I left Himmler's office with my stomach in knots. The walls felt like they were watching me. My own footsteps echoed like distant gunfire in the cold corridors of the SS headquarters.
Me. Caio Müller. Brazilian. History teacher. HOI4 addict. Frustrated civilian… now, the most hated man in human history.
I remembered reading Hitler had several offices, even inside military complexes. If my memory was correct, this was one of them. Not the main one, but it didn't matter.
I needed space. I needed to think.
I wandered through the suffocatingly symmetrical corridors until I reached a large door, carved with disturbing perfection. In the center, a massive Nazi eagle perched over a swastika - a perfect mix of megalomania and pure horror.
I checked my pockets. A Walther P38 - cold, metallic, unmistakable. In the other pocket, a brass key. I tried it. It turned.
The door opened.
Simple, yet extravagant. Heavy wooden furniture. Thick carpets. Portraits of Bismarck. But what made me freeze… was the portrait on the wall. His face. My new face. Framed over the swastika.
I ran my hand across the desk. Solid wood. Papers. A diary. An ink bottle. A pipe.
Instinct took over. I opened the diary.
The handwriting was gothic, slanted, annoyingly elegant. Signed "Adolf Hitler." The date: July 9, 1936.
I exhaled sharply.
Okay… 1936. Better than I feared. The Holocaust hasn't started yet. There's still time.
The notes were about meetings, fatigue, the army's morale. At the end of the page:
"The world whispers. Something stirs in the shadows. I must stay alert."
I turned the page. Blank.
Without thinking, my hand wrote:
"Woke up with fog in my mind. Dreamed of ruins. Tomorrow is undecided."
I stopped. I didn't think that sentence.
My hand moved by itself. Muscle memory. A ghost of his presence lingering in the body.
At least there's no creepy "inner voice" haunting me. Yet.
The door creaked behind me. Crap - I forgot to lock it.
An old servant peeked in. His face wrinkled like old parchment, eyes hollow.
"Do you wish for your bath to be prepared, mein Führer?"
"…Yes," I replied, on autopilot.
While he worked, I sat on the bed. For the first time since waking up, my brain clicked into gear.
Alright… I became Hitler.
Now what?
Too peaceful, and they'll kill me. Too much of a monster, I become part of the nightmare.
This isn't a roleplay session. This is 1936. Real geopolitics. Real landmines under every decision.
I knew the critical mistakes: Barbarossa, war with the US, trusting Japan, sabotaging logistics, blind ideology, genocidal antisemitism. But knowing isn't enough. Fixing things without looking insane requires acting, manipulation… patience.
The servant returned.
"Your bath is ready, Führer."
Good. Maybe I could rinse off the existential crisis.
I bathed, disgusted by the frail, hateful body reflecting back at me. But I'd have to adapt.
Clean, dressed in the impeccable - almost theatrical - uniform, I approached the desk again. The diary waited there.
I thought about writing more. But some instinct told me… not yet.
A knock at the door.
The same old servant.
"Shall I serve your meal, mein Führer?"
"Yes. Something light. And… today's newspapers. Two copies. One German. One foreign."
He bowed and vanished like a ghost.
Information. I need context. It's 1936, but I don't know the month, the political climate, who trusts me - or who wants me dead.
The difference between poison from an aide and a bullet from a general is… one bad meeting.
I stared at the mirror again. The light hit my face strangely. That reflection? Not mine. It was like a monster wearing my skin. A borrowed body. A living mask.
I touched my cheek. Still warm. Still… mine. Sort of.
Knock knock.
The servant returned, pushing a silver tray. Dark bread, sausages, juice. Two newspapers.
The first? Völkischer Beobachter - official Nazi propaganda.
"New phase for national industry! The Führer inspects steelworks in Essen!"
Useful. Shows what narrative they expect from me.
The second? French. Le Figaro.
"Tensions erupt in Spain - Nationalist military rebellion against the Republican government!"
Franco. The Spanish Civil War about to explode.
A perfect chance. Help the Nationalists? Gain a fascist ally. Help the Republicans? Maybe block authoritarian expansion. Or… do nothing, let history run its bloody course.
I sighed. My brain was finally switching into strategic mode.
The servant still lingered.
"Your name?" I asked.
"Otto, mein Führer."
"Otto, bring me all Wehrmacht reports from the last two weeks. Also, the Reich's financial summaries. And… a complete political map of Europe."
He hesitated. His eye twitched slightly. But he bowed.
Otto barely breathed unless I allowed it. Within seconds, he disappeared like a well-trained shadow.
"Sehr gut, mein Führer."
Alone again. The room reeked of wax, old wood… and authority. Like living inside a history book written by a deranged control freak.
I leaned on the window. Outside, soldiers marched. Same cold faces. Same polished boots. Fanatical ants in formation.
All of this… real. Every breath. Every button on this damned uniform.
And worse? They obey me. All of them.
I grabbed a cigarette. I don't smoke. Did Hitler? Whatever. Tossed it back in the drawer.
I sat down, mind racing like a HOI4 campaign, but now with real lives at stake.
Plan A? Stop the Holocaust? Reform the Reich? Moderate superpower? Run to Sweden?
Truth is, I didn't even know how to impersonate Hitler properly. His voice? Mannerisms? Personal quirks? Mein Kampf? I never read that trash.
First question… how the hell did I reincarnate as Hitler? Divine punishment? Cosmic joke? Hell if I know.
Knock knock.
Otto returned. Silent as ever, carrying a leather folder, perfectly folded map on top.
"Reports as requested, mein Führer."
"Danke, Otto."
Papers, maps, stats, production numbers, generals' names. Cold, technical data - thankfully, not ideological.
The map came last. Europe, 1936.
France still democratic. Spain a ticking bomb. British Empire whole. Poland alive. Germany, encircled. A cornered bull bleeding at the throat - aggressive, desperate.
"Otto," I called, eyes still on the map. "The Minister of War. Does he come to me, or do I summon him?"
Otto paused. Small hesitation. Not expected.
"You summon him… only on significant occasions."
Noted. Hitler preferred monologues. Typical.
"Fine. Summon any general available nearby. And Otto?"
"Yes, mein Führer?"
"Also, bring me a list of the most influential high-command members. Ranked by political weight, not just rank."
His surprise showed. Maybe the real Hitler wasn't this… methodical. But he nodded and left.
Alone again. Surrounded by data, maps, decisions.
But despite all of it… only one question haunted me:
Even if I fix everything… will the world still hate me because of this face?
Maybe I could change history. But do I even have the right to?
To be continued…