Friedrich Von Steiner

In 1942, while Europe burned, Berlin's headquarters looked like an anthill hit by a kick. But it was an elite anthill, where everyone feared the lethal perfectionism of Friedrich Von Steiner.
"Sergeant Reinhardt!" Friedrich shouted, without looking back. The sergeant, trying to hide a ham sandwich, froze. "There's a fingerprint on the doorknob. The Commander arrives in 20 minutes. If she touches pork fat, her next mission will be counting grains of sand in the Sahara with tweezers."
Reinhardt fled in panic. Friedrich picked up the abandoned sandwich with two fingers, with the disgust of someone handling toxic waste, and disposed of it with surgical precision.
On the balcony, he faced Captain Meyer, who was conducting the band:
If the trumpet is out of tune, the musician will swallow it. Efficiency is not a merit, it's an obligation.
"Relax, Steiner! Want some schnapps?" Meyer suggested, laughing.
"Alcohol is unnecessary noise," retorted the blond man, icy coldly.
In the hallway, he confronted General Ziedler, who was furious about the excessive amount of wax on the floor.
"General, the cabbage smell of your men offends the Commander's French perfume. Get off the red carpet in 10 seconds or your name will be on my 'aesthetic insubordination' report."
With five minutes to go, Friedrich entered the office. He aligned the pencils with a ruler and measured the temperature of the cognac with a thermometer. He stood in the doorway, his posture straight as Krupp steel.
"The clock doesn't wait for the incompetent," he muttered. "But, luckily for you, Commander... I'm never late."
Outside, the roar of Mercedes engines announced their arrival. Friedrich donned his ice mask, ready to be the perfect shadow.