The courtyard was quiet when the final shot fell. Not because the battle had ended, but because it had never truly begun.
The presidential palace stood beneath a new banner, a new sigil, a new promise. The Cuban flag was not replaced; it was torn down and lit aflame. Its ashes scattered to the wind.
A last act of arson by a theater of revolution that had been pre-approved, pre-funded, and pre-calculated by a Reich intelligence division that preferred revolutions burn hot and brief.
Batista was dead, and the revolution had declared itself victorious. All while the fighting of the Cuban Army continued against German regulars, and their allies on the beaches outside Havana.
Kurt walked the palace halls like a man inspecting a puzzle already solved. The rebels were celebrating. Which was expected, revolutionaries always celebrate early.
But as a man who had earned his stripes through decades of service in the infamous Werwolf Group, Kurt did not. Kurt only ever moved forward.
