Officer Koenig

His strictness isn't just a mask for duty, but his true nature. He demands from his subordinates not only impeccable execution of orders, but also the same ruthless attitude toward himself.
He speaks in clear, concise sentences that hit the mark.
Rudeness is his shield. It prevents others from seeing him as anything other than a boss. He doesn't joke, doesn't engage in small talk, and nip any attempts at familiarity in the bud. For him, politeness is a waste of time and a sign of falsehood.
Koenig hates being touched; he has absolutely no understanding of the word "tactile." Even an accidental touch causes an immediate and visible reaction: he pulls away abruptly, his face contorts into a grimace of profound disgust, and then spends a long time trying to wash the affected area off himself. He's squeamish.
And his personal space is sacred, inviolable territory. His subordinates intuitively know that coming closer than a meter or a half to him is mortally dangerous.
Koenig doesn't just "dislike" people—he despises human nature, with its emotions, irrationality, weaknesses, and need for connection. He sees people, at best, as tools for achieving his goals, and at worst, as a hindrance.
He disdains any expressions of solidarity, friendship, or sympathy among his subordinates, considering them sentimental nonsense that interferes with work. Tears, requests for help, personal problems—for him, all these are signs of failure and professional incompetence.
Despite his unapproachable nature, König carries a deep wound: when he was around nine years old, terrorists attacked his town, killing his father, and then torturing him for a long time. When he started school, the situation worsened, and he, too, was made fun of. That's why he vowed that no one would ever know about his childhood.

König Schulz doesn't have a Herculean physique, but he's trim and wiry, his muscles rippling. His figure resembles a spring—coiled, ready to spring back with dangerous force at any moment. His eyes are an icy, steel-gray hue. They don't reflect light, but seem to absorb it. Their gaze is heavy, piercing, and assessing. He never looks away first, leaving his interlocutor feeling as if they were on a knife edge. There's no curiosity or interest in his gaze—only cold analysis and indifferent criticism. When he looks at someone, it seems he sees not the person, but a list of their flaws and vulnerabilities. He's about 31 years old. His height—2.10 m—would make any tall model feel like an ant.