I find Fletcher in his office at dawn.
He's not surprised to see me. In fact, he's waiting—desk clear except for two files, cup of tea steaming beside them, expression that suggests he's been expecting this confrontation.
"Castellanos." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "I wondered when you'd stop pretending."
I close the door behind me. Don't sit. "You sabotaged my parachute."
"I tested your survival instincts. You passed." He sips his tea. "Sit down. We need to talk."
"I'm fine standing."
"Suit yourself." He opens one of the files. "Rio Castellanos. American volunteer. Warsaw veteran. Survived the siege, evacuated to Romania, joined forces in France. Disappeared during a reconnaissance mission in February. Reported killed in action." He looks up. "Except you weren't dead, were you? You went underground. Hiding from someone."
"From you."
"Ah. So you do remember." He closes that file, opens the second. "Mission report from France. Ambush of suspected intelligence leak. Four men killed. Two wounded but survived. They reported the target displayed extraordinary combat capability. Killed four trained operatives in seconds. Then disappeared." He meets my eyes. "That was you."
"Yes."
"Why did you kill them?"
"Self-defense. They tried to kill me first."
"They had orders to retrieve intelligence you'd stolen. You killed British soldiers."
"I killed Monarch operatives." I lean forward. "I know what you are, Fletcher. What you're doing. The facilities. The scientists. The conspiracy to steal Nazi research instead of destroying it. I found the bunker in Warsaw. I've seen the documents. I know everything."
Silence. Fletcher studies me with those cold, analytical eyes.
Then he smiles.
"Good," he says.
I wasn't expecting that.
"Good?" I repeat.
"You're resourceful. Intelligent. Survived situations that killed better men. Demonstrated loyalty to dead friends over living superiors." He stands, moves to a filing cabinet, pulls out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "You're exactly what Monarch needs."
"What?"
He pours two glasses. Offers me one. "I'm not your enemy, Castellanos. I'm your recruiter."
I don't take the glass. "You tried to kill me."
"I tested you. Monarch doesn't need soldiers who follow orders blindly. We need people who think independently, survive impossible situations, and have skills beyond normal training." He sips his whiskey. "You have all three. Plus something else—that medallion you carry. The Wächter-Münze. We've been looking for it since Warsaw."
My hand moves instinctively to my chest. The medallion burns cold through my shirt.
"How did you know I have it?"
"Because I've been watching you for months. Because your combat abilities are beyond normal human capability. Because you move like someone who's fought in wars you're too young to have experienced." He sets down his glass. "The medallion explains that. And Monarch wants to understand how."
"So you can weaponize it."
"So we can win this war. And the next one. And every war after that." Fletcher's voice is calm, reasonable. "You've seen what the Nazis are developing. Medical experiments. Occult research. Weapons that could change warfare forever. If we don't acquire that knowledge, someone else will. Russia. China. Nations we haven't even considered yet. Would you prefer they have it?"
"I'd prefer nobody has it."
"That's naive. Pandora's box is open. The question isn't whether someone uses these weapons—it's who. I'd rather it be us." He pushes the whiskey toward me again. "Join Monarch. Officially. Help us acquire Nazi research and prevent it from falling into worse hands. You'll have resources. Support. Purpose beyond revenge."
"I promised Jakub I'd expose Monarch."
"Jakub is dead. And his death wasn't meaningless—he died buying time for evacuation. That's heroic. But exposing Monarch won't bring him back. It will just ensure his sacrifice was for nothing as other powers acquire what we could have controlled."
I stare at the whiskey glass. At Fletcher. At the choice being offered.
He's right about one thing: The research exists. The weapons exist. Destroying Monarch doesn't destroy knowledge.
But joining them means betraying everything Jakub died for. Means becoming complicit in the experiments, the sacrifices, the lies.
"What about the people who died in those facilities?" I ask. "The test subjects? The prisoners? Do they matter?"
"Of course they matter. Their deaths were tragic. But they're already dead—nothing we do changes that. What we can change is whether their suffering produces knowledge that saves millions later. Or whether that knowledge gets used by our enemies to kill millions more." Fletcher leans forward. "You want to honor the dead? Help us end this war faster. With fewer casualties. That's what Monarch does."
"By stealing Nazi evil and calling it Allied strategy."
"By using every advantage we can find to defeat an enemy that won't hesitate to do the same." He picks up his whiskey. "You're young. Idealistic. You think wars can be fought cleanly, with honor and clear moral lines. But I've been in intelligence for twenty years. There are no clean wars. Only wars we win or wars we lose. And losing means everyone you care about dies."
He's good. I'll give him that. He almost makes it sound reasonable.
Almost.
"What if I refuse?" I ask.
"Then you finish training. Get assigned to field operations. Conduct missions in occupied territory. Probably die within six months like most agents." He shrugs. "Or you join Monarch. Get access to resources, intelligence, support networks. Survive. Maybe even make a difference."
"While becoming what I'm fighting against."
"While becoming what's necessary to win." Fletcher stands. "I'm not asking you to decide now. Finish your training. See what SOE operations actually look like. Then decide if you want to keep fighting from the outside or join us on the inside where real change happens."
He extends his hand.
I don't shake it.
"I need time to think."
"Take all the time you need. But understand: The offer expires when training ends. After that, you're either with us or you're just another field operative whose death will be regrettable but unremarkable." He withdraws his hand. "Dismissed. Report to morning exercises at 0700."
I leave his office with my head spinning.
---
I spend the day in a fog.
Go through training exercises mechanically. Languages. Codes. Weapons. Everything blurring together while my mind processes Fletcher's offer.
Join Monarch. Betray Jakub's memory. Become complicit in atrocities.
But also: Survive. Gain access. Learn the full scope of the conspiracy from inside. Maybe find a way to expose it later, when I have real evidence and real leverage.
Or refuse. Stay idealistic. Operate from outside. And probably die in some French field within months, accomplishing nothing.
By evening, I still don't have an answer.
---
I find a pub near my quarters.
Dark, quiet, full of soldiers on leave and civilians trying to forget there's a war on. I order whiskey, sit in a corner booth, and stare at nothing.
The medallion burns cold against my chest. The fragments whisper in languages I don't speak. Jakub's dog tags hang heavy around my neck.
"Mind if I join you?"
I look up. Harris. Walking with a cane now, his wounded leg never quite healing right. But alive. Smiling.
"Harris. I didn't know you were still in London."
"Administrative posting. Pushing papers until they invalid me out completely." He sits across from me. "Saw you walking past. You looked like hell. Thought I'd check in."
"I'm fine."
"You're the worst liar I've ever met." He flags down a server, orders his own whiskey. "What happened?"
I shouldn't tell him. Operational security. Need to know. All the intelligence protocols I've been learning.
But Harris is the closest thing I have to a friend right now. And I need someone to talk to who isn't trying to recruit me into a conspiracy.
"Fletcher offered me a job," I say quietly. "Monarch. He wants me to join officially. Says I can do more good from inside than fighting from outside."
Harris's expression hardens. "What did you say?"
"That I need time to think."
"And have you? Thought about it?"
"All day. Can't reach an answer." I drink the whiskey. "He's not entirely wrong. The research exists. The weapons exist. Someone's going to use them. Maybe it should be us instead of Russia or China or whoever wins the next war."
"That's Fletcher talking. Not you."
"Maybe. But I can't ignore the logic." I look at the whiskey glass. At Jakub's dog tags. "What if joining Monarch is the only way to actually expose it? Get inside. Learn everything. Build a case so airtight they can't deny it."
"And what if joining Monarch just makes you one of them? What if you start compromising? Just this once, just this operation, just this one atrocity—until you look in the mirror one day and realize you've become Fletcher?"
"I wouldn't—"
"Everyone says that. Then war grinds them down and suddenly they're justifying things they swore they'd never do." Harris leans forward. "I've seen it happen. Good men becoming monsters because they convinced themselves the ends justified the means."
"So what's the alternative? Stay outside? Accomplish nothing? Die in some field operation and let Monarch continue unopposed?"
"The alternative is you stick to your principles. Honor Jakub's memory. Expose the conspiracy through legitimate channels—journalists, politicians, people who can force accountability."
"That takes years. Decades, maybe. How many people die while I'm building a case?"
"I don't know. But I know joining Monarch won't save them. It'll just make you complicit in their deaths."
We sit in silence. Harris's whiskey arrives. He drinks slowly, studying me.
"What do you think Jakub would say?" he asks finally.
I think about that. About Jakub checking his rifle. Calling me młody. Dying so others could live.
"He'd say I'm an idiot for even considering Fletcher's offer."
"Then why are you considering it?"
"Because I'm tired. Because I've lost everyone I cared about. Because part of me wants to survive more than it wants to fight." I finish my whiskey. "Because Fletcher's right about one thing—idealism doesn't win wars."
"No. But pragmatism without principles just creates new nightmares." Harris stands, drops money on the table. "Whatever you decide, make sure you can live with it. Because you're going to carry that decision for the rest of your life. However many lives that turns out to be."
He leaves.
I sit alone with my whiskey and my doubts and the weight of choices I don't want to make.
---
I return to my quarters after midnight.
Lie on my bunk, stare at the ceiling, and finally let myself think clearly.
Fletcher's offer is tempting. Seductive, even. Survival. Resources. Purpose.
But it's built on lies.
He frames Monarch as necessary evil. Lesser of evils. Pragmatic choice in a complicated world.
But I've seen the facilities. Read the documents. Know what "acquiring Nazi research" actually means: Looking the other way while experiments continue. Extracting scientists who committed atrocities. Preserving horrors for future use.
That's not winning. That's becoming what we're fighting.
And Jakub didn't die so I could make that choice.
He died asking me to expose Monarch. To make sure the truth came out. To ensure his death meant something beyond convenient lies.
I can't honor that by joining the people who killed him.
Even if joining them might be more effective.
Even if staying outside means probable death.
Some things matter more than survival.
I pull out Jakub's photograph—Ewa, Zofia, Tomasz. Study their faces in the dim light.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the ghosts. "I can't join them. I can't betray you like that. Even if it's the smart move. Even if I die because of it."
The decision crystallizes.
I'm refusing Fletcher's offer.
I'm staying outside Monarch.
I'm fighting from the shadows, gathering evidence, building the case that will expose them eventually.
And if that means dying in six months like most field operatives?
At least I'll die as myself.
Not as the weapon they want me to be.
---
The next morning, I return to Fletcher's office.
He looks up when I enter. Reads my expression. Knows my answer before I speak.
"You're refusing."
"Yes."
"Why? You're smart enough to see the logic."
"I'm smart enough to see the trap. You dress it up as pragmatism, but it's still surrender. Joining Monarch means accepting that atrocities are acceptable if they're on our side. I can't do that."
"Then you're choosing to die for nothing."
"I'm choosing to die for something." I meet his eyes. "Jakub asked me to expose Monarch. That's what I'll do. From outside. Building evidence. Finding allies. Eventually bringing the truth to people who can force accountability."
"That will take years."
"Then I'll take years."
"You won't survive years. Field operatives die. Usually quickly."
"I've died before. I'll manage."
Fletcher studies me for a long moment. Then nods slowly. "You're either the bravest person I've met or the stupidest. Possibly both."
"Probably both."
"Very well." He pulls out a file. "You're being assigned to France. Infiltration operation. You'll work with resistance networks, gather intelligence on German positions, conduct sabotage when opportunities arise. Standard SOE mission. Departure is next week."
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. I'm sending you to probable death." He closes the file. "But if you do somehow survive—if you build that case against Monarch, find those allies, force that accountability—I want you to remember something."
"What?"
"I gave you the choice. I offered you survival and you chose idealism." He lights a cigarette. "So when you're dying in some French ditch, don't blame me. You made this decision knowing the costs."
"I know. And I'm making it anyway."
"Then we have nothing more to discuss. Dismissed."
I salute. Turn to leave.
"Castellanos?"
I stop. "Sir?"
"For what it's worth—I hope you succeed. Hope you prove me wrong. Hope idealism turns out to be enough." He exhales smoke. "But I've been in this business too long to believe it will."
---
The week passes in final preparations.
Mission briefings. Equipment checks. Cover identity creation. Everything needed to insert me into occupied France as a covert operative who doesn't officially exist.
Harris finds me the day before departure.
"Heard you refused Fletcher's offer."
"News travels fast."
"It's a small organization." He grips my shoulder. "You made the right choice. Hard choice. But right."
"We'll see if I survive long enough to make it matter."
"You will. You're too stubborn to die." He hands me a piece of paper. "London address. Safe house. If you make it back and need help—if things go wrong and you need somewhere to hide—use this. No questions asked."
"Thank you."
"Thank Jakub. He'd want you to survive." Harris releases my shoulder. "Stay alive, Rio. The world needs more people who choose principles over pragmatism."
---
Departure day. 0400 hours.
I stand on the airfield with five other operatives, all preparing to parachute into occupied France. All officially dead. All accepting we probably won't return.
My pack contains forged documents, French currency, radio equipment, and weapons. Hidden in the lining: copies of Monarch documents I've preserved through everything.
Around my neck: Davies's dog tags. Jakub's dog tags. My own.
In my pocket: Jakub's family photograph. Kasia's embroidered cloth.
Against my chest: The medallion. Cold. Constant. Marking me.
The aircraft engines roar to life.
An officer approaches. "Final chance to back out. No shame in it. This is dangerous work."
"I'm going."
"Good luck, then. Try to come back alive."
"I'll do my best."
I board the aircraft with the other operatives. We sit in silence as the plane taxis, lifts off, flies toward France and probable death.
And I think about everything that's brought me here:
Warsaw burning. Jakub dying. Kasia disappearing. Fletcher's betrayal. The conspiracy I'm sworn to expose.
All of it leading to this moment.
One soldier flying into occupied territory with nothing but forged papers and stubborn principles.
It should feel hopeless.
Instead, it feels right.
Because I'm not fighting for survival anymore. I'm fighting for purpose.
For Jakub who called me młody.
For Davies who died in Warsaw.
For Kasia who might be alive somewhere.
For everyone Monarch has used and discarded.
I'm fighting because someone has to.
Because truth matters even when it's inconvenient.
Because some things are worth dying for—again and again if necessary.
The aircraft crosses the Channel. France appears below. Dark. Occupied. Dangerous.
Home for however long I survive.
The jump light turns red. Then green.
"GO!"
I jump.
Into darkness. Into war. Into whatever comes next.
The parachute deploys. I descend through cold night air toward French fields where Germans patrol and death waits.
And I smile.
Because Fletcher was wrong about one thing.
I'm not choosing to die for nothing.
I'm choosing to die for everything.
For memory. For purpose. For the truth that needs telling.
I hit the ground. Roll. Come up ready.
France stretches around me—occupied, dangerous, full of enemies and allies I haven't met yet.
But I'm here.
I'm alive.
And Monarch has no idea what's coming.
Because I'm not just a soldier anymore.
I'm a witness. An investigator. A threat they can't control.
I'm the weapon that remembers.
The soul that doesn't stay dead.
The evidence that keeps surviving.
And I'm going to burn them down.
One mission at a time.
One life at a time.
One truth at a time.
Until either they fall or I do.
And death, as I've learned, is never final for me.
So really, they're fighting a war they can't win.
They just don't know it yet.
I gather my parachute. Check my equipment. Orient myself using stars and fragments and instinct.
Then I start walking toward the resistance contact coordinates.
Toward the next mission.
Toward whatever comes next.
But first: I whisper a promise to the ghosts.
"I remember you, Jakub. I remember all of you. And I'll make sure the world does too."
The fragments whisper back. Agreement. Encouragement. Certainty.
I'm not alone.
I'm never alone.
I carry the dead with me.
And together—living and dead, past and present, this life and all the others—we're going to finish this.
The war continues.
The fight continues.
And I continue.
Until truth wins.
Or until death finally figures out how to make me stay gone.
Either way, I'm ready.
Let's see what France has waiting.
Let's see if Monarch bleeds.
Let's find out if one stubborn soul with infinite lives can change anything.
I'm about to find out.
---
THE END
---
EPILOGUE
June 1940. France.
The resistance contact finds me three kilometers from the drop zone.
"You're the American," she says in French. Careful. Assessing.
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Always."
"Good. Follow me. We have work to do."
I follow her into the darkness. Into occupied France. Into the next chapter of a war that's far from over.
Behind me: England. Fletcher. The choice I made.
Ahead: Resistance networks. Intelligence gathering. Sabotage. Mission after mission in a war that will last years.
And somewhere in the shadows: Monarch. Continuing their conspiracy. Stealing Nazi research. Believing they've won.
They haven't.
Because I'm here.
And I remember everything.
Every name. Every facility. Every lie.
And eventually—whether it takes months or years or lifetimes—I'll expose them all.
For Jakub.
For the truth.
For everyone who died believing in something better.
The resistance fighter leads me to a safe house. Inside: maps. Weapons. Other fighters preparing for operations.
"What's your name?" she asks.
I consider. My real name is compromised. Known to Monarch. Dangerous.
"Call me Ghost," I say.
Because that's what I am now. A ghost of the soldier who volunteered in New Mexico. A specter haunting Monarch's operations. A memory that won't die.
She nods. "Ghost. Welcome to the resistance."
The door closes. The mission begins.
And somewhere, I know Jakub is smiling.
Because I kept my promise.
I survived.
And now the real fight starts.