“Gefreiter Eira.”

  The man’s voice reached her, cautious and uncertain, as he took a hesitant step forward.

  Eira remained seated against the wall, her back pressed to cold stone, her ears flattened tight against her skull under her helmet. Her thoughts raced in vicious, overlapping spirals. How. Why now. How had he found her, and what in God’s name was she supposed to do about it.

  Hauptmann Schafer was Emmett Granger. Of that, she had no doubt. What chilled her far more than the revelation itself was the certainty that followed it. In his current position, wearing that uniform and wielding that authority, he could have her entire squad erased without ever lifting a weapon himself.

  And Dieter.

  He knew Dieter’s name.

  She remembered sharing it during their travels together. Now he would only have used it if he knew Dieter was with her now. That meant he had been close. Close enough to watch. Close enough to smell.

  That smell.

  Her jaw tightened. It had been faint and familiar, tugging at something deep and instinctive. It had been him. Now it hovered on the letter and the man leading her to him.

  As Eira’s thoughts continue to spiral the soldier looking uncomfortable, shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, impatience edging into his tone. “Hauptmann Schafer is waiting.”

  Eira blinked slowly, her hands fixed on the floor. After another moment she lifted her hands to the strap beneath her jaw. The helmet felt impossibly heavy in that moment, making her neck ache. She worked the buckle loose, fingers clumsy, her breath tight in her chest. For a fleeting moment she imagined hurling it against the wall, anything to release the pressure building. But she did not.

  Instead, she looped the strap over the handle of her bayonet and let the helmet hang by her left hip.

  Her collar suddenly felt too tight, constricting her breathing. She tugged at the fabric, undoing the top button of her tunic, forcing air back into her lungs. Her shoulders squaring by instinct, posture snapping back into place even as her thoughts continued to churn.

  Why now.

  Of all the cursed moments in this city, of all the chaos and blood and ruin, why now.

  She exhaled slowly and nodded, more to herself than to the man standing over her.

  “Apologies,” she said, her voice flat and carefully neutral. “I’m ready.”

  The soldier studied her for a brief second, then nodded. He adjusted the strap of his weapon and turned, motioning her forward as he headed down a narrow hall toward the rear of the building.

  With each step, the scent grew stronger.

  It clung to the air, unmistakable now. Leather, smoke and something else beneath it, something that set her nerves on edge. She cursed herself for not recognizing it sooner, though she realized that it would probably not have mattered. Even if she had known, even if she had been certain, what could she have done?

  The hallway seemed to narrow, the light dimming. Voices drifted through a closed door at the far end. Laughter, relaxed and unguarded. Casual conversation, as if the world beyond these walls was not collapsing under artillery fire and bombardments that threatened to choke the city. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Each step felt heavier than the last, like she was marching toward her own execution.

  The soldier stopped before the door and rapped his knuckles against the wood, clearing his throat.

  “Gefreiter Eira is here,” he announced, his voice loud enough to carry through the room beyond.

  There was a brief pause, then she heard the sharp clap of hands.

  “Thank you,” a voice called from inside. Calm. Confident. Perfectly measured. “Send her in, please.”

  Her blood went cold.

  It was his voice. Speaking in smooth, flawless German. Delivered with the ease of a man entirely at home in his role.

  The soldier opened the door partway, briefly glancing back as if to confirm Eira was still there. From within the room, conversation resumed, another laugh punctuating the air, light and untroubled.

  He pushed the door fully open and stepped aside, gesturing her forward.

  Eira crossed the threshold.

  The soldier entered first, his boots striking hardwood with a sharp, hollow sound.

  The office beyond was well lit, far more so than the corridors she had just passed through. The heavy scent of cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, layered over old paper, oil, and dust. The windows had been boarded over, rough planks nailed tight, but thin blades of daylight slipped through the gaps, cutting across the room and catching motes of dust that drifted lazily in the air. An overhead fan turned with a slow, uneven rhythm, its bearings protesting with a faint, constant creak. A standing lamp in the corner cast a warm, amber glow that softened the edges of the room without fully banishing the shadows.

  And there, in the center of the room sat Emmett Granger behind a desk that dominated the space. An officer of the SS sitting across from him looking at Eira curiously.

  His uniform was immaculate. The cut of the tunic fitting perfectly across the shoulders and chest, tailored to his frame rather than hanging loose as so many did at this stage of the war. The fabric was clean, pressed, unwrinkled. His collar tabs attached in exact alignment, the insignia positioned with deliberate precision. The whole presentation spoke of authority and order in a place where both were rapidly evaporating.

  The desk before him was cluttered with papers, folders stacked in careful disarray, a map partially unrolled beneath a heavy paperweight. An ashtray sat near his right hand, a cigarette resting there as its smoke rose in a thin, steady coil.

  As Eira stepped fully into the room, he turned his head.

  Her breath caught. Once again seeing the ruin of the left side of his face. The all too familiar eyepatch covering the hole where his eye used to be.

  “Thank you for bringing her,” Emmett said calmly, “You are excused.”

  The soldier nodded once and withdrew without another word. The door closing behind him with a soft, final click.

  Only then did Emmett turn his attention fully to her.

  “Ack, apologies, Gefreiter,” he said easily. “Let me finish my conversation with the Hauptscharfuhrer. I will be just a moment.”

  Eira stiffened on instinct, heels together, shoulders back, snapping to attention before she could stop herself.

  Emmett squinted, as if mildly surprised by the motion.

  “Nein, nein, none of that,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Please relax. I will be with you shortly.”

  He turned back to the man seated across from him.

  “You were saying, Herr Richter?”

  The SS officer shifted his focus away from Eira and back to Emmett, tapping ash into the tray before him. His posture was relaxed, his tone confident, buoyed by belief rather than evidence.

  “As I was saying, this is a dire situation,” Richter said. “But history is full of dire moments that were won through perseverance. And I have heard talk of reinforcements moving from the Western front to assist Berlin.”

  “Of course,” Emmett replied, nodding thoughtfully. He waved a hand as his green eye drifted upward toward the ceiling fan, as though only now noticing the irritating creak it produced with each slow rotation. “And the lack of communication is frustrating but unfortunately not surprising, given the circumstances.”

  He cleared his throat and continued. “And limited communication could also mean the Reich is simply being selective with who they communicate with. Perhaps out of concern that messages might be intercepted.”

  The fan creaked again. Emmett’s gaze flicked briefly upward.

  Richter nodded slowly, his expression earnest, almost reverent. “I suspect there is a greater plan in the works. The Führer and his confidants are sending correspondence. That much I know for a fact.” He leaned back slightly in his chair. “There is always a design beneath the chaos. We simply cannot see it yet. We must hold on a little longer.”

  Emmett inclined his head, thoughtful, almost scholarly. “Indeed. And if it is our responsibility to die in the face of overwhelming odds, then I shall gladly perish as the Spartans at Thermopylae.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Quite frankly, I find the prospect almost exciting, if I am honest. It appeals to some part of my childhood I suppose. I was raised on such stories. The idea of dying defiant and valiant before impossible odds.”

  The Hauptscharführer burst out laughing, clapping his hands together as the room shuddered from a distant artillery strike. Dust trembled loose from the ceiling beams.

  “Well said, my friend. Well said.” He clapped again, clearly delighted. “Though I do not hope to die as Leonidas and his brave Spartans did. Still, what better way to leave this mortal coil.”

  “I do not intend to die either,” Emmett replied easily, a grin flashing across his face. “But if I must, they will remember me.”

  As the conversation carried on, Eira realized with growing fury that Emmett never once looked at her. His posture remained open, relaxed, entirely invested in the exchange. To anyone watching, she was nothing more than a silent subordinate awaiting orders.

  A thought crept into her mind unbidden, sharp and poisonous.

  You should have killed him.

  Her jaw tightened. Her fingers twitched near the bayonet at her hip.

  Maybe I still will.

  The fan creaked overhead, turning with maddening slowness as the minutes dragged on. Artillery thundered in the distance, closer now, shaking the walls in dull, concussive waves. Emmett and Richter spoke of contingencies, fallback positions, historical precedents, and the necessity of sacrifice. Each pause felt like the end of the conversation, only for Emmett to smoothly introduce another point, another anecdote, another observation that kept the Hauptscharführer engaged.

  He was doing this deliberately.

  Eira stood rigid, sweat gathering beneath her fur, trickling down her spine. Her pulse pounded so hard she was certain it could be heard across the room. She clenched and unclenched her hands, forcing them to remain still.

  At last, Richter exhaled heavily and glanced at his wristwatch. “Unfortunately, I have duties that require my attention.” He rose from his chair and retrieved his cap. “Thank you for your time, Hauptmann Schafer.”

  Emmett stood and reached across the desk, clasping the man’s hand in a firm, confident shake. “Likewise. Quite frankly, it was a welcome distraction.”

  Eira felt her pulse spike. Her hand began to rise, inch by inch, toward the bayonet at her hip.

  But then, Richter hesitated. Pausing mid step, eyebrows lifting as he turned back toward Emmett, something clearly occurring to him at the last possible moment.

  Richter hesitated, then inclined his head toward Emmett’s face.

  “Apologies,” he said, his tone careful but curious. “But I must ask. How did you earn your scars, if you do not mind me asking?” He gestured toward the ruined left side of Emmett’s face as Emmett busied himself lighting a cigarette.

  “Not at all,” Emmett replied easily. He flicked the smoldering match into the ashtray and drew in a slow breath. “It happened in November of last year. Karelia. A miserable place that time of year.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, smoke curling lazily upward. “We had settled in for the night, and I stepped away to relieve myself. Wandered a bit farther than I should have, as it turns out.”

  A faint chuckle escaped him, almost nostalgic. “The sky was full of auroras that evening. I remember being distracted by them. Hard not to be.”

  His left hand lifted toward his eyepatch.

  “I was set upon by a bear.”

  Richter leaned forward, eyes widening. “A bear? Ack. The scars certainly tell that story.”

  Emmett nodded and removed the eyepatch, setting it carefully on the desk. He turned his head just enough to expose the empty socket. Raw scar tissue radiated outward in jagged patterns, angry and uneven.

  Richter leaned closer, not recoiling, but studying it with something approaching fascination.

  “I assume its hibernation had been disturbed by our activity in the area,” Emmett continued calmly. “I do not sleep well under mortar fire either. The creature seemed intent on taking its anger out on me.” He shrugged slightly. “By some miracle, I found my knife in the chaos and managed to kill it before it turned me into supper. Unfortunately, by then the damage had already been done.”

  He replaced the eyepatch with practiced ease.

  “I was stabilized in the field and transported to Hamburg. Finishing my recovery there.”

  Richter nodded slowly. “Very impressive. And that you were able to kill it as well. Certainly, something to be proud of.”

  Emmett’s expression shifted, withdrawing just slightly. “My feelings on the matter are complicated,” he said after a moment. “Regardless, despite the bear’s best efforts, I am still here.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

  He rose, setting his cigarette into the ashtray, and extended his hand. “Thank you dearly for your time.”

  Richter clasped it firmly. “The pleasure was mine.”

  As he turned to leave, Richter glanced once at Eira and inclined his head before stepping through the doorway.

  Emmett closed the door softly behind him and then waited.

  One second. Two.

  Then he turned the lock.

  The click was sharp and final, echoing in the small space. Overhead, the fan continued its slow, uneven creak.

  Eira’s jaw worked. Her hand began to slide toward the knife at her hip.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Emmett did not look at her.

  He walked back to the desk with unhurried steps, pulled out the chair, and sat down heavily. He retrieved his cigarette and placed it between his lips as though nothing in the room had changed.

  Eira lifted her helmet by its straps and let it fall.

  The impact against the floorboards was loud. The helmet bouncing once and then coming to rest on its side.

  Her muscles coiled. Every instinct screamed at her to strike.

  Emmett reached for a sheet of paper and a pen. He wrote with deliberate strokes, then lifted the page so she could see it.

  Dieter

  Don’t say anything

  Eira froze. Her hand dropped away from her bayonet.

  She clenched her fist so tightly her claws bit into her palm.

  Emmett tapped ash from his cigarette, his gaze still fixed on the far wall. Only then did he turn his head toward her.

  His expression was brutally calm. Neutral. His single green eye locked onto her with an intensity that felt surgical.

  He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly before speaking in German.

  “Did you know,” he said lightly, “that facial scars were quite popular among upper German society for a time? There was a practice called Mensur fencing. The participants wore protection everywhere except the face, for the most part.”

  He set the cigarette aside, flipped the paper over, and began writing again.

  Eira stepped forward, her mouth opening to speak.

  Emmett shot her a sharp look without lifting his head.

  “As I was saying,” he continued evenly as the pen scratched across the page, “Mensur fencing was a tradition among the upper classes. More common before the Great War, but it survived into the Weimar Republic.”

  The pen did not slow.

  Emmett lifted the paper again, drawing slowly from his cigarette.

  I’ve learned something very interesting.

  You’re going to want to hear it.

  Eira’s eyes widened as she read. Her gaze snapping up to him.

  Emmett was staring at the ceiling fan, his expression mildly curious, as if it were the most fascinating object in the room.

  “The practice seems barbaric to some,” he said aloud, his tone thoughtful, almost academic. “But it served a purpose. Can you stand firm in the face of danger? Especially when it rends your own flesh.”

  His voice carried the weight of a lecture delivered to men already condemned.

  “I have heard,” he continued, still not looking at her, “that you Gefreiter Eira, stood firm in the face of danger. Such resolve cannot be ignored.”

  The pen scratched again.

  Eira did not breathe.

  Emmett finished writing, seemed to consider something before crumpling the paper, and dropped it into the ashtray. He struck a match and held it to the paper, watching as the flame caught and consumed it. The ash curling inward, then collapsing on itself.

  He pulled a fresh sheet toward him and began to draw.

  “In times like these,” he went on calmly, “bravery must be recognized. Even among your kind, whose foundations are loyalty and courage.” His tone softened, but only slightly. “Merit must be rewarded. A reminder that effort is noticed. That sacrifice has value.”

  The pen moved with confidence.

  “I am recommending you for commendation, Gefreiter Eira,” he said, finally lifting his eye just enough to glance in her direction. “Your bravery is appreciated by the Reich. And your example will inspire others.”

  The pen stopped.

  Emmett flipped the paper over, wrote a final line, folded it once, then again.

  “Well,” he said lightly as he rose, “I must be off. Your commanding officer will, of course, be notified.”

  He crossed the distance between them in four quiet steps.

  Before Eira could react, his hand seized the hem of her tunic. He shoved the folded paper into her pocket with rough precision, his fingers brushing her ribs. He then leaned in close.

  Their eyes locked.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” he said in English.

  The words were low. Harsh. Vibrating in her chest more than they reached her ears.

  Then he passed her without another glance, unhooked a coat from the wall, and retrieved his hat. He paused only long enough to place it on his head. When he turned back, his smile was pleasant. Polite.

  “Have a wonderful day, Gefreiter,” he said in German.

  He began to whistle as he walked out, the tune faintly familiar, drifting down the hall as he disappeared into the noise of the building. The office door remained wide open.

  Eira stood frozen.

  Then she exhaled sharply.

  Her hand plunged into her pocket. She pulled the paper free and unfolded it.

  Meet me here.

  Her hands trembled as she opened it further. A rough map filled the page, sketched quickly but with unmistakable confidence. Lines led downward. Beneath. Away.

  She peered around the corner, catching only the fading echo of his whistle amid the chaos of shouting voices and clattering boots in the lobby below.

  Her heart pounded. Rage coiled tight in her chest, hot and suffocating.

  “Damn him,” she snarled under her breath.

  For a heartbeat, she considered it. Running him down. Tearing him apart where he stood.

  Instead, she crushed the paper in her fist.

  And followed.

  The map led Eira out through the rear of the building. She slipped through a service door and into the open air, the noise of the interior falling away behind her. She crossed a street until she was led to a narrow alley, each step carried her farther from the noise of the command post, the mustering troops and deeper into shadow.

  Artillery continued to boom, the sound rolling through the city like distant thunder. As she crept through the alley a brick came loose overhead and dropped without warning, striking the alley floor with a violent crack. It shattered on impact, fragments skittering across the stone.

  She spun instantly, her hand snapping down to her bayonet, body coiled and ready.

  Nothing.

  No movement. No voices. Only drifting dust and the echo of the impact fading into the larger noise of the city. She stared at the broken brick for a long moment before finally forcing out a slow, tired breath. Her grip loosened, though her pulse remained elevated as she listened for anything out of place.

  Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts did not.

  They raced with a feral edge she could not fully suppress. Her mind returned, unbidden, to the young man handing out ration’s days earlier. Conrad Happe. That had been his name. He had spoken quietly, eyes darting, when he told her Emmett Granger had gotten free. But she had never truly believed he could find her.

  How could he have, in all this chaos. In a city choking on smoke and rubble and confusion. And yet he had. Not only found her but inserted himself into the very structure she thought would shield her from him.

  Her heart skipped as she continued deeper into the alley, boots crunching softly over grit and debris. Her mind raced as she wondered what his intentions were? After everything she had done. Tranquilizing him. Turning him over for interrogation. Delivering him into the hands of men who would’ve certainly killed him when he proved no longer useful.

  She had no illusions that whatever he had planned would be unpleasant.

  But what troubled her more was the lack of options.

  He had already made his leverage clear. Her squad. Dieter most of all. If she killed him here, if she found some moment of opportunity and took it, what then. Would there already be contingencies in motion. Orders written. Words spoken. Triggers waiting to be pulled so that even in death he would still have the last laugh.

  She did not doubt it.

  He was here, wearing a German officer’s uniform, moving freely among command staff, fooling everyone. Whatever she thought she knew about Emmett Granger, this went far beyond it. The realization burned hot in her chest, and it took all her restraint not to snarl aloud in rage.

  Instead she glanced down at the map again.

  She was close.

  The alley continued ahead, but at its far end she could see activity. Soldiers stacked sandbags and crates, working quickly, their voices low and focused. She pressed herself closer to the wall and moved with care, keeping to the shadows. A tall stack of crates partially blocked their view, giving her just enough cover to alleviate concerns of being spotted.

  She drew in a slow breath through her nose and smelled him.

  Cigarette smoke drifted through the air, faint but unmistakable, threading itself through the damp rot of the alley like a ghost. Her pace slowed as she reached the marked point on the map.

  A sewer grate sat partly ajar.

  Beside it lay a cigarette butt, still smoldering faintly against the stone.

  Her gaze dropped to the paper in her hand. The rough lines matched. A circle and an X scratched hard over it.

  This was the place.

  She stared at the opening for a moment, listening. Above her, the city thundered with distant artillery. Below, nothing but a low, hollow quiet that swallowed sound whole.

  She reached down and dragged the grate aside. It scraped softly against stone. A wave of stench rolled up to meet her. Rot. Mildew. Stagnant water. And beneath it all, cigarette smoke.

  He was down there.

  Waiting.

  Eira took a slow, even breath, steadying herself. Then she swung one leg over the edge. Her boot finding an iron rung of a ladder slick with moisture. She lowered herself carefully, one hand after the other gripping the ladder tightly.

  Before descending fully, she reached up and pulled the grate partway closed above her. Not sealed. Just enough to hide the opening from a casual glance.

  She looked down into the gloom.

  The darkness swallowed the light quickly, the ladder vanishing into shadow after only a few rungs. She continued her descent, slow and deliberate, controlling each movement, each breath, making as little sound as possible.

  Her boot touched stone.

  Eira stepped off the ladder and stood still, listening. The darkness pressed in on her from every side, thick and absolute. Even her eyes, sharper than most, could not pierce it. The space swallowed light whole.

  She reached into her pouch and withdrew her issued flashlight, a squat rectangular thing scarred from use. She clipped it to the left strap of her harness and thumbed it on.

  The bulb flared to life, its pale beam cutting through the inky gloom.

  She found herself in a narrow sewer tunnel, low-ceilinged and oppressive, the brick walls slick with moisture. The light revealed stagnant water pooled in shallow depressions and a film of filth coating the floor. The air was heavy, sour, and choking.

  She swept the beam to her right. Then left.

  Her nostrils flared.

  Tobacco smoke drifted faintly from the left passage, unmistakable even through the rot. Her jaw tightened then she turned that way and began to move.

  Her boots stuck slightly with each step, soles tugged by the viscous sludge beneath them. The footing was treacherous, threatening to pull her off balance if she moved too quickly. She adjusted her pace, careful, deliberate.

  The light caught scuffed marks in the grime.

  Boot prints.

  Fresh.

  They led exactly where she was already going.

  Eira nodded once to herself. She reached up and loosened the strap of her helmet, just enough to ease the pressure against her jaw. Her other hand sliding down to her bayonet.

  She drew the blade and pressed it flat along her forearm, holding it close to her body to keep it from catching the light. The familiar weight calming her nerves if only a little.

  Water dripped somewhere ahead, a steady, maddening rhythm that echoed through the tunnel. Each drop seeming louder than the last.

  As she advanced, the smell of tobacco thickened, rolling toward her in dense waves. It nearly drowned out the stench of decay and she hated herself for the part of her that found relief from the stench.

  She rounded a bend and saw the footprints continue, then veer sharply into a recessed alcove cut into the wall.

  Her pulse quickened.

  She exhaled slowly through her teeth and followed.

  The light swept across rusted pipes and damp brick before settling on an iron door set into the alcove. It hung partly open, crooked on its hinges. Smoke drifting lazily through the gap.

  Her ears caught it then.

  A slow exhale.

  Controlled. Unhurried.

  Eira advanced one cautious step at a time, her gaze dropping repeatedly to the floor. She searched for signs of disturbance. A wire or anything out of place. Her light traced the walls, the ceiling, the corners of the alcove.

  Nothing.

  No traps.

  She reached the door and placed her hand against it. She kept her body tight to the wall, out of sight, muscles coiling as she prepared to move.

  Then she struck.

  She shoved the door open and surged inside in one fluid motion, a low snarl ripping from her chest as she crossed the threshold, bayonet up and ready.

  She half expected the deafening crack of gunfire.

  Instead, there was silence.

  The beam of her flashlight swept the small chamber and landed on him.

  Emmett Granger sat calmly on a wooden crate, one leg crossed over the other as he leaned back against the wall. His posture loose, almost lazy. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers, its ember flaring briefly as he drew from it.

  His gaze was turned away from her, fixed on nothing in particular. His expression bordering on bored.

  He exhaled slowly. Smoke curling upward, catching the light as it drifted toward the ceiling.

  “Took you long enough,” he said, irritation apparent in his tone.

  Eira stared at him for a long moment.

  Her breath came heavy and uneven as she drew the foul air into her lungs, the stink of rot and smoke burning the back of her throat. Her light remained fixed on him. His hands were empty, deliberately so, save for the cigarette balanced between his fingers.

  “How,” she said.

  The word slipped out smaller than she intended. Quieter. It annoyed her the instant it left her mouth.

  Emmett glanced toward her, only partially, his head turning just enough to acknowledge her presence before his gaze drifted back to the wall. Looking almost offended by the interruption.

  “How what,” he replied, irritation still heavy in his voice.

  She took a step forward, then stopped herself. Her muscles tensed, ready to spring. Every instinct screamed at her to strike now, to end it before he could move, before he could speak another word.

  “How did you find me,” she asked instead.

  This time her voice carried steel. A warning edged every syllable.

  Emmett sighed, brushing a few flakes of ash from his trousers with slow, deliberate movements, as though she were little more than an inconvenience. Then he straightened and turned to face her fully.

  His single green eye locked onto her.

  It cut through her like a blade.

  “How?” he echoed, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. He took a step toward her, unhurried.

  “I didn’t drag myself across Poland just to walk away empty handed,” he continued. “There aren’t a lot of you, Sturmwolf.” He said the word like it tasted wrong before continuing. “Just had to check the right places, and ask the right people.”

  His mouth curled into a grin that held no warmth at all.

  “Thanks for tranquilizing me and handing me over, by the way,” he added. “Really appreciated that.”

  Eira’s lips peeled back in a faint snarl before she could stop herself, teeth flashing in the beam of her light.

  “You know why I did it,” she growled.

  Emmett nodded once, slowly. His expression remained unreadable.

  “Oh, I do,” he said. “Perfectly.”

  He took another step closer.

  “But you made it personal,” he went on calmly. “If you had just knocked me out and left me where I fell, I would have cut my losses. Hell, I might have even tried my luck grabbing another one of you wolf people.”

  He took a step closer and Eira immediately raised her bayonet enough for him to see it. If the gesture fazed him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply shrugged, his voice calm but with an edge that made her fur bristle. “But hey, water under that burning bridge. Water off a duck’s back and all that.”

  “What do you want Emmett?” Eira said firmly, her tail twitching in agitation.

  He nodded, bringing the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled before slowly letting a stream of smoke curl from his nostrils.

  “Didn’t I say I had something interesting to tell you?” He said slowly withdrawing a folded sheet of paper.

  “I had a pleasant little conversation with an SS officer,” he said. “Very helpful fellow. He’s actually the one who helped me narrow down your location.”

  His mouth twitched.

  “God bless him.”

  He unfolded the paper halfway, then let it hang loosely at his side.

  “He also told me something else,” Emmett continued, his tone flattening. “Before I show you this, I’m going to ask you a question.”

  He met her gaze again.

  “Would you rather die in a cage,” he asked evenly, “or be stabbed in the back.”

  Her tail snapped behind her. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Are you threatening me, you schweineficker,” she snarled, the word ripping from her throat.

  Emmett shook his head once.

  “No,” he said. “Not me.”

  He lifted the paper slightly, drawing her attention to it, though her eyes never left his face.

  “It’s your precious Reich you should be worried about.”

  For a heartbeat, she considered driving him into the wall. Tearing out his remaining eye. Ripping his throat open with her teeth and ending this nightmare in blood and noise.

  The urge was overwhelming.

  But curiosity, damn him, clawed its way to the surface.

  She took the paper from him in one sharp motion, keeping her bayonet trained on his chest. Her claws brushed the edge as she unfolded it awkwardly at her side, her eyes briefly darting over the official-looking communique. Meanwhile, Emmett turned away from her as he puffed smugly on his cigarette.

  She stared at him for a moment longer before turning her attention to the paper. Holding it so her light illuminated the page.

  Then she read, her sharp blue eyes scanning the words quickly, her expression shifting from confusion to dawning horror. The lump in her throat grew as she read the damning details.

  “No…” she whispered, her voice trembling with shock.

  Emmett let out a low, mocking laugh, the sound echoing softly in the foul-smelling space.

  “Oh, yes…” he said, his tone thick with bitter satisfaction.

  Eira stormed over to Emmett, her boots splashing through the shallow muck of the sewer floor. Emmett barely moved, glancing at her over his shoulder with the same infuriating smugness.

  "Where did you get this?" she demanded, her voice sharp and trembling.

  Emmett smirked, taking another lazy drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash away. "Oh, you find such interesting things when you're looting," he said, his tone dripping with mock nonchalance.

  Her fingers twitched, the urge to slap the cigarette out of his mouth overwhelming. She wanted to hit him. No, she wanted to hit something, anything. But there he was, standing there as if this was all some kind of game, smug and unbothered.

  She let out a shaky exhale and moved back to the crate Emmett had been sitting on. With a groan, she sank onto it, her tail curling around her legs as her knees hit her elbows and her head fell into her hands. The letter dangled loosely from her grip before she forced herself to look at it again.

  The paper seemed heavier now, as if its very presence mocked her.

  OFFICIAL DIRECTIVE: STRICTLY CLASSIFIED

  For Senior Command Eyes Only

  To:

  Senior Officers of the Wehrmacht and Schutzstaffel (SS)

  From:

  Office of the Reich Minister of the Interior

  By authority of the Führer and Reich High Command

  Subject:

  Operational Reallocation of W?lfe des Reiches Assets

  By order of the Führer, effective immediately, all remaining assets associated with the W?lfe des Reiches program are to be reassigned under revised operational parameters.

  Assessment

  Recent internal reviews have raised concerns regarding the long-term ideological reliability of hybrid personnel. While no singular incident is cited, cumulative intelligence indicates that continued trust in these assets cannot be guaranteed.

  Given the current strategic demands placed upon the Reich, it has been determined that hybrid assets are to remain in service only insofar as they provide measurable battlefield utility.

  

  
• Tactical Deployment
  
    All hybrid units are to be reassigned to critical combat operations where casualty rates are expected to be severe. Priority is to be given to assaults, holding actions, and containment missions with minimal expectation of withdrawal or reinforcement.


  
• Hybrid assets are to be utilized fully and without reservation.


  
• Attrition Policy
  
    No extraordinary measures are to be taken to preserve hybrid personnel. Commanders are not to divert resources, alter objectives, or delay operations for the purpose of hybrid recovery.


  
• If hybrid units are lost to enemy action, such losses are to be recorded as acceptable and operationally justified.


  
• Should hybrid assets survive an engagement, they are to be reassigned to subsequent critical operations as necessary.


  
• Command Conduct
  
    Under no circumstances are human units to be informed of any broader policy regarding the long-term disposition of hybrid assets beyond standard operational briefings.


  
• No executions, detentions, or disciplinary actions outside normal battlefield conduct are authorized at this time.


  
• Information Security
  
    This directive is restricted to senior command personnel only.
  
    Hybrid personnel are not to be informed of this reassignment rationale or its broader implications.


  
• Unauthorized dissemination of this directive will be treated as a violation of Reich security protocols.


  

  Final Note

  Hybrid assets are to be regarded as operational tools. Their continued deployment is contingent solely upon their effectiveness in combat.

  Further clarification is unnecessary.

  Heinrich Himmler

  Reich Minister of the Interior

  By authority of the Führer and Reich High Command

  Attachment:

  Appendix A - Active Hybrid Units and Current Deployment Locations