The dawn came reluctantly, its pale light spilling over the rooftops of Paris as though even the sun hesitated to touch a conquered city. Christian awoke not with the sharp reflexes of a soldier, but with the heaviness of a man who had dreamt of another life. For a moment, lying still in the narrow bed, he could almost believe he was back in Berlin before the war, before uniforms and blood and orders whispered in darkened corridors.
His hand found his coat pocket. The ring was still there. Cold. Small. Unforgiving.
He drew it out and held it up in the dim light, the metal catching the weak dawn. In it, he saw her face again; Kristina, not as she had been in the shadowed cellar the night before, but as she was the night he had asked her to marry him.
It had been a spring evening, the air carrying the perfume of lilacs, the world still untouched by the thunder of war. They had walked beyond the city's edge, escaping the noise and the weight of his father's disapproval. He remembered how she had laughed at something trivial he said, her hand brushing his, her hair tumbling free in the breeze.
And then he had stopped, heart pounding, pulling the little ring from his pocket. His voice trembled as he spoke her name.
Her eyes had widened, shining with unshed tears. She had whispered "yes" before he could finish his plea. He had slid the ring onto her finger, his hands shaking as though he were holding something sacred. She had laughed again; nervous, joyous and kissed him with such tenderness that the world seemed to stand still.
That meadow was gone now, trampled by time, shadowed by war. But the memory of it burned so vividly in him that for a heartbeat, he felt almost young again.
Christian rose slowly, washed, dressed, and forced the memory back into the quiet recesses of his heart. Müller's orders were clear: extinguish the networks. Snuff out every whisper of rebellion. Paris had to kneel completely, or Berlin would demand blood.
By midday, he was in the Latin Quarter. A café had been marked for observation, it was a suspected courier station. Christian entered with two of Müller's men, their boots clicking against the tiled floor, their coats heavy with hidden pistols.
The café owner stiffened when he saw them. The younger agent smirked, already eager to make an example of him. But Christian raised a hand, his voice cool.
"Not here. We watch."
They sat for an hour, silent predators in the corner. Christian nursed a cup of bitter coffee as patrons came and went. Then a young woman slipped in, barely more than a girl. She handed a folded slip of paper to the owner with practiced ease and disappeared into the street.
His men leaned forward. Now, their eyes said. Now we strike.
But Christian stood. "Nothing here," he said flatly. "We move on."
The agents exchanged puzzled looks but obeyed. The café owner exhaled shakily as they left, unaware of how close death had come.
Christian walked into the sunlight, his jaw tight. He had spared them. He had spared her. And for the first time since the war began, he had deliberately failed.
That evening, when he returned to his quarters, a slip of paper lay beneath his door.
He unfolded it with trembling hands.
Christian, it read, in the curve of handwriting he knew too well. You do not belong in their darkness. You must remember who you are. We need you. I need you.
No name. No signature. But he could hear her voice between the words. Kristina had reached him, even now, in the lion's den.
He pressed the paper to his lips and closed his eyes.
The reprieve did not last. Days later, Müller himself led a raid on a print shop. Young men and women were dragged into the streets, accused of spreading treasonous pamphlets. Christian was ordered to witness their punishment.
They were lined up in a courtyard at dawn, their eyes wide and breaths steaming in the cold. Some trembled. Others whispered prayers.
One boy, no older than seventeen, stared defiantly at the soldiers, refusing to bow his head. Müller barked the order. Rifles cracked. Bodies crumpled into the dust. Blood seeped into the cobblestones.
Christian stood among the officers, his face an iron mask. But inside, something broke. With each shot, he saw Kristina fall again and again. Each face became hers. Each cry was her voice. He could not breathe.
That night, he sat alone with the ring. He held it so tightly that its edge cut into his palm, drawing blood. Two lives warred within him: Christian, who once walked meadows and dreamed of forever, and Shadow, the Abwehr's silent predator.
For the first time, he knew he could not keep both.
If he chose the Reich, Kristina would be crushed beneath it. If he chose her, he would betray everything he had sworn and Müller would destroy them both.
The candle burned lower. Outside, Paris stirred restlessly beneath its conqueror's boot. Christian closed his eyes.
And he wondered; when the moment came; would he betray the Reich…or himself?