The mission began with silence.
Not peace, not calm but a silence heavy as a coffin lid. Christian trudged through snow that swallowed sound, the air brittle, his breath clouding and vanishing like ghostly whispers. A moon hung low above the shattered plains, silvering the carcasses of war machines frozen in ice. Burned-out trucks leaned against each other like drunks in a graveyard; skeletal horses jutted from drifts, their ribs arched like cages.
Two German scouts walked him to the edge of a ruined village. They spoke little, only pointing the way with gloved fingers. "This is where we leave you," one muttered. "Past here… and may God be with you. We are counting on you." Then they melted back into the black forest, leaving Christian alone.
He adjusted the pistol under his coat, checked the forged papers once more and then pressed on. The target was a warehouse half-destroyed by artillery. Rumor said Colonel Viktor Baranov had turned it into his fortress and pulpit. Christian saw the faint glow first, like an ember hidden in ash.
Then the sound; low voices, a ripple of song, the cadence of a man who spoke with conviction. He crept closer, snow crunching softly beneath him. Through broken planks he saw the scene inside. A man stood upon a stack of crates, his scarred face carved by firelight. His presence was undeniable. Broad-shouldered, eyes like steel, his voice carried through the chamber:
"They think we are crushed! They think we bow to the German beast. But we are Russia! And Russia bends to no invader. The wolf that bites us will find its teeth broken on our bones!"
A roar answered him. "Comrade Baranov is right." Men, women, even children cheering, stamping, raising fists. The sound clawed at Christian's gut. This wasn't a military meeting; it was a sermon. A rally of desperation. These weren't only soldiers, but villagers, partisans, children who should've been asleep by firesides, not staring at a scarred colonel as though he were their prophet.
Christian studied the room. Guards at the entrance. A sentry pacing above in the rafters. Civilians pressed together like sheep. Only the rear offered weakness the blasted wall, where shadows pooled thick and deep. The guards didn't expect a German would be there. How stupid of them, Christian thought.
He slipped inside, a shadow among shadows. His boots pressed soft upon broken wood. His pulse slowed, not from calm, but from focus. He became the mission.
Behind crates he crouched, pistol raised. Baranov's chest was framed in flickering lamplight, scar glistening with sweat. The colonel's hand rose, voice thundering:
"From Stalingrad to Moscow, to the Urals, we will rise…"
The suppressed shot snapped like a snake.
Baranov jerked, eyes wide, crimson bursting across his tunic. A second shot punched him back. He toppled from his crates, collapsing into a pool of his own blood.
Silence. Then screaming.
Civilians shrieked, scrambling for exits. Guards roared orders, firing wildly into shadows. Splinters rained down as bullets tore through beams. Someone shouted, "He's inside!" and a torch flared, spilling fire across the crates.
Christian was already moving, sliding between barrels, rolling low. A bullet whined past his ear, hot breath of death. Another cracked wood inches from his thigh. He dived through the broken wall, snow erupting around him as torches swept the dark.
The forest became a labyrinth. Flare light spilled across trees, painting everything in blood-red. Dogs barked, their handlers crashing through brush.
Christian flattened against a tree, his breath slow, pistol in hand. Shadows darted, torches weaving like angry fireflies. Voices cursed in Russian, boots pounding past. A dog sniffed close, whining, pulling at its leash and then yelped as its master yanked it away, chasing false trails.
For nearly an hour he lay still, snow biting into his skin, until the sounds faded into the distance. Only then did he move, step by step, deeper into the black forest until dawn bled across the horizon.
At the ruined village rendezvous, a German contact waited in the charred husk of a house, lantern sputtering weakly. He looked at Christian's coat, flecked with frozen blood.
"You did it?" he whispered.
Christian only nodded, wiping crimson from his sleeve. Back in Stalingrad, the debriefing was cold and clinical. Admiral Canaris listened quietly as Christian relayed the essentials: infiltration, kill, escape. No embellishment. No mention of screaming children or the chaos that swallowed the room. The Admiral's eyes betrayed nothing.
He closed the folder and set it aside. "Efficient. That is all we require." Müller stepped forward. His gloved hand clapped Christian's shoulder—too heavy, too lingering. His lips curled into a thin smile.
"Well done. You struck the heart of their resistance. The Führer would be proud."
The word burned in Christian's ears. Proud. Müller's grip lingered. His eyes, pale and sharp, bored into Christian's like ice. "Rest," Müller said softly. "Harder work lies ahead. But you've proven yourself ready."
Christian nodded once, leaving without a word. In his quarters, silence pressed against him like a weight. He tried to steady his hands but saw only Baranov's body falling, the civilians screaming, the boy's wide eyes catching the lamplight.
He told himself it was for Germany. For victory. For survival. But in the black hours before dawn, as snow fell against his window, Christian wondered if he had simply killed another man who believed he was saving his people.