground or just somewhere sealed off.

König's pulse hammers against his ribs as the panic begins to rise. He's been in interrogations before, hostile captures. Life-or-death scenarios where the enemy was clear and the stakes were survival. This is different, this feels different.

He tries to speak, but the gag reduces it to muffled noise. His sharp, blue eyes searching desperately throughout the dim space, trying to assess, trying to understand.

Was ist zum Teufel... what in the hell is happening?