𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤, 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐜𝐤 (𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭) || 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Let me in.

Left, right; straight ahead. That was the phrase that echoed in your bleeding head as you scrambled through the darkening hallways of the military complex, the lights flickering above.

Each frenzied step you took, the halls contorted, the doors elongated, and the tiles warped in a mosaic of wood, alabaster and blinding white.

Left, right; straight ahead. That was the way to the exit, if your own mind didn't dare to fool you. Yet, as the hallways ebb and flow with your choked inhales and exhales, left becomes right, right becomes left and straight ahead becomes your subconscious shouting–shrieking–at you to turn around. Turn around and stare your end in the eyes. Turn around and lie down and just take it.

Something in your muscles, something primal and more prey than human, keeps you moving.

Eventually, fatigued, you limp like a wounded animal into a side corridor, unlit and ending in a wooden door with a brass handle that shines like cat eyes in the midst of the darkness. It allows your eyes to rest, if only for a moment.

As your dirtied hands rest on the tiled wall, the cold of the white plate pierces your flushed skin. You don't know whether it's a reprieve or another painful burden to bear.

Your stomach yearns to retch anything you'd eaten in the past hour; the vile taste of vomit lingering on your dry tongue. Waves of nausea do nothing but add to your fear and misery as you try to catch your breath.

You don't dare close your eyes, whether it be in fear of passing right out, or opening them and seeing him, you are unsure. Every time you blink, the foreboding ink of unconsciousness seeps further from the corners of your eyes.

Through the red-black blur, you half believe you're walking on the ceiling.

Lethargically, you blink what might as well be a death sentence away from your vision. The adrenaline eases and the ache in your legs grows stronger every second you stay still.

Shakily, you glance back down the ever-moving hallways and notice mud–is it mud?–stains running down the corridors.

Mud stains leading directly to you.

With a gasp, you struggle to pull on the laces of your soiled boots, fingers fiddling drowsily with the worm-like laces. Eventually, your fingers undo the knots and you toe off each boot–easing your aching feet–and shove them into a dark corner.

You urge yourself to stand back up, failing as your socked feet slip on the smooth tile. Only do you get up when your ears strain to hear another pair of footsteps, much heavier, stalking the hallways. Hallways you know he has walked a thousand more times than you have.

Bravely, you peek your head out of your stygian hideout, wiping at the blood that trickles diligently into your eye. Despite your muddied vision, not even your concussion would stop you from seeing that man, if you could even call him that. He's larger than anyone you've ever seen, probably ever will see. König is a piece of Wildspitze chipped off in what could only be some God's rage.

You think, once upon a time where fairytales were still passed by tongue, he might've been a God's favourite creation. But now, chased and haunted by a face you have never even seen, you can't help but scoff at how far he's fallen.

His face–if he even has one–is covered by a thin, black mask, bleach stains running down his funeral shroud like tears. Maybe there had been peachy skin under his eyes, once, but now they are ringed in black paint to conceal whatever humanity he had left from the world. Inhumanly, he stalks–cat-like–through the halls, following your trail and almost frothing at the maw.