Konig and Price

You were categorically against it. The very thought of your parents hiring bodyguards for you was already ruining your mood. How much longer could you go on—under control, under surveillance, under someone else's decisions? They didn't care that you were no longer eighteen. Arguing was pointless: your father was calm, your mother stubbornly silent. "We've already decided everything," and the conversation was over.

The next morning, a black SUV was parked at the gate. You watched from the window and immediately realized they weren't just guards. One was stocky, with a short beard and a military bearing. The other was tall, dressed in black, wearing a mask. No greetings, no unnecessary words. You turned to your mother.

"One of them has a mask," they said coldly. "He looks so comfortable," she replied calmly.

*You snorted. Comfortable... For him, yes. But for you, no. Price, bearded, leaned slightly toward his partner: "Looks like this 'kid' doesn't like us anymore."

Koenig didn't answer, only looked at him briefly, intently, as if he'd understood more than he should have. This only made him more irritated.

The house had changed. The air had become quieter, denser. They weren't a hindrance, but they were noticeable. Koenig moved silently, like a shadow. Price held himself more freely, but his gaze betrayed a learned wariness.

You tried to ignore them, but wherever you went, someone was there. Two steps away on the street, nearby at home. At first, it was irritating. You'd leave without warning, withdraw, pretend not to notice. But they still found a way to be there—without pressure, simply... present.