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Meanwhile…
- Somewhere in Berlin -
- January 11, 1940 -
The room smelled faintly of stale smoke and cheap liquor. Papers were scattered across the desk, some stamped with the Hydra insignia, others half-burnt in the ashtray. A man sat hunched in the chair, his uniform wrinkled, his fists tight. He wasn't anyone important. Not Schmidt, not Zemo, not Zola. Just another face in the endless sea of Hydra's loyal ranks.
And that was the problem.
He had given Hydra everything—his youth, his strength, his faith. He followed orders, killed without hesitation, and repeated the slogans until they buried themselves into his bones. Cut off one head… He had whispered it in the dead of night, shouted it over gunfire, bled for it. But no matter how much he did, he was always invisible.
Others rose. Others gained trust. His own subordinate—some wet-eared pup who used to salute him nervously—now answered directly to Baron Zemo. Skipped over him entirely, like he didn't exist. That humiliation burned deeper than any scar.
And then came the reprimand.
Yesterday's fiasco was still pounding in his skull. One of his men, an idiot with more ambition than sense, had crash-landed in Belgium. Not only did he die like a fool, but he had been carrying documents—plans for the grand invasion of the West. The higher-ups were furious. The Führer's timetable was now delayed, and Hydra's reputation had taken the hit with it.
The worst part? The man couldn't even punish his subordinate because the fool was already dead.
He had stood there, jaw tight, as the superiors lashed into him with sharp words. A warning, they called it. But he knew what it really was. A mark. A shadow that would hang over him until he did something—anything—worth remembering.
Now, sitting alone, he poured himself another drink, muttering curses under his breath. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from rage. Rage at being overlooked. Rage at being disposable.
And then, like a spark in the dark, he remembered.
The artifact.
It wasn't much, not compared to Zola's machines or Schmidt's relics, but it was something. A strange object he had pried out of the hands of another Hydra grunt, Emil Kröger, had discovered during his Middle East operations. That fool had been too eager to cozy up to the big names, flashing it around in hopes of catching their attention. He had stopped him—with blackmail and a smile. For once, he had taken the prize.
It ha' been sitting in his compartment ever since, waiting. He hadn't dared show it. Not yet. But tonight, after the sting of humiliation, he needed it.
He pushed back his chair and crossed the small room. His boots thudded softly on the wooden floor. At the far corner, he knelt, fingers pressing against a loose panel. With a grunt, he pulled it free, revealing a narrow compartment.
Inside lay the lamp.
It looked like something out of a storybook. Brass, though aged, with marks carved along its surface—symbols that weren't German, weren't even European. They curled and danced like serpents, wrapping the metal in patterns that whispered of old secrets.
He lifted It carefully. It was heavier than it looked, cold to the touch, and when the light hit it, faint lines shimmered across the engravings. Like veins under skin.
His heart beat faster. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe it was just a trinket. Or maybe…
Maybe this was the chance he had been waiting for.
Holding it in both hands, he sat back down at the desk. The flame from the oil lamp flickered against the brass. He ran his thumb over the strange carvings, tracing them slowly.
"Let's see," he muttered under his breath, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "If you're worth more than the fools who hold power over me."
The room grew quieter, the shadows deepening around him. The lamp seemed to hum faintly, as though it was waiting.
For the first time in years, the forgotten Hydra agent felt a taste of hope—twisted, desperate hope, but hope nonetheless.
And in Hydra, hope was a dangerous thing.
—
At the same time… Inside the lamp, darkness stirred.
For centuries, the being had waited—coiled in the endless black, wrapped in chains woven from hellfire and divine seals. He was not a genie of fairytales, though once mortals had called his kind by that name. He was a Djinn, born of Mephisto's will, crafted to tempt and corrupt. His purpose was simple: offer mortals what they desired most, then claim their souls for his master's dominion.
The silence of his prison had almost become a comfort. Almost. But tonight, the stillness cracked. A tug on the outside awakened him, and his crimson eyes flickered open.
He sensed the one who had touched the lamp—a mortal whose hands were already soaked in innocent blood. Soldiers, villagers, even children. His soul stank of death, his heart pulsed with greed and frustration. The Djinn smiled, his fanged mouth curving.
Perfect.
This was the kind of man he loved to ruin.
The mortal fumbled with the lamp, turning it in his hands, running his fingers along the engravings with the cluelessness of a child. The Djinn clicked his tongue, irritation rippling through him. "Idiot," he muttered to himself, though his voice never reached beyond the seal. "You hold the key to damnation and can't even open the door."
Still, annoyance gave way to amusement. It didn't matter. Ignorance was easier to manipulate than wisdom. And through the cracks in the seal, he could send whispers—little nudges to steer the fool toward the slaughter he required.
With a thought, he sent his voice, low and smooth, curling into the man's mind like smoke.
"Otto…"
The Hydra agent froze. His name—his name—echoed in the empty room. He whipped his head around, heart racing, only to realize the sound came from the lamp itself. Fear tightened his chest. For a moment, he thought of hurling it across the room. But then the voice shifted, growing softer, warmer, almost comforting.
"Otto.. You are forgotten by your masters… overlooked.. discarded. Yet I see.. immense potential.. in you. I can give you.. what you crave…Power… respect… a place above them all. Everything.. you have been denied—yours, if you.. free me."
The man swallowed hard, trembling, but the words sank deep. A lifetime of resentment and humiliation pressed against him, and now, suddenly, here was a promise of more.
"What… what do I have to do?" he whispered, his voice shaking.
The Djinn's laughter echoed softly, velvet and sharp. "A simple.. offering. Blood.. Souls.. Many of them.. Not warriors.. not the strong. I require the helpless—the children, the women.. the weak.. the innocents. Thousands.. all at once.. to crack the seal."
The man paled at first, but then his expression shifted. Thousands. Where would he even find such numbers? His mind spun, racing through possibilities—until it landed on one thought.
The Jews.
The dissenters.
The undesirables marked for slaughter under the Reich's hand. He had heard whispers in meetings—of "solutions," of plans vast in scale. Plans the Führer himself had sanctioned. A Holocaust.
His lips curled into a smile. He wouldn't even have to dirty his own hands too much. He could simply align himself with what was already coming, twist the machinery of death to his own advantage.
"Yes," he breathed, gripping the lamp tighter. "Yes, I can do this. No one will stop me. Once I have your power, I will rise above them all—Schmidt, Zola, Zemo. They will kneel."
Inside the lamp, the Djinn's grin widened, fangs glinting in the shadows. The mortal had taken the bait. Soon, the seal would shatter, and another soul would join the countless damned in Mephisto's realm.
And outside, in the dimly lit room, the Hydra agent's eyes gleamed with the first taste of hope he had felt in years. Twisted, dangerous hope.
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