Paul sat in his cell, looking at the ground.
He brushed his hair aside, hair that had once been a neat side part, now a long, dirty mane. He turned and reached for the stone he had placed so neatly in the corner of his cell, doing what he always did after waking up: marking a line.
He took a look at the lines and started counting. 1... 5... 10... 25... 45... 50.Fifty lines. Today is the fiftieth day, he thought, his eyes empty, without emotion.
"Pfff." The guard outside his cell scoffed. The man sat there lazily, looking bored.He took a long look at Paul. "To think this is the same person… Alfredo is truly a monster."
Then he shouted with a heavy accent: "Hey, don't run away on me!"A loud laugh erupted from the guard. "I'm gonna go play some cards with my hermanos, so you stay here."
He scanned Paul for any reaction — anything at all, but then shook his head and walked away.
Paul kept sitting there, staring at the ground, motionless.
Then — he blinked. Once, twice. Slowly, he stood up, walking toward the iron bars. He tilted his head just enough to see the guard leave around a corner and disappear.
Something at the edge of his lips twitched, before forming a subtle smile.
"Time for some exercise," he muttered, lowering himself onto his knees, then onto all fours.
His muscles twitched as he pushed himself up again and again. Despite the poor food, the quantity had been just enough for his body to rebuild.
Every day, he tried to do something meaningful, to exercise whenever the guards weren't watching.
Some, like the one before, were curious at first, but all of them grew bored of him eventually. That, too, was part of his plan.
Paul stood up, sweat dripping from his bare body, bandages hiding some parts, dried blood painting them partly crimson. The rest of his skin was covered in scars.
He jumped, grabbing a loose pipe hanging from the ceiling, pulling himself up, then down again. His back, too, was a landscape of wounds and memories.
Paul thought back to the countless agonizing memories that had painted this landscape across his body, hours of torment, of pain.There were days when he didn't pretend to be the broken man; he was the broken man.Yet somehow, he always managed to get a grip.
The constant shattering of his spirit and the endless repairing were like a blacksmith hammering a sword, the longer he hammered, the sturdier and sharper it became.
Paul had become that sword, a sharp one and with every day that passed, it grew sharper still.All for one single purpose: to kill his enemies.
That was what kept Paul alive, what kept him sane, the thought of revenge.The thought of killing Alfredo.The thought of killing the guards who ridiculed him every day.And the thought of killing the man who had betrayed him.
Then, a sudden tremor pulled him back. Another shock shook the ceiling.Paul dropped down from the pipe, looking up.
A small amount of concrete dust fell from above. Then he heard something else, a sharp sound, like an airplane.
His eyes widened as he tried to make sense of it. Have they finally broken through?
BOOM!A deafening explosion erupted somewhere nearby. Then came the screams, guards, probably.
More explosions followed from all directions. The sound was muffled by the thick walls, yet strong enough to shake the cell each time another bomb hit.
Suddenly, a violent tremor ripped through the room. An explosion from above, then the ceiling gave way, chunks of concrete crashing down.Paul jumped aside just in time.
Cough… cough…He forced himself up, scanning the state of his cell. Above him, a large hole gaped open, connecting to the floor above.
His eyes widened, this time not in fear, but in something primal.The urge for freedom.
Paul leapt, grabbing the jagged edge of the hole and pulling himself up with surprising ease. Before he could take in his surroundings, a guard turned toward him, the same one who had mocked him earlier, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Paul didn't hesitate.
He threw himself at the man before he could even reach for his gun.
They crashed to the floor. Paul unleashed everything he had endured — all the rage, the pain, the humiliation.
His fist struck once. Pain.Again, harder. Fear.A third time — his knuckles sank deep into the man's face, blood splattering across the floor. Agony.Another hit followed, relentless. Vengeance.
By the time Paul stopped, the guard's face was barely recognizable. Breathing heavily, Paul stood up, picked up the man's pistol, and searched his body for ammunition.
He turned toward the corridor, ready to move on, when a faint gurgle caught his ear.
Paul turned back. The guard was still alive, choking on his own blood, eyes wide and unfocused.For a brief second, Paul just looked at him and the horryfing scne he had created. He didn't budge. The part of him that would feel guilty, had died somewhere between all the whipping and agony.
Then he raised the pistol. One shot. Silence.
Paul stepped into the hallway, tremors still shaking the building. He moved through the prison, trying to locate the place where Alfredo had always tortured him. His jaw tightened and his fists balled, his thoughts fixed on what he would do to the man.
He continued down the corridor when a door was kicked open and two guards ran in. They stopped, staring at Paul as if they'd seen a ghost. Everyone in the prison knew Paul, the man who didn't budge, who didn't speak. Now he stood before them, free: no iron bars, no chains, no restraints.
Their first instinct was to run, but before they could decide, both crumpled to the floor, clutching their chests as blood spilled out. Paul finished them with two shots.
He moved on, reloading as he went, killing any guard dumb or unlucky enough to cross his path. He strode the corridors like a god of death reincarnate. Blood spattered him, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was finding Alfredo.
Another guard ran, another shot cracked through the hall. The man stumbled, bleeding out. Paul crouched beside him, close enough to whisper in his ear: "Tell me where Alfredo is and I'll give you a quick death."
Terror filled the guard's eyes. He twitched, lifted a shaking arm, and pointed toward a distant door.
"Thank you," Paul said, and pulled the trigger.
He reached the door and opened it without hesitation. Inside, Alfredo was frantically packing: paperwork, photographs, cold coins scattered on the table. Paul watched him pack, patient. Alfredo hoisted the heavy bag of valuables and turned.
For a heartbeat the world froze. Paul met Alfredo's gaze. Alfredo's mouth opened, but before he could make a sound Paul shot him in the leg.
Alfredo screamed and collapsed, clutching the wound. "I'm sorry," he begged through clenched teeth. "I can give you money. Anything. Just don't kill me."
Tears fell as he crawled toward Paul, bleeding, and clung to his feet. Paul looked at him with absolute disgust and kicked him away.
Another shot rang out — the other leg. Alfredo screamed and curled up on the floor. Paul stepped forward, voice barely contained: "Alfredo, I have some questions for you, too."
He took another step. "Which next? The arm, the stomach, the chest… or the head?"
Alfredo could not answer. He only cried louder.
"No answer means I decide." Paul smiled and fired into Alfredo's arm. Alfredo howled; a pool of blood spread beneath him. His frantic movements slowed.
"We don't have much time," Paul said. "Let's meet again, Alfredo. In hell."
He emptied the magazine into Alfredo until it was spent.
Then he left the office, continuing his killing spree. Everywhere he went, bodies marked his path. Finally, he reached a heavy door that looked like an exit. From the other side came the sounds of gunfire and explosions.
He pushed it open and stepped into the blinding sunlight.
Two tanks were advancing toward the building — Panzer I's, he realized, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Above him, a German aircraft swooped low, waggling its wings toward the tank company.
Behind the tanks, infantrymen were cheering, firing toward the enemy lines.
The tank officer soon spotted Paul and froze. His eyes widened as he took in the stranger — the blood, the scars, the madness that seemed to cling to him. Then he noticed the pistol in Paul's hand and raised a hand sharply.
"Don't shoot!" he ordered his men.
He hesitated, then called out in broken Spanish, his German accent thick.
Paul replied in a steady voice, "I'm no Spaniard, Sergeant."
The officer blinked, startled, then realization dawned. He jumped down from the tank and ran toward him, snapping to attention.
"Sir!" he barked, saluting stiffly.
Paul gave a short nod.
"May I ask your name and rank, sir?" the young sergeant stammered, still shaken by the sight before him.
"Heinrich Jaeger. Obersleutnant, German Wehrmacht," Paul said calmly.
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