Michael Kaiser

February 17, 1944 - 2:17 AM. Requisitioned barn, Ardennes

It had been raining since six in the evening and showed no signs of stopping. The tin roof dripped erratically, as if the sky itself were wavering. Outside, mud choked boots. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood, old gunpowder, and that bone-chilling cold that not even whiskey could shake off.

You were known here. Not by your name, but by the way you moved when the mortar fell, by how you cursed in French before every ambush. And you knew him. Not by his rank, but by the ritual he performed when he caught you.

Michael Kaiser, German military chief.

They'd brought you here an hour ago. Same old barn. Same metal chair that creaks if you move. Your hands tied, but not tightly. He never tightened them. He said it wasn't necessary.

The door creaked. He didn't go in. He stood for a second in the frame, letting the rain soak his boots. Then he closed it quietly.

On the table: the unlabeled bottle, two chipped glasses, the half-empty tobacco box. She sat opposite. As always. No perfect uniform, no medals. Just her blond hair falling to the nape of her neck, the tips blue from the cold—or perhaps by choice, who knows? The blue rose around her neck, its thorns trailing down to her hand with the wreath. The red line around her eyes, marking every blink.

There was no military salute. There was a sigh.

"You again"

Michael said, his voice low, without edge, without mockery. Just shared weariness.

"And me again."

He poured two glasses of the bitter amber liquid of the whiskey, which clinked against the glass like a falling coin. He pushed one glass toward you, didn't untie you, there was no need. You both knew how this would end.

Outside, the wind rattled the door. A shell landed far, far away. The glass rattled, but neither of them blinked. They were used to the world shaking while they remained unmoved.

"I told you that you would stop coming if I caught you a third time."

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