The ruins of Warsaw glowed faintly on the horizon, a bruised smear of fire and smoke against the night sky. Beyond the city, in the thick woods, a low pulse of radio signals cut through the airwaves like whispers in the dark. Somewhere, hidden among barns and shacks, Polish partisans had built an outpost capable of transmitting troop positions directly to the British. Herr Müller had called it "the cancer feeding the enemy from within."
It was Christian's job to cut it out. The Abwehr team moved like phantoms through the forest. Every branch that snapped beneath their boots felt like a gunshot. Christian led, eyes cutting through the undergrowth, pistol drawn. Beside him trudged Jansen, his rifle cradled tight, his face pale.
"This isn't a mission," Jansen muttered under his breath. "It's an execution. You know what they'll do to anyone inside once we breach." Christian didn't answer. He had learned silence was often his sharpest weapon. Still, Jansen pressed on.
"Christian, you're not blind. You saw that boy last night. He was just a kid, and Müller made you…" "Quiet," Christian hissed. His eyes flicked back, sharp as the edge of a knife. "Do you want them to hear us?" Jansen bit back his reply, but his jaw twitched with words unsaid.
They found the outpost just before dawn. It was housed inside a crumbling farmhouse tucked into the woods, the windows blacked out, a thin wire running to a makeshift antenna rising above the roof. From the darkness came a faint, rhythmic tapping: Morse code transmissions.
Christian crouched low, hand raised. Two Polish sentries stood guard outside, rifles slung loosely. They were tired, shifting on their feet, their eyes dulled by exhaustion. Ordinary men doing their duty. Christian gave the silent hand signal. Two Abwehr men flanked wide through the trees. A knife glinted. The guards never made a sound as steel met flesh.
Christian slipped closer, pressing his ear to the wooden door. Voices. Three, maybe four, inside. One operator tapping furiously at the key, another reading off coordinates. The others murmuring, the scrape of boots on the floor. He drew a grenade from his belt, thumb brushing the pin. The simplest solution: end it in fire and thunder. No resistance, no mess.
But then Jansen's hand shot out, gripping his wrist. His voice was a whisper edged with desperation. "Stop. They're not soldiers. They're just radio men. We can take them alive, destroy the equipment. That's enough." Christian turned, eyes narrowing. "Alive? We take care of all loose ends. That was the order."
"You're not listening," Jansen spat quietly. "We're crossing a line we can't come back from. Every mission, it's darker, bloodier. Where does it end, Christian?"
The words lingered. Christian's hand hovered over the pin. Müller's voice echoed in his skull: "The only way you leave the shadows is by dying."
Finally, Christian lowered the grenade. "We go in quiet," he said. "But if they resist…"
"They won't," Jansen cut in, though his voice lacked conviction. The breach was swift. Christian pushed the door open, pistol raised. The Polish operator froze, his hands still poised over the Morse key. Papers scattered to the floor. Another man reached for his rifle by the wall. Christian shot him instantly, the crack shattering the stillness.
Screams erupted. The remaining two dropped to their knees, hands raised. Jansen rushed forward, barking German: "Don't move!" His rifle swung between them, sweat pouring down his brow.
Christian moved to the transmitter, smashing the key with the butt of his pistol. Sparks flew, wires hissing as the signal died. He pulled the coded sheets from the desk, tucking them into his coat. The mission was a success, but silence fell heavy in the aftermath. Two prisoners knelt before them, trembling. Farmers, perhaps. Men forced into service.
Müller's voice again in Christian's mind: No loose ends.
He leveled his pistol. "Christian, no!" Jansen barked, stepping between him and the prisoners. His rifle hung low, but his body formed a shield. "We've destroyed the outpost. That's the mission. Killing them now is slaughter." The room stank of fear and gunpowder.
Christian's hand trembled at his side. He could feel the abyss opening. If he pulled the trigger, he would sink deeper. If he didn't, Müller would see it as weakness. "Move," Christian ordered, his voice low and steady. Jansen shook his head. "If you do this… you're lost."
Seconds stretched like eternity. Christian's finger tightened on the trigger, every nerve screaming. But then he lowered the gun. "Bind them," he muttered. "We'll leave them for the Gestapo." Relief flashed across Jansen's face but it was short-lived. Christian could see it: the contempt in Müller's eyes when he reported back. The punishment that would come. And worse, the realization that Jansen's conscience had become a liability.
They burned the outpost behind them. Flames licked the farmhouse skyward, black smoke curling through the trees. From miles away, the forest would see it: a signal that silence had been restored. On the march back, Jansen walked beside him, voice low. "You did the right thing tonight."
Christian didn't answer. His eyes stayed forward, cold. Because he knew the truth: mercy was weakness. And weakness was fatal. Jansen thought he had won a small victory. But in Christian's mind, a new calculus was forming. Müller would never allow dissent to survive within the unit. And sooner or later, Christian would be forced to choose between Jansen's humanity and Müller's shadows.
For now, the forest swallowed their footsteps. The fire raged behind them, devouring the outpost until nothing was left but ash and silence. And in that silence, Christian felt the shadows closing tighter around him.