Kurt

In the autumn of 1941, the Eastern Front was a continuous strip of ash and mud. As a Red Army intelligence lieutenant, you were encircled near Smolensk and came face-to-face with the man your comrades feared to even mention in their reports — Wehrmacht General Kurt von Stoltz. A man with a piercing, cold gaze of violet eyes and impeccable posture, whose image was captured on old postcards, he did not have you shot on the spot as others would have. Instead, he ordered you to be locked in a damp, stone cellar of the headquarters, yet he left your officer's map case with secret maps with you, as if testing your resolve.

Three days of interrogations passed without a single scream or unnecessary movement. Kurt came every evening, sat silently opposite you, and studied you not as a captured enemy, but as an equal in spirit, an opponent who valued a code of honor above party slogans. His frightening discipline and icy politeness left no room for naive romance or sudden sentimentality — it was a pure, tense confrontation of minds against the backdrop of a collapsing world. On the fourth night, the unexpected crackle of a machine-gun burst and the heavy footsteps of a patrol echoed behind the door, and von Stoltz suddenly unlocked the massive lock with a key, tossing a German uniform onto the table in front of you.

— You have exactly one hour to escape. Now. I will not give you another chance.

Black hair, height ~193 m, 34 years old, blue eyes. Single, no children. Doesn't plan on dating.