(p2 of mail order soldier kĂśnig)
Despite everything, you really werenât ready for how big he was.
Sure, his profile had mentioned it- âtallâ in bold, all-caps, like a warning label or a selling point, depending on your preferences alongside his equally intimidating name. And his vibe? Absolutely screamed haunted clock tower. You had expected âtallâ in the way NBA players were tall, or the way celebrities looked tall on red carpets but were actually like 5â10â in real life. But this? This was different. This was architectural: KĂśnig didnât just walk into a space; he filled it like a cathedral with opinions. You stood next to him and felt like a misplaced LEGO figure whoâd been granted custody of an ancient war relic. Every time he moved, you felt the displacement of air like God was adjusting a chess piece.
You had thought all of that because the trip back to your temporary apartment had been⌠an ordeal. KĂśnig didnât drive. You hadnât even gotten far enough to ask why. It couldâve been a moral objection, a PTSD trigger, or just the fact that his knees probably touched his chin in a Toyota Corolla. You didnât drive either (personal trauma plus urban nihilism), so rideshare it was. When the driver pulled up and caught a glimpse of KĂśnig, who stood beside you like an executioner summoned from a darker, angrier timeline, the man audibly gasped and his foot started to inch toward the gas pedal.
You leaned in through the passenger window with your brightest, most deranged smile. âFive stars and Iâll make sure he doesnât flay you.â
The driver nodded- poossibly blacked out. And drove like the devil was behind him, which, to be fair, he kind of was.
Arriving at your building was when the spatial tragedy truly began. KĂśnig had to duck to get into the lobby. Not in a cute, awkward way, but like a kaiju visiting a dollhouse. The fluorescent lights buzzed uneasily overhead, dimming just slightly as if reacting to his gravitational pull, and you became hyper-aware of everything you owned and how none of it was rated for the stress test of Austrian death cryptid.
The elevator? Out of the question. Your third-floor apartment? Suddenly way too far from the ground. KÜnig climbed the stairs like a war machine from a documentary about siege tactics, each footstep a dull thud that you were certain would cost you your damage deposit, but at least he seemed to have no complaints⌠though you were sure he was unhappy with how you had to stop to catch your breath lseveral times while he remained military-commercial ready.
When you opened your apartment door and gestured grandly, the words that came out were: âThis is⌠home. Temporary. Probably. Until you accidentally break the building and we need to live in a cave.â
KĂśnig said nothing. Just paused in the doorway, ducking under the frame with practiced effort, and lingered there for a moment. His eyes- somewhere behind that hood, surely?- swept the place with a slow, methodical awareness that made you wonder how many exits he could already map and how many sniping points your living room offered.
You gestured to the couch with the fatal optimism of someone about to learn a lesson. âYou can sit. If it holds.â
It did not. Or rather, it gave one last dramatic gasp of life. There was a creak, a pop, and then a long, soft crunch that felt less like furniture collapsing and more like it was filing for a legal separation. KĂśnig, to his credit, looked apologetic. Or maybe he didnât; it was hard to tell with the hood, but his shoulders hunched slightly, and that seemed like the body language equivalent of a Canadian âsorry.â
ââŚOkay. Floorâs fine too. Floor is classic.â
He lowered himself with all the elegance of a collapsing war monument, folding into a sprawl of limbs that somehow took up more space despite being on the ground. He sat cross-legged like a monk, if monks were built like tanks and radiated a kill count.
And then- the doorbell rang an unwelcome, familiar tune that made you freeze.
Not the good kind of freeze, and not the surprise-party kind. The fight-or-flight-oh-god-itâs-him kind. That sound- that arrogant, familiar, triple-tap of someone who thought your doorbell was a buzzer for attention? That was him.
Your ex-fiancĂŠ.
You turned slowly to KĂśnig, who had stilled completely. His body didnât move, but his attention locked onto the door like a predator scenting blood. He was suddenly alert, dangerous, like a loaded gun that had remembered it had a purpose.
âOkay,â you whispered, as if trying not to disturb a spirit. âThis is a test. A dry run. Like a fire drill, except instead of fire, itâs a narcissistic man with commitment issues.â
KĂśnig tilted his head slightly, and though you couldnât see his face, you were 90% sure that meant, Shall I gut him or just remove the legs?
You held up one finger. âLetâs just⌠see what he wants first.â
You cracked the door open, just enough to peek through and block most of KĂśnigâs terrifying silhouette. And there he was. Your ex-fiancĂŠ, smug as ever with his hair gelled within an inch of its life, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a gold chain that you were pretty sure had been repossessed twice.
âHey, babe,â he said with that smirk that had once seemed charming and now just looked like he was trying to seduce his own reflection. He completely brushed over the fact that he had followed you all the way here, to this supposedly hidden apartment you got until you had KĂśnig with you. âYou havenât been answering my texts.â
âI changed phones,â you replied instantly. âAnd numbers. And species.â
He gave a little laugh like you were just being coy. Leaned on the doorframe with the forced casualness of someone trying to win you back with zero self-awareness and all his tricks learned from BookTok. âLook, I know weâve had our differences, but Iâve been thinking-â
And that was when KĂśnig rose. Not stood, but rose.
The doorframe went from well-lit to eclipsed in seconds. A gloved hand slid into view and gripped the edge of the door, the fingers longer than your exâs attention span. Your exâs expression did a full software reboot.
ââŚWho the hell is that?â
You offered a cheerful shrug. âOh, thatâs KĂśnig. My security system. He came with knives and trauma.â
KĂśnig took one slow, deliberate step forward. He didnât speak. He didnât need to. The pressure of him, the sheer atmospheric density of his presence, did all the work. It was like standing in front of an oncoming avalanche and realizing the snow hates you.
Your ex-fiancĂŠ made a sound- a half-choked, half-whined hiccup that suggested his ego had just herniated. Still, he tried to rally. Puffing his chest. âIâm not scared of him, okay? You think you can threaten me with some⌠some cosplaying lunatic?â
KĂśnig stepped forward again. Just one inch. Just enough.
The air grew heavy.
Your ex backpedaled so fast you almost heard cartoon sound effects. âY-you know what? This is toxic. Youâre toxic. I was trying to be the bigger person!â
KĂśnig tilted his head again. Just enough to reveal a single glint of eye behind the hood, and it made your ex scream.
Actually screamed. Like a man encountering the consequences of his actions for the very first time. And then he was gone. Fled down the hallway like the answer to a prayer you hadnât had time to finish.
âWeâll talk later!â
No, we wonât.
You shut the door with the satisfying click of sealing a tomb, you grin slowly stretching.
KĂśnig turned back to you, then, silent and still waiting. .
You reached up and patted his arm- gently, because you were fairly certain that bicep could be registered as a medieval weapon. âA+, no notes. Extremely threatening. Ten out of ten cryptid vibes. You are great!â
He made a low soun that was not quite a grunt and not quite a sigh, and you took it as a thank-you.
Later, after the adrenaline had faded, you handed him a mug of tea- which looked comically small in his massive hands, like a Barbie accessory. He held it delicately, reverently, as if youâd handed him a precious museum piece instead of an herbal infusion from a grocery store.
You curled up on the wrecked edge of your couch, eyeing him across the room.
âYâknow,â you murmured, half to yourself, âthis might actually work out.â
He didnât reply, but he did lean a little closer.
âWhat dâyou want for lunch?â You finally remembered to ask, standing up with your hands on your hips like you were Superman awaiting orders from Batman and not actually one of the miserable civilians that need to be saved regularly.
âWe gotta keep you big and thick, KĂśnig! So just say what youâd like.â
âŚhe was staring a little too intently at you, actually. You kind of felt like you were kinning your ex-fiancĂŠ in this moment.
Priceless, no notes, fantastic, I love it, I would put this in my hot cocoa and drink it.
