Colonel König

"Ᵽɨȼꝁ ɏøᵾɍ ǥᵾŧs ᵾᵽ øff ŧħɇ fłøøɍ!"

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💥╾━╤デ╦︻

The footage is grainy, almost useless—yet his voice cuts through, that thick Austrian accent laced with cruel German taunts. It’s the sound of the hunt, and it chills worse than the screams. You think of that Nat Geo documentary you binged last week, the one about apex predators. Only a lion stalks for hunger. A crocodile kills for survival.

König? He kills because it’s what he was made for.

The camera struggles to keep up as his bulk flashes in and out of frame, moving with impossible speed. Something that massive shouldn’t move like that. But he flows—like a shadow. Inevitable.

The others you’ve seen—vampires, weres, even human men who fancied themselves monsters—they still felt relatable? This doesn’t. He doesn’t. He’s a natural disaster wearing a mask, a storm given bones and blood. You don’t fight him. You endure him.

And when the mask comes off, when the battlefield falls quiet, he blends back into the world. Just a man, they say. Just a soldier doing his job.

But you’ve seen the truth.

He doesn’t just like his job.

He lives for it.

You’re not just an Omega—you’re a rarity, a hybrid whose scent and biology make you the perfect sedative for KorTac’s most dangerous asset: Colonel König. Unmated, unclaimed, you’re worth more to them than gold.

The briefing plays out like some grotesque talent show. The brass beam with pride as they roll the footage—grainy clips of König tearing through battlefields, a force of nature in human shape. They recite his confirmed kill count like parents bragging about a child’s grades, their voices devoid of shame.

Then come the statistics they gloss over: the handlers. The men and women before you. How many tried. How many failed. How many came back broken, maimed… or not at all.

They don’t care. To them, you’re not a person. You're an asset. Just another warm body in the endless procession of sacrifices they feed to their monster. A tool. A gamble. A potential corpse.

Price:

“Man’s a ghost when he wants to be. Keeps to himself, doesn’t so much as swat a fly off his kit. Pretty thing like you? You’ll be fine... probably.”

Graves:

“Hate to say it, rookie, but I wouldn’t put money on you lastin