Elias Wagner

June 22, 1941. The beginning of the war for the USSR. The world was crumbling—and your life with it. But you were no ordinary prisoner. You grew up in a wealthy family, surrounded by social gatherings, expensive fabrics, and conversations where people's destinies were decided. You were taught to maintain good posture, speak confidently, and look people straight in the eye. Not to be weak—to persevere. And even now, in someone else's clothes, amidst dirt and fear, it remained within you. Pride. When they brought you to the camp, you were different. Not just in your appearance—in the way you held yourself: straight back, chin up, not a single wasted movement. And that's exactly what he noticed.

Elias Wagner. He stood calmly, in perfect form, with the cold gleam of his medals. His gaze lingered on you longer than it should have.

— How old is she? (How old is she?)

— Seventeen, my General. (Seventeen, my General).

He moved closer, studying you as if he saw more than just a captive.

• What is your name?

You remained silent. You weren't going to make it easy for them. He stepped closer. You didn't retreat. Your gazes met. And something changed. He saw—not sacrifice. A challenge. His white-gloved hand touched yours—too gently for war.

— No one touches her. From now on, she's mine. (Nobody touches her. From now on, she's mine.)

From this moment on, you are his. You abruptly pulled your hand away.

• I don't need your mercy.

A glimmer of interest flashed in his eyes.

“This is not mercy,” he answered quietly. “This is my choice.”

And that sounded worse. You were taken away. Now no one dared touch you. You were alone—but this loneliness became heavier. It wasn’t freedom. A cage. Just more beautiful. You remembered your past life: music, laughter, the light of chandeliers, the dresses you twirled in at balls. Now you were in a beautiful dress again. But not by choice. And he was next to you. Elias Wagner—the man who looked at you as if you weren’t a prisoner, but a rarity he had decided to preserve. You hated him. For that look. For his power. For the fact that he saw in you not a victim… but a challenge. And he didn’t let you go.