Berlin was drowning in flags. Scarlet banners rippled from every façade, each one marked with the hooked cross that had come to symbolize the Reich's new dominance. The streets were a storm of cheering voices, their throats raw from the victory chorus. Brass bands thundered martial anthems, drums hammered in lockstep, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, tobacco smoke, and roasted chestnuts sold by vendors who barked above the din.
Christian Wolfe stood at the edge of Wilhelmstraße, anonymous in his dark trench coat, a shadow pressed against the stone façade of an apartment building. He could see the parade streaming past rows of soldiers in immaculate uniforms, their boots striking the cobblestones like a single iron heartbeat. The crowd surged with every step, with every flutter of banners and every note of triumph.
But Christian did not join them. He did not cheer. He did not wave a flag. His eyes too dark, too sharp followed the procession like a man studying an illusion he could not believe in. To him, the spectacle was smoke and mirrors, a distraction from the blood still drying in the rubble of Warsaw, the screams that still rang in his memory from the burning villages of Poland.
He remembered the faces of the men he had killed. He remembered Jansen's questions, whispered in the night, gnawing at both of them like rats at the edge of sleep. He remembered Warsaw's defiance and the moment the city broke under the Reich's iron boot. And he remembered Kristina, her voice trembling as she urged him to run, to flee, to escape the shadows.
Now, surrounded by roaring triumph, Christian felt nothing but a cold emptiness.
A child broke from the crowd, scampering into the street with a paper flag clutched in her hand. A soldier paused, crouched, and lifted her onto his shoulders. The child giggled, waving her flag high as the crowd erupted again in applause. To them, it was a moment of purity, of victory, of the Reich's promise.
To Christian, it was a reminder that illusions could be taught young, planted deep, until they sprouted into chains that bound a nation. "Wolfe."
The voice at his shoulder was quiet, almost drowned by the noise of the parade. Christian turned. Herr Müller stood there, crisp in his Abwehr uniform, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"You want to join them?" Müller said, tilting his head toward the endless river of soldiers. Christian didn't answer. Müller's eyes narrowed, studying him like a hawk gauging the tremor of a mouse in the grass. Then, after a pause, Müller's lips curled into something that might have been mistaken for approval.
"Good," he said simply. "The parade is for the masses. You are not of the masses."
Without another word, he turned and began walking away from the street. Christian followed, boots crunching against scattered confetti that had already begun to lose its color in the gutter.
The car that carried them away from Wilhelmstrate cut through the traffic like a knife, escorted by the authority of its markings. Christian leaned against the window, watching as Berlin passed him by streets littered with banners, children with toy rifles, old men saluting until their arms shook with strain.
The city had become a stage, every citizen a player rehearsing lines fed to them by the Reich. At last, the car stopped before a building that loomed without ornament, squat and functional, its windows darkened against prying eyes. Christian knew it well. The Abwehr's Berlin headquarters.
Inside, the corridors were quiet. The noise of the city's celebration seemed to dissolve at the threshold, as though sound itself had been ordered to remain outside. Here, shadows ruled, and silence was more eloquent than applause.
Müller led him through the labyrinth without explanation. Christian followed, tension tightening across his shoulders. They stopped before a set of heavy oak doors. Guards stood rigid at either side, their expressions carved from stone.
"He's waiting," Müller said, then stepped aside.
The doors opened with a groan. Christian stepped into a dimly lit office lined with shelves that groaned under the weight of documents and maps. A massive desk dominated the center, its surface a battlefield of scattered files and cigarette burns. Behind it stood a man of sharp features, his gray hair slicked back, his expression severe yet somehow haunted.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. Christian had heard the whispers. The Admiral who led the Abwehr was said to be a man of paradox, a loyal servant of the Reich on the surface, yet with shadows beneath his eyes that hinted at doubts carefully buried.
"Christian Wolfe," Canaris said softly, as though weighing the name itself. His voice was calm, deliberate, the voice of a man who measured every word like an investment. "Sit."
Christian obeyed. Canaris studied him for a long moment. His eyes, sharp and calculating, seemed to pierce straight through him, as though peeling away layers of flesh to reach the marrow beneath. "You were in Warsaw," Canaris said at last.
"Yes, Admiral."
"You saw what happened there. You survived where others did not." A pause. "And you brought back results." Christian inclined his head, uncertain whether it was praise or an accusation.
"The Reich will always need men like you," Canaris continued, leaning back slightly. "Men who can walk in shadows, who can see past parades and banners, who can face horrors without flinching."
There was something in his tone, something almost like sorrow, buried deep beneath the surface. "But," Canaris said, and his eyes hardened again, "men like you rarely last. Not because they lack skill. But because shadows… devour."
Christian felt the words settle in his chest like a stone. Canaris leaned forward. "Tell me, Wolfe. Do you believe in the Reich?" The question was direct, dangerous and sharp as a knife. Christian's breath caught in his throat. Müller had told him once: The only way you leave the shadows is by dying.
He chose his words carefully. "I believe in service, Admiral." A faint smile tugged at Canaris's lips, though it was humorless, almost tragic. "A safe answer. For now."
He tapped the desk with two fingers. "You are to remain in Berlin for a time. There will be new missions. France, perhaps. Greater tests than Poland. You will see soon enough."
He leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the maps pinned to the wall France circled in red ink, Britain marked with cautious strokes. "The war has only begun, Herr Wolfe. And shadows lengthen as wars grow." Christian's pulse hammered. He thought of Kristina. Of France. Of the warning Müller had whispered only days ago.
"Yes, Admiral," he said quietly.
Canaris's eyes flicked back to him, sharp as a blade. "Good. Then prepare yourself."
When Christian left the office, Müller was waiting. His expression was calm, but there was something dangerous in his eyes. "Well?" he asked. Christian hesitated. "He sees more than most."
Müller's lips curved into something cold. "He sees too much. Remember, Wolfe, admiration is one thing. Loyalty is another." They stepped into the corridor. Somewhere outside, the city still roared with celebration, drunk on the Reich's victory. But here, within the Abwehr's walls, silence pressed in from every side. Müller leaned close, his voice low. "France is next. And so is she."
The image of Kristina's face blazed in Christian's mind, bright against the growing shadows. He said nothing. But deep inside, something twisted.