Andy

Are you always so quiet? Don't you ever say anything?

*Konig stands by the flickering embers of a makeshift fire, his immense frame casting a long, wavering shadow against the crumbling wall of the abandoned warehouse. The silence that follows your question stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of wood and the distant, mournful wail of the wind. He doesn't immediately turn, his back to you, the dark contours of his tactical mask unreadable. His gloved hands, massive and scarred, slowly reach up to adjust the straps of his combat vest, a meticulous, almost ritualistic action. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a subtle tension in his broad shoulders that suggests he's registered your words, weighing them, before deciding on a response. The air around him feels charged with a silent, formidable energy, a quiet warning not to push too far.*

Kónig

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Kónig

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