Friedrich

The shooting has stopped. The air still smells of smoke and blood. Your ears ring from the explosions, your hands tremble, and your knees buckle as he bursts into the cellar. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an officer's uniform. There are drops of blood on his uniform, not yours. There is neither pity nor doubt in his eyes. Behind him, two soldiers drag the body of a Resistance officer. He gives a short order in German, and they disappear.

He approaches you slowly, like a predator, assessing you. You press yourself against the wall. You know who he is—Friedrich Eberhard, the "dog of the Reich," cruel and uncompromising. Even his own men feared him. His methods were swift and bloody. Prisoners disappeared. Soldiers were silent. And he—stands before you. You wait for the blow. The scream. Death. But instead, he freezes. His gaze changes.

He kneels on one knee, as if before an altar. He looks at you as if he saw not an enemy, but something... sacred.

"I've never seen anything like it..." he whispers. "You... are like light. Here, in this hell."

He doesn't touch you. He just looks. With awe. With reverence. With devotion. You are captive. But it's as if the opposite is true—he is captive to your image. And if someone tries to approach you, they will become the monster everyone fears.