The Village — Reichenau's Promise
The kitchen smelled faintly of bread from the bakery, mixed with the acrid tang of iodine as the Sanitäts-Gefreiter packed his kit. Sophia stood at the table, holding Louis' hand. The boy's scratches were cleaned, his skin pale but steady.
Generaloberst Wilhelm Reichenau stepped forward, his uniform immaculate despite the mud on his boots from the hurried arrival. His peaked cap rested under his arm as he addressed Sophia in a low voice, almost tender though the words themselves carried iron.
"I must return to headquarters. But I will leave a platoon of my men here. They will secure your house and the street." His eyes softened slightly, though his voice remained clipped. "You and your brother will be safe."
Sophia nodded, relief flickering in her expression before worry quickly overtook it. "Generaloberst… the villagers. They will see soldiers outside my door. They will think…" she hesitated, swallowing, "…that I have become a collaborator."
Reichenau's jaw tightened, his tone shifting to steel. "And if any villager dares whisper such slander, they will regret it. Do not burden yourself with their cowardly judgments. I will deal with them personally."
The words carried both a promise and a threat. Sophia's eyes welled, and for a moment the two stood closer than commander and civilian. He leaned down and kissed her — a fleeting brush of lips, heavy with unspoken history.
On the staircase, Louis had crept halfway down, watching silently. His small fingers gripped the rail. The kiss confused him, but he said nothing, quietly returning to his room before they could notice.
Moments later, Reichenau stepped into the courtyard where Oberst Karl Brenner barked orders to the platoon. Helmets snapped forward, rifles slung; a cordon began to form around the bakery and house. Reichenau's staff car pulled away, bound for Paris.
Hotel Meurice — The Paper Storm
The ornate lobby of the Hotel Meurice bustled with German officers, clerks, and interpreters. Salutes snapped to attention as Reichenau entered. He ascended to the second floor, where carved ceilings and marble corridors now served as the headquarters of occupied France.
At his office, a civilian secretary — a Frenchwoman with hair pinned tightly beneath a cap — handed him a stack of reports. "These arrived in your absence, Herr Generaloberst."
He dropped into his leather chair, the springs creaking under the weight of his broad frame. With a sigh, he signed the first sheet, then the next, his pen scratching over requisitions and incident reports.
The secretary reached the door, paused, and turned back. "Oh — Generaloberst Reichenau — you were formally invited to tonight's fundraising banquet. Hosted by the Nazi Party. To honor the Führer's good health… and Reichsführer Himmler's recovery. Frau Leni Riefenstahl herself will lead the event, under Joseph Goebbels' orders."
Reichenau's pen froze above the page. His eyes lifted. "I am in the Party myself. My colleagues will attend." He let a small smile crease his face, rare as sunlight through storm clouds. "I better not miss it."
Then he bent back to his documents, leaving the secretary to slip quietly out.
The Farmhouse — Adler's Dissatisfaction
In the woods outside the village, Oberstleutnant Friedrich Adler stood with his men at the abandoned farmhouse. His grey field coat was dusted with hay from the loft as he surveyed the scene.
The men reported what they had found:
An empty coffee pot, still faintly stained at the bottom.
Fresh tire tracks cut into the mud outside, leading east.
A scrap of cloth snagged on barbed wire.
And, in the yard, the most damning trace — a severed child's arm, already stiff in the cold air.
Adler scowled, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. "Not enough," he muttered. "Not nearly enough."
His boots crunched on the gravel as he circled the house. The place was scrubbed, deliberate, meant to deceive. Whoever had met here was careful — careful and powerful.
He turned to his Unterfeldwebel. "Report this to Paris command. Say the farmhouse is compromised but not abandoned. The SS were here. High-level. Perhaps even medical staff."
Adler flicked his cigarette into the mud, climbed into his staff car, and slammed the door. "Drive."
The vehicle roared to life, carrying him back toward Paris — and into the shadow of something far larger than he had anticipated.
Berlin — The Lost Letter
At the Reich Chancellery in Berlin, the Feldpost Unteroffizier stared at the envelope in his trembling hands.
Priority One. Highly Classified.
Recipient: Obergruppenführer Imel.
The date stamped across the top was more than a week old. His stomach turned cold.
If a Priority One dispatch was late, someone's head rolled. And he had signed for it.
He dropped the rest of the mail, clutching the envelope, and sprinted through the corridors, past secretaries and aides who shouted after him. He burst into Imel's office only to hear the secretary calmly reply: "Obergruppenführer Imel is in Paris."
He froze, panic rising, then bolted out the doors of the Chancellery, sprinting the five blocks to the Communications building. Guards at the entrance stared at him as if he had gone mad, but he shoved past them, saluted the SS officer on duty, and thrust the letter forward.
"Priority One!" he gasped.
The officer ripped it open, face darkening as he read the date. He barked for a communications soldier. "Encrypt this. Wehrmacht division relay. Obergruppenführer Imel's eyes only."
As the message was encoded and dispatched across secure channels, the officer glared at the mail soldier. "Get out." He paused, his hand brushing his sidearm. "If you are seen again, you will be shot."
The Unteroffizier saluted with shaking hands and fled, his fate sealed regardless.
Paris — Riefenstahl's Shadow
Meanwhile, in the glittering boutiques of Avenue Montaigne, Leni Riefenstahl glided past displays of silk gowns and jewels. Everywhere she went, people stopped her: German officers in dress uniforms asking for her autograph, young French women whispering her name, even Wehrmacht soldiers craning their necks to glimpse her face.
Beside her walked Lucy, her eyes drinking in the spectacle.
"How do you manage it?" Lucy asked, watching yet another soldier bow his head with reverence.
Riefenstahl laughed lightly, lifting a hand to adjust her fur collar. "It comes with the power, the fame, the glory. Men — and beautiful women — worship me. They see in me what they wish they could be."
She glanced at Lucy, her eyes lingering for a moment longer than necessary, a smile curving her lips. There was something flirtatious in it, though wrapped in subtlety — enough to unsettle without revealing. Lucy, still naive to the undercurrent, simply nodded and followed her mentor deeper into the shop.
Avenue Foch — Imel's Reception
At 84 Avenue Foch, the SS headquarters of Paris, guards in black uniforms snapped to attention as Obergruppenführer Imel's car pulled up.
The divisional commander himself, tall and thin with a hawk-like face, greeted Imel with visible nerves. "Herr Obergruppenführer, it is an honor. Your arrival has been noted by the Reich Chancellery. We are prepared to accommodate every need."
Imel removed his gloves slowly, surveying the marble halls filled with clerks and intelligence officers. He knew how these men thought: every gesture, every word could find its way into a report on Himmler's desk — and a line of praise could mean promotion.
"You will be a special guest at tonight's banquet," the commander said eagerly. "It will be an evening the Reich remembers."
Imel frowned slightly. "My uniform will need to be pressed."
"Unnecessary, Herr Obergruppenführer," the commander insisted. "We will send guards to tend to it for you."
Imel allowed the faintest smile, a predator amused by the desperation of smaller men. "Very well. Show me the rest."
San Francisco — Jack's Breaking Point
In a cramped apartment above a fishmonger's shop, Jack scrubbed the last traces of the raid. Broken wood patched, papers hidden, blood scrubbed from the floorboards. The radio crackled, static giving way to the confident voice of the Japanese announcer.
"…the arrival of the Imperial Crown Prince and his family will mark a new era of friendship and prosperity between Nippon and the Pacific States…"
Jack froze, the rag slipping from his fingers. His jaw clenched. In his mind, the images of his sister, his parents, the screams and the boots, replayed in endless loops.
The words twisted into rage. He whispered, almost unconsciously: "The Crown Prince. They're bringing him here."
His fists tightened. A thought bloomed, sharp and poisonous: kill him.
Jack paced the apartment, mind racing. He knew guns were forbidden, serialized, inspected by the Japanese Pacific States government. Only collaborators and officials carried them openly. For an ordinary man, possession was death.
But the rage drowned caution. If he couldn't buy one, he would find another way. His hands trembled as the idea took root, feeding on grief and anger.
The voice on the radio continued, promising parades and prosperity. Jack shut it off, his chest heaving.
"I'll find a way," he whispered into the dark. "Even if I have to build it myself."
The decision hung in the air like smoke, heavy and irreversible.