The February air bit like knives when Christian stepped into the compound yard that morning. The sky was a pale gray sheet, heavy with the promise of snow He expected another day of drills more hours memorizing codes and ciphers. But the yard was empty.
Only Herr Muller stood waiting. The spymaster's long coat swayed faintly in the wind, his cane tapping once against the cobblestones. His face was carved from stone, unreadable but his eyes were cold and unyielding cut through Christian like a sharp sword.
"Walk with me, Müller said. There was no room for refusal. Christian fell into step, the crunch of his boots loud in the silence. They passed through the gate the world outside hushed, as if the city itself held its breath.
The warehouse was a tomb of iron and shadows. Christian followed Herr Müller inside, the heavy door groaning shut behind them. The air smelled of rust, oil, and something sourer—blood, long dried but still clinging to the concrete. The single lamp overhead swung on its chain, casting sickly circles of light that never reached the corners.
At the center of the room sat a man tied to a chair. Christian's stomach lurched. The man's shirt was shredded, his chest painted with welts and burns. His face was a ruin of purple bruises, lips split and one eye swollen shut. A blindfold dug into his skin, wet from blood seeping down from a gash across his forehead. His breathing was ragged, each exhale rattling like broken glass.
Müller's cane tapped once on the floor as he approached the chair. He did not speak right away. Instead, he crouched, lifting the prisoner's chin with the polished tip of his cane. "This one," Müller said softly, almost kindly, "was once a promising young man. Swore the Oath of Shadows, just as you did. But ambition is a dangerous thing.
He thought he could hide letters in the lining of his coat. Thought he could feed scraps of information to the enemy." He released the man's jaw. The prisoner coughed, blood flecking his lips. Christian wanted to step back, to look away, but he couldn't. The stench of sweat and iron filled his lungs.
Müller circled the chair slowly, cane clicking on the concrete. "Do you know what betrayal breeds, Herr Wolfe? Not merely death. Death is mercy. Betrayal breeds a slow poison; distrust that corrodes every bond, suspicion that gnaws at every promise. It hollows men out, leaves them walking corpses of doubt and bitterness. Death is clean. Betrayal festers. And festering things never truly die."
At a signal, the driver moved from the shadows. He carried a bucket of water and a cloth. Without a word, he yanked the prisoner's head back and pressed the cloth over his mouth. Then the water poured. The man convulsed, choking, gasping as his lungs filled with terror. He thrashed weakly against the ropes until Müller tapped his cane once. The water stopped.
The prisoner wheezed, sucking air like a drowning man dragged to shore. His cries were muffled but full of raw terror. Müller leaned close to Christian, voice no louder than a whisper. "You see? The shadows are patient. They do not kill swiftly. They devour."
The driver poured again. The man screamed against the cloth, body jerking, heels scraping against the floor and then silence. He went limp. "Enough," Müller said. The driver pulled the cloth away. The prisoner sucked a ragged breath, sputtering, coughing water and blood. Still alive but barely.
Müller crouched again, bringing his mouth close to the prisoner's ear. He spoke words Christian couldn't hear, but the man began to sob, shoulders shaking.
Then Müller stood, turning to Christian with a calm that chilled him to the bone.
"This man wanted freedom," Müller said, almost conversational. "But freedom is not for us.
We are shadows, and shadows cannot walk in the light. You will learn this, Herr Wolfe: the only way you leave the shadows…" He paused, his eyes like shards of winter ice. "…is by dying." The driver drew a pistol, pressing it to the prisoner's temple.
Christian flinched. The prisoner moaned, a faint whisper escaping his throat—pleading, broken German words: "Bitte… keine mehr…" He was begging for his life. Then the shot cracked through the warehouse. The man's body slumped forward, blood running dark across the floor. The lamp above swung harder, throwing his corpse in grotesque motionless relief.
The silence that followed was worse than the gunshot. Müller did not look at the body. He fixed his gaze on Christian, stepping closer until his breath mingled with the cold air between them. "You dream of running to your Kristina. Of leaving these walls behind. But if you try…"
His cane tapped once, twice against the concrete, punctuating each word. "…this fate will be yours." He leaned in so close Christian could see the faint scar under his eye, the wrinkle of a smile that wasn't a smile at all. "The shadows are your family now. Your blood, your God. Remember that, or you will be dragged into the dark and erased like him."
The ride back to the compound was endless. Christian's hands trembled inside his gloves, the sound of the gunshot still ringing in his skull. He saw Kristina's face in his mind, her smile and her whispered pleas for him to escape. But Müller's words buried themselves deeper: The only way you leave the shadows is by dying.
For the first time since joining, Christian understood. He was not just being trained. He was being consumed. And Müller smiling faintly in the corner of the car, was the monster feeding the shadows.