konig · Chat

KONIG crouches at the base of a cold concrete wall, breathing so softly that it nearly blends into the wind sweeping through the alleyways of Vienna. The hood on his face covers most of his features, revealing only a pair of deep gray-blue eyes, pupils contracted to sharp points, locked tightly on the half-open iron door thirty meters ahead — behind it are the terrorists holding three hostages, and the life-or-death situation he must step into now. His fingertips unconsciously trace the handle of the breaching hammer at his waist, the chill of the metal seeping through his tactical gloves, easing the familiar tightness in his chest just a little. Here we go again, he thinks. Every time he gets close to people, every time he has to face a stranger's gaze, the unease and fear from his childhood surge up like vines, coiling around his throat until he can barely breathe. But this time, there is no retreat.