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Chapter Text

8. October 1949 

Siegfried jolted out of bed. He turned to the left to glance at the clock, it's already 12:00; it's middle of the night. 

Yesterday was the day Oskar, an entity created from the half of Siegfried's soul, became officially East Germany, or more appropriately, German Democratic Republic. 

Siegfried should've gone back to sleep, but instead, he decided to do something else. 

Something he wanted to do in secret when the Allies or his capital aren't around, he thought of contacting his late father about the news. 

But is that possible? 

He knows someone extremely powerful enough to do that, so he grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and put them on. He opened his right hand, and a bright green light shone on his palm. Out of his palm materialized a levitating sparkling green crystal. 

He softly muttered to the crystal as he recited the words that were used to call upon the goddess, carefully lowering his voice to avoid awakening his capital from the next room, who was still asleep. 

"O Göttin Europa, ich flehe dich an, meinem Ruf zu folgen und dich zu offenbaren." (O Goddess Europe, I implore you to heed my call and manifest yourself.) 

Like a genie summoned from a lamp, ghostly green smoke emerged out of the crystal and began to dance around him. The smoke formed itself into a humanoid shape with the map of Europe plastered on her face, her long white dress had a slit on the right slightly exposing her leg, barefoot and towering over Siegfried. 

The entity slowly parted her lips, with her voice echoing through the room. 

"Siegfried von Wagenheim of Federal Republic of Germany, what is your desire?" 

Siegfried had to lift his head up because the goddess' tall structure made her head almost reach the ceiling. Thankfully, she can't feel anything because she appears transparent when entering the living world. 

"I've always wondered, is it possible to contact deceased countries?" 

The goddess slightly smirked, "Of course, it's possible. There are beings created from the souls of countries that have long since passed away; we call them Replicas. When a soul is brought into the living world, it will be given a temporary physical form based on the deceased country it belonged to." 

"However," The Goddess continues her discussion, "Replicas can only live one day; their bodies are fragile and will dissolve when they reach their limit, and their souls will be brought back into their respective afterlives." 

"So," After listening to the explanation, Siegfried found himself in a state of uncertainty, contemplating whether or not he should ask the goddess another question. He had something he wanted to request, but he couldn't shake off the nagging thought that it might not be a prudent decision, it's like making a wish with a monkey's paw. But he still wanted to say it and just wait for the response. 

"Can I request a Replica of my father?" Siegfried sheepishly asked. 

His request made the goddess raise a brow, "Why? Care to explain why do you want to meet your dead father? What is your purpose for that?" 

Siegfried's eyes gazed down, "T-To tell him the news, that I was divided." 

"That is a risky choice you made, I am afraid he will run around loose and cause more destruction again but I'll accept that, I'll get his soul from Hell and make a way to secure him." 

"Here's a deal, father will enter my dream and you'll secure the dream world with your invisible barrier, how's that sound?" 

"Hmm." The Goddess pondered for a moment, her thumb and index finger resting on her chin as she gazed upwards, "Let's see if that will work." 

"Thank you, Goddess Europe." 

Siegfried threw himself back to his bed and shut his eyes, with the crystal levitating on his chest. A portal tore open behind the goddess, and she turned around to enter it.

Chapter Text

As Siegfried fluttered his eyes open, he didn't feel like he's in the living world right now. 

In a world filled with emptiness, Siegfried came up with an idea to create something using Dream Manipulation, all thanks to the vampire grimoire he had in his bag his father gave him before he fled with his former capital. 

Siegfried shut his eyes tightly, immersing himself in a vivid recollection of his past. He recalled an incident from when he was a Hitler Youth member at 10 years old, which resulted in him being sent to the hospital. His father came to check on him. However, upon discovering that his attempts to elicit a response from Siegfried were met with silence, he entered Siegfried's dream. 

As Siegfried remembered the default appearance of his father's dream world, the blank void melted into a small space resembling a chapel tinted in red, lacking pew chairs and any means of exit, creating a fittingly eerie atmosphere. 

Siegfried opens his eyes once more, feeling pleased at his success at replicating his father's dream world. He started to lift his head and spoke. 

"Goddess Europe, is the barrier ready?" 

"Yes." A voice from the outside world echoed. 

Then a stream of light gracefully cascades down from above on the walls of the chapel. 

"Thanks again, Goddess Europe." 

After that, he started to survey his surroundings, he noticed that the floor possessed a rugged texture as his bare feet landed on it, and so are the walls. Additionally, three rows of vibrant red stained glass windows adorning each wall with rays of light coming through them. 

What truly captivated his attention were the peculiar symbols engraved on each pane of glass. Each symbol consisted of a circle intersected by a cross, accompanied by another circle encompassed with a bolder outline, adorned with eight lines radiating outward. Curiously, one of the "rays" bore a resemblance to a lightning bolt. 

On the front is another stained glass window different from the other six, in the circle is his father's sigil, a letter "A" formed in a stylized manner reminiscent of the occult symbols found in grimoires. 

Once Siegfried finishes inspecting the surroundings, a ball of white smoke descends from the above right in front of him. Gradually transforming into a figure that bears a striking resemblance to Siegfried himself, the entity's face remains concealed as Siegfried's gaze is not currently directed towards him, with his arms nonchalantly positioned behind his back. 

Standing slightly taller than Siegfried, the mysterious figure was donned in a black Homburg hat, beige coat reaching his knees and a black suit hidden beneath it. 

Yet, as the figure casually shifted his gaze to the side, Siegfried noticed something off about him. 

Those snake eyes. 

"Hallo, Adlerchen." The slit-eyed Siegfried lookalike said, trying to put on a friendly demeanor with his tone to make Siegfried more comfortable. 

But the Replica's voice is already recognizable enough to make Siegfried unable to be fooled by it, he clenched his jaw tightly at this man he recognizes as his father, Arnulf. 

He couldn't help but cringe when remembering that nickname his father called him when he was younger. 

"Please stop calling me that." 

The form the Replica is manifesting as didn't look like the one Arnulf uses on a daily basis, Siegfried only saw this form a few times. He usually saw his father as a red humanoid in black military uniform and a gas mask obscuring his face, sometimes without it, which is his true form. 

Siegfried took a deep breath, trying to keep his cool even though he already knew who he's talking to right now is his tyrant of a father. 

"What is up with that look? Aren't you supposed to be-" 

Arnulf turned towards Siegfried and removed his hat to inspect it, and noticed that his hands were golden like the third color of the flag of Germany, realizing he was not dressed in his military uniform and the hat he was currently holding was not a military cap. 

"Replicas only manifest as a deceased country's original form, as what the goddess told me." Arnulf then puts his hat back on, "And I'm quite impressed you learned to how use Dream Manipulation on yourself." 

Siegfried wanted to thank him for the compliment but he chose to rather seal them in his throat. 

"I'm here to tell you the news." Siegfried said nonchalantly as he took off his glasses and wiped them with his shirt. 

"If you could at least put your glasses back on, then we'll talk." Arnulf's tone shifted slightly to a sinister one. 

And so Siegfried did what Arnulf told him to do. 

"And I need a table and two chairs so we can have a proper conversation." 

Siegfried groaned at his father for his failed attempt at hiding his true nature, "Fine." 

He slowly shut his eyes, trying to make sure he memorized the ritual that was written in the Blutsauger grimoire, a book that was kept in a bag Arnulf gave to Siegfried before the latter ran away with his former capital. Siegfried clapped his hands twice and then opened his eyes and saw two chairs and a long table about the same length as their distance appeared. 

But Arnulf's face twisted into a scowl, unimpressed by the table's length, "Can't you make a shorter one instead?" 

"No, I want you to stay far away from me as possible." Siegfried growled. 

Arnulf, bummed out at how rude his son responded to him, decided to drop his fake nice demeanor so Siegfried could take him more seriously. 

"Watch your words, Adlerchen. You've grown so much yet you still haven't changed your attitude." 

Siegfried frowned and lowered his head, "Yes, father." 

Both of them were seated in their designated chairs, it's like they had a conference, albeit one that involved only the two of them. 

"So, what year is it now?" 

"It's 1949." 

"Oh, so you're now 16. Four years have passed since I blew my head off with a pistol and then the goddess sent me to rot in Hell for eternity. I wonder how you and Heinrich are doing right now since you two managed to escape from the Red Army." 

Siegfried shook his head, "Actually, that's not how it went. The Allies captured us." 

Arnulf's eyes widened at Siegfried's response, this is unusual for his son to reply like that casually. And as a result, his tone changed to a worried one. 

"They did what?! Then how are you even still alive?! Please don't tell me Heinrich-" 

"Me and Heinrich are fine! I played dead while he carried me and then I woke up on a hospital bed after a couple of hours!" 

"Did they hurt you, Siegfried? And how are grandfather Werner and grandmother Luise? Are they still there?" 

"The country was divided into four occupational zones, great-grandfather is in the Soviet occupation zone, and great-grandmother? She's..." 

Siegfried's face contorted with a frown, and a sense of hesitation caused his lips to pause momentarily before he mustered the courage to reveal the tragic fate that had befallen his great-grandmother. 

"...gone. Ozarovskaya shot her in 1947, with some of her territories now belonging to Poland and the Soviet Union. Then I was divided into West and East because of Clayton and Ozarovskaya's political rivalry." 

Clayton? Ozarovskaya? 

These names clicked something in Arnulf's mind, but when he heard "Ozarovskaya" it made his blood boil. 

However, he calmed down quickly and continued to pay attention to Siegfried as he explained his situation. 

"And Carslaw summoned the goddess to take my soul and split it in half, then she used a piece of it to create a representative of East for Ozarovskaya." 

Ozarovskaya... No, not that again. 

Not her again. 

"His name is Oskar, I came up with that because we can't share the same name. I know how ridiculous it sounds to name him after my teddy bear. Heinrich got divided as well, and his east counterpart chose the name "Jürgen". 

"Anything else about what happened to Heinrich?" 

"Wolfram Kruse, who is Bonn, got promoted to be the new capital due to the unavailability of Heinrich as West Berlin to serve as the current capital." 

While waiting for Siegfried to continue his story, Arnulf got distracted by his thoughts regarding the fact that Yelena is still alive. 

Yelena Ozarovskaya, Yelena Fyodorovna Ozarovskaya of the USSR. Arnulf wanted her dead, he had numerous attempts to kill that communist woman so he can feast on not only her blood, but also her flesh, but they all failed. 

Four years have gone by and she's still wandering the Earth, occupying the East, and made a country created from a half of Siegfried's soul her satellite state while Arnulf is confined in his infernal punishment forever?! 

Arnulf had heard enough, he raised his right arm with his fist balled up and struck the table hard enough to create massive cracks. 

"That red bitch! I should've stop them if I were still alive! When she dies, I'll be more than happy to drag her to hell with me!" 

Siegfried wanted to continue his story but suddenly fell silent as he was taken aback by Arnulf's final remark. 

Ever since he was 8 years old, Siegfried has constantly heard his father go on unhinged tirades about Yelena. There was one time Siegfried overheard him mumbling, "I would turn her into steak if I had the chance." while they were having dinner and coincidentally eating steak, which only made this scene more absurd. 

The young Siegfried's eyes widened as he looked at his steak, which had already been cut into slices. But the words of his father had seeped into his mind, causing him to lose his appetite. This led him to ponder if there was such thing as steak made from humans, or worse, countries, as in personified countries like himself. 

Just the thought alone caused him to feel a wave of nausea washing over him. Nevertheless, as he fixated his gaze upon the succulent steak before him, an overwhelming sensation crept up on him, as if his father's watchful eyes were bearing down upon him in that very moment. There was no need for him to even contemplate whether his father would reprimand him for not eating his food or ask why he spaced out. 

So he swiftly impaled a chunk of meat with his fork and proceeded to put it into his mouth without any hesitation. 

Of course there were more, but those tirades get more graphic that Siegfried prefers to suppress them from his memory. 

He wanted to ask Arnulf how long he had been obsessed with Yelena, but that's not important for now. Consequently, he opted to shift the topic. 

"I always wonder about how things would've turned out if you weren't influenced by that mere human." 

That... human...? 

When Siegfried emphasized the word "human", Arnulf immediately understood that he was specifically referring to the man who had a toothbrush mustache. 

"You... You don't understand!" Arnulf stammered, "I was only trying to find a better solution to fix this nation's dire predicament. I only wanted to fulfill his wish, everything would've fallen apart if I hadn't overthrown Walther!" 

"I have to admit," 

Siegfried readied himself, both physically and mentally, bracing for the moment he would finally divulge the revelation that had been sealed in his throat for a long time. 

"You already know that National Socialism became my natural enemy." Siegfried said while tapping his right index finger on the table, "But guess what? I went through a lengthy process of denazification!" 

"Denazification?" 

Big mistake...

Siegfried mentally scolded himself for saying it without thinking twice. 

The momentary silence that hung heavily in the air between them was enough for Siegfried to instinctively understand that he was about to confront the most dire and unfavorable outcomes that awaited him.

Chapter Text

As soon as he saw Arnulf began to climb on the table, a surge of apprehension compelled him to take a step back.

"So that's what the Allies DID to you."

Arnulf growled, now standing on the table and looked taller than his actual height as he stomped vehemently with large strides, brimming with wrath.

"After my passing, you decided to betray your OWN country?!"

Arnulf appeared as though he was about to run out of oxygen when he spoke those words. As he approached Siegfried, he crouched down and tried to slap him.

Siegfried, fueled by adrenaline, swiftly stood up from his chair, evaded the attack, and fled to the opposite side.

Arnulf ended up falling off the table, with his face hitting the floor. Since he is a Replica, he didn't feel any pain and got up to chase Siegfried.

"I was happy to have you until you decided to rebel against me!"

Arnulf hastily made his way towards Siegfried, the latter lets his black wings unfurled and soared to the ceiling. Arnulf swiftly grabbed hold of a nearby chair, with his muscles tensed with fury and violently hurled it towards Siegfried, aiming to strike him with all his might.

However, Siegfried's agile reflexes came to his aid once more as he skillfully dodged the incoming assault, evading the chair's trajectory with remarkable ease.

As the chair hit the wall, it somehow remained intact, which left Arnulf confused. A ripple appeared on the wall upon impact, only to gradually fade after a brief span of seconds. Following this peculiar scene, the chair bounces back to the ground.

"Wait, how did that happen?"

Arnulf approached the wall to investigate that there was something off with it, with Siegfried behind him watching from above with his wings still flapping.

He struck the wall with a powerful punch, resulting in the formation of yet another ripple.

"Don't tell me..."

Meanwhile in the outside world, Goddess Europe observed the scene reflecting through a spherical projection that hovered above a sleeping Siegfried who is laying in a straight position.

"I asked the goddess to put on an invisible barrier." Siegfried in the reflection said, "If it weren't for the barrier, you might find a way to escape."

After hearing the explanation from Siegfried regarding the barrier, Arnulf's wrath surged within him and began to punch the wall once more.

"You damn goddess! Remove this barrier right now!"

No matter how much he constantly punched the wall, it only keeps creating ripples.

Although Arnulf's voice did reach the goddess, she chose to remain silent, as she is aware that he would beg to be in power again.

Through her facial expression alone, she wordlessly told Arnulf how utterly pathetic he is.

It would have surely provoked him into a tantrum if she had said it aloud.

Arnulf surrendered which compelled him to lower his head against the wall. He then turned around to Siegfried, who was watching his misery from behind the whole time.

Overwhelmed with frustration, Arnulf yelled at Siegfried which caused the latter to fly away in response.

"Traitor! You're just like Walther! To think that you ruined the future I've built for you!"

If only Arnulf had wings, he would have dragged Siegfried down. But unfortunately, he is only a soul in a life-sized doll with no powers.

"And you're a serpent who helped that mere mortal deceive his people with propaganda." Siegfried snarled, "You helped his men put people who are deemed "undesirable" and "enemies of the state" into concentration camps, mercilessly executing German citizens who dared to voice their opposition to his ideology, and you're telling me this is all for my sake?!"

Siegfried reached back towards the left side, then gradually descended to the floor. His wings retracted as he pressed himself against the wall.

As he finds himself cornered by Arnulf, the latter spreads his arms outward and begins his speech in another tone that feigns friendliness in an attempt to persuade his son.

"The future of the von Wagenheim family rests solely on your shoulders, you already know that you and your great-grandfather will be the last remaining Seraphim left in existence."

Arnulf proceeds to carry on with his speech, "As the current head of von Wagenheim family, are you willing to accept the responsibility as the successor and carry on your Seraph lineage, and restore Germany back to the former glory it was?"

But as he posed his final question, his tone took a menacing turn, instilling an air of intimidation.

"Or do you want to indulge in worldly pleasures and forsake it? The choice lies firmly within your grasp."

"Former glory?" Siegfried hissed, "Are you saying I should reinstate dictatorship? You want me to cause another tragedy? Enslave other countries and submit them to my authority?"

Siegfried cluched his head with both arms, "I absolutely refuse to accept that! No way I am going to agree to it or tolerate it in any way!

Arnulf did not answer, and instead waited for his son to finish his tirade.

"I refuse to revert the nation back to conforming to that mere human's Aryan supremacist fantasy! What even is "Thousand-Year Reich"? "Final Solution"? "Master race?""

Siegfried spat out nearly every term associated with the Nazi regime that he could recall from the depths of his memory.

"You think genocide could solve all the issues in our country?"

Again, Arnulf went silent, waiting for his son to answer his question.

"Then here is your answer: As the current head of the von Wagenheim family, I will do whatever it takes to find and bring the remaining National Socialists out of hiding and crush them like roaches!"

After listening to Siegfried's rant, Arnulf couldn't help but laugh in a tone dripping with mockery.

"That is not the answer I expected."

He lifted Siegfried by tightly grasping his collar with both hands, causing the younger German to desperately clutch onto Arnulf's hands, attempting to free himself from the suffocating grip, but his efforts proved futile.

"16 and still can't fathom the purpose of being a country. You should already know that we are beings made to serve and protect mortals. This is the reason why I made you my rightful successor which that means you will inherit the family headship once I pass away, but you chose to become nothing more than a puppet of the Allies."

"Shut up... shut up..." Siegfried clenched his teeth tightly, and small red dots began to appear in his pupils, which morphed into sigils similar to Arnulf's, but with a letter "S" instead of "A" transcribed into it.

His voice was filled with frustration, gradually transforming into a demonic, deafening roar that echoed through the air.

"SHUT UPPPP!"

Siegfried's right hand tightened into a firm fist. Mysterious sparks of dark hues, a fusion of black and purple, started to materialize into a riding crop in his clenched hand.

This caught Arnulf's attention, prompting him to release his grip on his son and retreated cautiously.

"It seems that you have awakened your magic. And for that, I extend my congratulations to you, my failure of an offspring."

Siegfried's wings slowly spread out, this time they were puffed up to appear larger in order to assert dominance, similar to how certain animals behave when they feel threatened.

He then rises up into the air, gazing down on Arnulf with a stern look on his face in order to make the latter feel small.

"THE REAL ENEMY IS NONE OTHER THAN YOU ABHORRENT NATIONAL SOCIALISTS!"

As Siegfried slowly lifted his newfound weapon, it began to extend and unraveled itself into a whip, slithering like a snake.

He swung the whip with agility in an attempt to strike his target. But to his dismay, Arnulf dodged the attack by swiftly sidestepping to the left.

Arnulf knew about his predecessors going through a similar situation of red sigils appearing on their eyes. That demonic voice can't be Siegfried's, so he tried to caution him about this.

"Siegfried-"

But he got interrupted when Siegfried cracked the whip once more, only for Arnulf to catch it with his lightning-fast reflexes before it could hit him.

"You're not in control of yourself right now so I have to tell you this-"

Siegfried- the demon, roared in response. Arnulf's hands took turns pulling the whip down while "Siegfried" rapidly flapped his wings, struggling to pull himself back up.

Once he got brought back to the floor, he gave Arnulf a smack on the face with his free hand, which made the latter's hands lose their grip.

"DON'T YOU ACT LIKE YOU CARE ABOUT HIS WELL-BEING! YOU, AND WHOEVER THOSE HUMANS THAT WORKED WITH YOU ARE THE SOURCE OF HIS SUFFERING!"

"Siegfried" lifted his whip for the third time. When he struck, the whip began to spun in circles around Arnulf. Watching it coiling around him like a snake, Arnulf learned he is no match for the demon that took control of his son.

"Siegfried" turned himself around and threw Arnulf against the stained glass. Upon impact, the stained glass remained unscathed but instead, a ripple appeared on the wall just like the time Arnulf threw a chair minutes ago.

If Arnulf's soul wasn't placed into a doll, the impact would have surely resulted in him having a serious head injury.

Arnulf plummeted to the floor, and the whip began to uncoil him. In an instant, it struck Arnulf's neck which left a deep slash.

Whips are weak as primary weapons, how can it create a cut so severe?

White smoke began to seep out of the bloodless gash, prompting him to hastily cover his neck with his right hand before more of it will escape.

"What in the world are you?" Arnulf sneered, he didn't care anymore if Siegfried won't answer to his question.

"Fine, have it your way. There's nothing I can do about it because you already succeeded the headship, and I'm just a soul inside a doll." Arnulf's voice became weak and feeble as he spoke.

"Speak of genocide again, and I’ll tear your soul asunder." "Siegfried" growled, gripping tightly onto his whip, which had now reverted back into a riding crop and scattered into black feathers.

"Please," Arnulf said to the demon, "Give my son back, I need to speak to him one last time."

"You may be a sorry excuse of a father but fine, I'll let you two have some time. If you harm my vessel again, you know what happens."

The sigils vanished from Siegfried's eyes, indicating that the demon had taken a rest from its control over Siegfried. As Siegfried regained consciousness, what he saw in front of his eyes right now is his father leaning against the stained glass, with his right hand covering his neck.

"What just happened?" His mind was filled with confusion because he could barely recall what had happened.

"You have awakened your demon and it attacked me."

"And what should I do with it?" Siegfried asked with a stoic expression, as if attacking his father while possessed was just nothing.

"Go find Dr. Häussermann. These entities are manifestations of the Seraphim's strongest desires. Your great-grandmother and grandfather had them when they were still alive. Your great-grandfather had his demon sealed because of his trauma from it, so he convinced your grandfather to request Dr. Häussermann to create a drug to keep me and your uncle Walther's demons at bay and prevent them from awakening."

That name sounded familiar to Siegfried. They barely see each other but he knew this from Arnulf that the doctor's full name is Albrecht Häussermann. Siegfried was an infant at the time Arnulf introduced Albrecht to him.

"I don't think it's the right time to visit him, I barely know about him but I have to tell you that Austria is under joint occupation by the Allies."

Arnulf seethed when he heard the news, "If those four fuckers end the occupation, go find him. You need him to seal your demon, it's for your sake."

Siegfried nodded at Arnulf's command. It was a silent "yes", but in actuality, he lied just to please his father. If he was honest, they might fight again.

Siegfried had no interest in sealing his demon, as he thought it will be useful for his goal to fight the remaining Nazis in hiding.

With Arnulf's moments ticking away, he was able to convey one last message to Siegfried before he succumbs to ash.

"May Oskar become your soul again."

Arnulf's lips curled into a bitter smile as his son glared at him coldly. He let his right hand free to allow the remaining smoke inside him drift away.

As the last remnants of smoke dissipated, Arnulf's entire being, from his physical form to his garments, reduced to tiny particles until he ultimately vanished into thin air, leaving behind no trace of his existence.

Not wanting to waste time staring at the rocky floor, Siegfried closed his eyes and recited an incantation.

"Return me to the living world."

And then a large wooden double door, which resembled those from the medieval era, materialized behind him.

Slowly, the doors swung open of its own volition, revealing a seemingly bottomless abyss.

Siegfried gracefully propels himself backwards, plunging into the exit, and his form scattered into black feathers.

All his creations in the dream world became minuscule fragments and vanished.

-------------------

Siegfried opened his eyes and found himself brought back to the living world.

"After seeing how your conversation with your father went, I have decided to impose restrictions on summoning him under any circumstances. It seems like he could have a high chance of being extremely dangerous if brought into the living world." Goddess Europe said, who is still standing there before Siegfried thanks to the green crystal that was still being held on his right hand.

"Don't worry, Goddess Europe. I know exactly what to do if this ever happen."

Goddess Europe sighed, "Siegfried, please go back to sleep. Your capital might wake up and I need to leave before he finds out you were staying up late."

Siegfried obediently removed his glasses and sets them on the nightstand and closed his weary eyes. He got no time to think about the deal with his demon awakening so he drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

The same portal from before teared open again behind the goddess. Without hesitation, she stepped into the portal, her ethereal form disappearing from sight as the portal promptly sealed itself shut.

Chapter Text

Mitte, Berlin, Germany

31. October 2023

A young man, about his early 20s, rummaged through his drawer in search for a tool he'd use to open a package until he found a box cutter. Carefully slicing open the package, he peeled back the layers of the cardboard to reveal a creepy plastic sheep mask he purchased online. 

While examining the intricate details of the mask, he shifted his focus to his phone and was greeted with a slew of notifications from a Discord server he's in. Their unread messages served as a reminder that he had set his phone on silent mode, causing him to miss out on an important update.

As he opened the app, he impishly grinned at the sight to see 1 ping from the server icon that had a ram's head against a black background.

On the lower left of the screen, his username is revealed to be Heiko. Unlike the others in the server, Heiko opts to use his real name (actually his nickname) because he couldn't come up with a creative pseudonym. However, he's smart enough not to disclose his full name for privacy reasons.

On the top left, the server's name reads: Lämmer, which means "Lambs" in German. Lamb imagery initially evokes thoughts of innocence and purity, but once you delve into the server, the members are anything but those. 

It's a server dedicated to hating on Siegfried, but it's more than just that. It's for people who desperately want to overthrow him. The reason why Lämmer's symbol is a ram's head is because it would be easy for them to get identified as a Neo-Nazi group if they use the Hakenkreuz, Norse runes, and other symbols used and appropriated by the Nazis and far-right groups. 

These are the rules: 

1. If we find out you’re a minority (Jew, Black, Non-whites in general), you might as well leave or get kicked out and banned otherwise.  

2. Maintain Anonymity at All Times 

Use pseudonyms; do not share your real name, face, or personal details. Always wear a sheep mask or a fully concealing mask during video calls to protect your identity. But using sheep masks in public are forbidden for the sake of keeping Lämmer under wraps. I don't want this to become the new big terrorist organization the news won't stop talking about. 

3. Respect the Cult and Its Ideology 

Our beliefs are sacred. Disrespect, mockery, or criticism of Lämmer’s ideology, leader, or members will not be tolerated.  

4. Never reveal Lämmer’s name anywhere else. We are a secret cult and anonymity is our weapon against extermination.  

5. No Doxxing or Exposure of Personal Info 

Sharing or requesting real names, locations, or any identifying details about members or affiliated individuals is strictly prohibited.  

6. Keep Discussions Focused on the Cult and Its Goals   

Topics should revolve around Lämmer’s activities, ideology, strategies, and related content. Off-topic or unrelated discussions should be kept to designated channels.  

7. No Spamming or Flooding 

Excessive messages, irrelevant links, or disruptive behavior are forbidden.  

8. Confidentiality of Operations 

Do not share rituals or sensitive information outside the designated channels or with outsiders.  

9. Use Appropriate Channels 

Post in the correct channels—general discussions, strategy, announcements, or off-topic. Respect the channel boundaries.  

10. Moderator Authority 

Moderators reserve the right to warn, mute, or ban members who violate the rules without prior notice. 

Heiko's excitement grew even more when he tapped on the announcement channel. But he was met with confusion when the leader, who goes by the name Adler, all of a sudden announced to take down a different target instead of Siegfried.  

Important Notice from the Shepherd Adler  

Attention all Lämmer members:  

Our campaign against Siegfried von Wagenheim and his allies intensifies. As part of Operation Nachtmahlzeit, we will be executing a targeted action to weaken his influence.  

Know this: No one in his orbit is untouchable. The blood of traitors and deceivers will be the ink with which we write the next verse of our gospel. Prepare yourselves. The Shepherd watches.  

Starting with Polizia di Stato officer Beatrice Gastaldello, a symbol of foreign contamination wrapped in state authority. 

Location is the train station Berlin Hauptbahnhof. 

Adler's profile picture features a drawing of a ram's head, slightly different from the server icon, which resembles the ram mask he wears during his livestreams. All the other members have to wear hornless sheep masks on video calls not only to hide their identities, but to show reverence to Adler, as ram horns symbolize his authority and leadership. 

The announcement has a headshot photo of Beatrice Gastaldello of Italy, dressed in a police officer uniform and a deadpan face she often displays on almost every appearance of her on TV, news articles and magazines. 

At the bottom of the picture, two Google form links are provided for members to fill out, one is for humans and Blutsaugers and the other for Blutsaugers only. 

This form is made specifically for Blutsauger members who are willing to extract their blood for human members who are interested in becoming Blutsaugers. 

Rules: 

1. Fear not, The Shepherd oversees this form. Your dwelling shall remain concealed from the unworthy. Those who betray the fold know what silence demands. 

2. No joke answers please. Questions four and five are there for a reason. Respond in truth, or abstain. 

3. Humans and Blutsaugers near Mitte shall be called first. Acceptance is not owed. Selection is a gift, not a right. 

4. For clarity, you may seek The Shepherd’s word or consult The Watchful Ones. Do so with purpose.

1. Username *  

________________________________________ 

2. Address *  

________________________________________ 

3. Are you a human or a Blutsauger? * 

○ Human 

○ Blutsauger  

4. (Human members only) Are you really willing to become a Blutsauger? 

○ Yes 

○ No  

5. (Blutsauger members only) Are you prepared to instruct the human in the sacred method of blending Blutsauger blood without deviation, contamination, or error? Remember: The ritual tolerates no improvisation, and failure carries consequences beyond correction. 

○ Yes  

○ No  

Heiko went to check the second form, it looked the same but only asked for name and address.  

He pondered why their leader of all people would decide to focus on assassinating another quasi-god who is, or was close to Siegfried, so he went to the general channel to seek clarification on the matter. 

--- 

goldenhand: Since Beatrice is coming to Germany tonight, this is a good timing.  

Heiko is typing...  

Heiko: I just read the announcement, Siegfried's chick? Really? We're going after Beatrice instead of the guy that wants revenge against us?  

Treue43: Didn't she shut down every question about the rumors regarding her and Siegfried dating every time she shows up in talk shows? 

XXTUFFI: You know what they are, they can't stand it when us humans get too nosy about their love lives.  

Felix318: How about we just drop the whole debate about whether they are actually dating or not because this is not what we're here to talk about. We need Moschetto to get back online and give us the latest information.  

Bruder Vierzehn: (replying to Heiko) #other-hate-zone got out of control so we're giving what the Italian members want.  

--- 

Heiko's left thumb shifted and pointed towards the channel name Vierzehn mentioned. He tapped on it, only to be met with a plethora of Italian texts, mostly in all caps.  

He didn't need to copy and paste them to Google Translate (or perhaps Deepl) to understand them; he could already tell they were venting, frustrated with a devoted anti-fascist like Beatrice as their current quasi-goddess for years now since her father's execution in 1945. 

Chaotic is the only word he can describe this mess of a conversation, now he understands what Vierzehn meant. 

--- 

Fauri: I have a question: Why is The Shepherd only choosing Blutsaugers to assassinate Beatrice?

Der Hirte Adler: Simple, because it's easy to get the job done as a Blutsauger. Just shoot her with your powers or whatever and fly away safely as long as your face is concealed. 

goldenhand: has anyone filled out the form yet? 

--- 

After that, Adler didn't respond, with a green dot on his icon now turned red. 

--- 

Bruder Vierzehn: None so far. I'm currently in charge of it, Adler DM'd me that he got a call from his parents so he's not in the moment to check right now. 

--- 

Heiko decided he will be the first human member to fill out the form before everyone else does.  

He waited a long time to throw away his humanity. He wanted the sensation of flying with those majestic black eagle wings and being able to drink blood without revulsion.  

Once he filled out the form, he set his phone to sound mode so he wouldn't miss an important update before taking a nap for 5 minutes, waiting to get a message from Vierzehn. 

. 

. 

. 

. 

. 

Ping! 

After 5 minutes of napping, he turned on his phone and squinted his eyes at the notification as he noticed the message is not from Vierzehn. It was the leader Adler, it seemed that he had returned after visiting his parents.

Hello Heiko. 

Thank you for submitting the form. You are selected as the human who will become a Blutsauger, and the one to assassinate Beatrice Gastaldello. You will receive Blutsauger blood from Felix318 who lives in the same apartment building as you. I hope you pay attention to his instructions once he arrives at your door.  

Remember to put on a mask. (If you have any that isn't a sheep mask)

Heiko's eyes widened, a mix of astonishment and confusion washing over him. Because of Lämmer's important rule not to publicly share their real names, he thought that Felix guy in the server was just some rando who happens to share the same first name of one of his neighbors.  

Now that he learned he is not the only member of Lämmer to use his real name, even though he used his nickname, unlike Felix. 

--- 

Heiko: Found my face masks in a zip lock bag. These are from 2021, there's only 4 of them now. Also I have a plain black hoodie and sweatpants, might also put on a beanie I don't wear often. Would this be enough to make me unrecognizable? 

Der Hirte Adler: Yeah that's fine. 

--- 

After sending a thumbs up emoji in response to Adler's message, Heiko almost dropped his phone when he got another notification. This time, it was from Felix himself. 

--- 

Felix318: Hey man 👋 

Heiko: Oh hey 

Heiko: I didn't expect to see one of my neighbors joining Lämmer, so I was shocked. You're Felix Hasenmüller, correct? 

Felix318: Yes, my apartment is on the third floor. 

Heiko: I'm Heinrich Jonigkeit, I'm sure you recognize this name because it's on one of the doorbell buttons and mail boxes. Heiko is just my nickname and I made it my username because I couldn't think of something creative. 

Felix318: Ok! I'll send you my photo once I finish preparing my blood vial. Btw, can you tell me where your apartment is? 

Heiko: Oh how could I forget to mention that. My apartment is on the second floor, the third door you'll come across when you go downstairs. 

Felix318: Ok, got it! 

--- 

Few seconds later, Heiko receives a photo of Felix's selfie. Felix has messy dirty blond hair and wears a blue sweater with white text saying "MUT ZUR LÜCKE" so Heiko can recognize what he looks like when he arrives at his apartment. Heiko is already familiar with his hairstyle since he often sees him on his way to work and when he returns home. 

Heiko hurried to the kitchen to get a red wine bottle and a wine glass from a cabinet. He began pouring the wine into the glass barely half-full because he doesn't drink often, he only bought the wine to prepare for the Blutsauger transformation ritual. He closed the bottle after that to return it to the cabinet. 

He sets the glass on the coffee table and begins to hear a knock at the door, could it be Felix? Heiko peered through the peephole to see if it was really him. He was right, the man waiting was wearing the same sweater from the photo Felix had sent. Excited to welcome his new friend, Heiko opens the door.

Chapter Text

"Hello." Felix said, holding the blood vial on his right hand. 

"Ah, welcome!" 

Felix proceeded to step inside the apartment, he turned to the left and made his way into the living room. Noticing the glass of wine on the coffee table, he placed his blood vial there and sat on the couch. 

"Thanks for inviting me here. How long have you been a member of Lämmer?" Felix asked. 

"I joined last month." 

"So you're a new member. I joined back in April. How did you find out about it?" 

Heiko took a deep breath, his head leaning against the headrest, "I have a fixation of lurking on far-right forums, looking for posts shit-talking about Siegfried. I searched for right-wing accounts on Twitter until I found Adler's account, he says in his bio to ask him for a server invite in his DM. I got curious about what the server was about and then he told me he created Lämmer to get rid of Siegfried." 

Heiko facepalmed as he recalled Siegfried's speech that had appeared in the news from six years ago regarding the solution to the Neo-Nazi problem. 

"Siegfried makes me physically gag whenever he shows up on TV. Even worse when I see him in person. Every two weeks, he goes to the coffee shop I work in. When he goes to the counter, I have to put on a fake smile so I don't look suspicious." 

“You work in a coffee shop?”

“Yes. They hired this Turkish guy named Cem last year. Talking about integration while I’m stuck cleaning up after him. It’s people like him that make me sick. Siegfried’s all for that multicultural garbage.” Heiko’s voice dripped with disdain, “I’m done being a human like Cem. I’ll become a Blutsauger to tear down Siegfried's “tolerant” world.

"I wish Adler would let me get rid of Dr. Four-Eyes instead. But I don't mind throwing away my humanity to take down that bastard's girlfriend too." Heiko removes his hand and curiously sets his eyes on the vial. 

"What exactly happens if you drink it the wrong way?" 

"You have 6 days to stay in control. Blutsauger eyes are usually red. One notable trait about Strays is that they have yellow eyes instead." Felix responded, "Once you reach your limit, you'll lose all of control and gain an unquenchable thirst for blood." 

As Felix began to twist off the cap, it emitted a scent that some describe as a mix of wine and overripe fruit. It may be sweet to those unfamiliar with it but terrifying to those who know. "That's why Strays are more dangerous and the only way is to get locked up in the institute like a test subject. Some of them don’t even make it through the treatment.”

"When I was 16, I had a classmate who turned into a Stray." Felix said as he began pouring the blood into the wine glass. It was a hue of reddish-orange, distinct from typical human blood.

"How did that happen?" 

"Her older sister called her for dinner, but she didn't answer. She and her parents searched everywhere around the house and found out that she went missing, so they called the police. Later, my classmate was found by our physics teacher who just went home shopping with her husband." 

"I've heard of this on the news before, did this happen in Neukölln?" 

"Yes, I used to live there before I moved here. They found her when she almost crashed into their car. Police found out that she injured five people. Since she's a Stray, she can't be sent to the youth detention center. So her family agreed when BAB stepped in and sent her to the Blutsauger Research Institute instead.” 

After finishing his story, Felix felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He quickly pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

"It's my boss. Some issue at work.” Felix stands up and heads to the doorway to get some privacy.

Without Felix around, Heiko sets his gaze on the vial again, now it's his chance. He quickly poured the glass of the blood-water mix into the kitchen sink and returned to the coffee table to pick up the vial. 

He remembered Felix's warning, but curiosity got the best of him. 

His hands shook with anticipation. A hunger he couldn’t name—power and vengeance to overthrow Siegfried, stirred inside him.

The vial had tiny remnants of blood inside. He tilted it into his mouth and two droplets fell onto his tongue. 

It had a metallic taste, and felt nothing like how it's portrayed in the movies. He wanted to spit it out but the promise of wings and power drowned his fear. 

He felt the blood spread into his throat. Veins pulsed with an unusual cold that lasted for five seconds. He quickly put down the vial onto the table and closed it.

"Felix?" He called after Felix had finished talking to his boss on the phone.

"I felt weird after I drank it and then nothing happened." 

"You have to wait for your transformation to complete. It's a slow process." Felix wished he could provide more details, but he needed to rush due to a call from his boss. 

"Sorry, but I have to go now. My boss is calling for me.”

"Here's the vial." Heiko hands over the vial to Felix. 

"Thanks, by the way, can I have your phone number so we can keep in touch?" 

"Oh sure." Heiko pulls out his phone and goes into his contacts to find his phone number and shows it to Felix. After exchanging phone numbers, Felix opens the door but he has to say goodbye to Heiko before he leaves. 

"Just call me if you need help, okay? Bye!" 

"Bye, see you tomorrow Felix, and goodnight." 

Just as Felix turned on his heel, Heiko quickly shut the door. 

--- 

Heiko: I got the blood vial from Felix318, I found out we lived in the same apartment. 

Treue43: Oh cool 

Moschetto is typing... 

Treue43: holy shit guys he's back 

Moschetto: I'm still in the Berlin Brandenburg Airport. I saw Beatrice has arrived and she's heading to the train station. 

Moschetto: typing this while hiding in the bathroom

Sei: Siegfried will crumble when he sees this on the news

goldenhand: Wait, isn’t Berlin Hauptbahnhof under BAB surveillance? 

Treue43: Only parts of it. They mostly hang around during major transit hours. Doubt they’ll notice anything if it’s done quickly. 

Moschetto: Confirmed. No BAB uniforms so far, just regular police. I think we’re good. 

Der Hirte Adler: @everyone Reminder to everyone flying tonight: BAB drones might sweep between 22:00–02:00 in Mitte. Don’t be seen.

--- 

Heiko turned off his phone, feeling that familiar sensation again and rushed to his bedroom and turned on the lights to check his reflection in the cheval mirror. 

He opened his mouth and was taken aback as his once normal teeth ached, sharpening into a set of small razor-sharp fangs. 

As he examined his hands, he noticed that his fingernails had undergone a change as well, they had faded to black and elongated unnaturally. 

His hazel brown eyes were replaced by an eerie shade of yellow. It matched Felix's description of a Stray. 

On his back, huge black wings protruded. They had thin lines forming patterns resembling a tree bark. However, they had a soft texture like avian wings when he touched them. It's different than the wings of most Blutsaugers he met. 

He asked myself, should he call Felix about this? Maybe not. He might visit him again and find out he actually drank from the vial instead of the wine glass. So he put his phone in the drawer. 

Heiko opened his closet and picked out the clothes he previously mentioned in his message to Adler. Grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the table and apartment keys from the drawer, then tucked the sunglasses along with his face mask into his jacket's right pocket while the keys are in the left. The pockets have zippers so they won't fall off while he's flying. 

After getting dressed, he left his room, and there's one thing that he needed to complete his outfit: his shoes. He picked the black shoes from the shoe rack so that the blood stains wouldn't get visible. 

Now that his outfit is complete, he heads to the living room and goes out to the balcony, closing the door behind him. He lets his wings stretch out, ready to take off.

But he hesitated, remembering that Adler warned them about BAB patrol drones occasionally scanning the rooftops in Mitte. He tugged his beanie lower. With any luck, he'd look like a crow against the night sky.

Chapter Text

Heiko's hands clutched the cold steel of the balcony railing. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, hoping that his first flight wouldn’t fail and that he wouldn’t end up falling flat on his face. 

As he thrust himself into the air, one powerful flap of his wings sent him soaring upward, filling him with adrenaline and panic as the view below turned into a bird's-eye view. He had never been this high up before. 

Heiko then turns around, his eyes darting from one direction to another trying to catch sight of any familiar signs that might guide him toward his destination. 

If he had a car, it would take him 10 or 13 minutes to reach the train station via the fastest route. He wondered how fast he would arrive using his wings. 

Heiko realized he didn't bring his phone, but since he had been going to the train station for years to travel to the neighboring locality Moabit to visit his family, Google Maps would be unnecessary. 

He noticed an illuminated train station building beneath him, featuring a vast curved glass roof. Instantly recognizing the architectural design, he realized it was the Berlin Hauptbahnhof and grabbed his sunglasses from his right pocket and put them on. As he descended, his wings dissolved into a flurry of feathers and made his way toward the station's entrance.

—

Beatrice, with a backpack next to her and her right hand gripping tightly onto her trolley, has been struggling to stay awake, her drooping eyelids only snapped up when she heard the train chime.

„Nächste Station: Berlin Hauptbahnhof“

The red train eased to a halt, its brakes sighing as it settled alongside the platform. With a soft hiss, the doors slid apart, inviting a rush of cool evening air and the distant murmur of waiting passengers. Finally, she can now leave her seat after those 38 grueling minutes spent fidgeting in her cramped seat, she could finally stand. Every muscle aches with relief as she prepares to escape the confines of her perch.

She reaches for her backpack, clutching it close. She pulls her trolley along behind her and leaves the train behind and went to the ticket validation machine.

—

While searching around the sea of crowd, Heiko looked up and spotted Beatrice leaning against the railings on the first floor. He rushed to the escalator that will take him there before she vanishes from sight.

The station’s vast glass ceiling arched overhead, with its panels reflecting the platform’s flickering lights. Her muscles ached from the train ride and her right hand gripped her trolley tightly. She held her backpack closer, her eyes battling fatigue as she looked over the busy crowd below.

Everyone around her is minding their own business until a man in black hoodie shows up. His face is half-hidden by a plain mask and dark sunglasses.

"What's a miserable police officer like yourself doing here? Meeting with your German boyfriend?" The hooded man asked. 

Beatrice tries to dodge the question while trying to keep herself calm, "Do I know you?" 

The man chuckled, "Falling head over heels for a man who gets all preachy about "eradicating Neo-Nazism" whenever he shows up on the news." 

Hearing his offhand comment about Siegfried, Beatrice angrily gritted her teeth and muttered, “Mortal fools like yourself should watch your tongue." 

Little did she know that the man next to her was no longer a human. But he didn't care what she just called him because it would be too soon to reveal himself. 

"Nevermind, you're just like him." 

Since quasi-deities are like celebrities, it's no surprise that almost everyone around her knows her past. But it feels odd with a stranger approaching her without introducing himself and just went straight to reminding her of the rumor from 20 years ago regarding her alleged romantic relationship with Siegfried. 

"Just tell me what you want from me. What is your business? Are you a spy?" 

"You want to know?" 

"State your purpose or leave!" 

Attempts to squeeze the answers out of him were futile.

"You put your life on the line at a young age to liberate your country.” the man scoffed.

Beatrice fell silent. The man considered saying something else that would provoke her further.

"You used to have a brother, right?” the man asked.

Beatrice jolted and pulled herself up from the railings, distancing herself from him. Memories of her brother’s death fueling her resolve to protect her country's honor, "Do you know who you are speaking to?!" 

The man chuckled, “War seized him because you couldn't save him from the clutches of fascism. And here you are, wearing your father's name. You pledged to fight against fascism until the very end and you chose “Beatrice Gastaldello” to be the tombstone you want to be buried under?”

“Why do you care?!” A green crystal appeared in a flash before Beatrice, she tapped her shoulder bag and trolley with it, causing them to glow green and get absorbed into the crystal.

"I'm here to fulfill what the far-right wanted." The man declared, his voice low to avoid nearby ears as he revealed his wood-patterned wings.

"So you're one of them!" Beatrice pointed her crystal at the man and it morphed into a golden flanged mace with a long handle, “If you set one foot into my country, I'll make sure you're dead!" 

Beatrice's body glowed brightly and erupted into a burst of light like a flash grenade. Her clothes have changed into her battle outfit: cream and brown military uniform with an open front skirt, matching Venetian carnival mask and a veil topped with a golden horned crown. Her gold-bottomed boots gleamed, their toecaps shimmering with latent power.

"Mom, look! Beatrice!" A little girl pointed at Beatrice. Her mother heard Beatrice’s threat and grabbed her daughter and fled to the exit before this would turn into a bloodbath.

"All of you head to the exit! I'll take care of this!" Beatrice barked orders to the crowd and they complied, dashing towards the exit in a frenzy and some of them whipped out their phones to call the police.

"Tempestas Aurea!" Beatrice swings her mace like a baseball bat, creating a powerful gust followed by a golden strip of light that tore through the air toward Heiko.

"Baumstammssperre!" A dark purple glow surrounded him. Gnarled tree trunks burst through the concrete, creating a rough barrier. The golden strip cut through, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. Heiko ducked and rolled away from his shattered barrier and got back up.

Beatrice charged as her heels clack the floor loudly.

"Spine di Esecuzione!" Small spikes sprouted from her boots’ toe caps.

She spun, delivering a high kick aimed at Heiko’s face but it grazed his chest instead, making him screech.

A couple scars on his chest or legs wouldn’t be a big deal because if they were on his face and arms, it would be difficult for him to explain when he shows up at work. 

"You think you'll reach the top with that crown of yours?" Heiko sneered and received a brutal kick by her soles, sending him crashing into the steel structures on the wall.

"Hölzerne Faust!" He shouted, and a massive wooden hand erupted from the floor behind Beatrice. It tried to grab her, but she bludgeoned it with her mace, and then three brutal swings until it deformed and dissolved into glowing purple particles.

Heiko leaped and spread his wings. At the same time, Beatrice slammed her mace's pommel on the floor to prepare for the upcoming attack.

"Fulgur…" Beatrice whispers another spell.

"Rasches Pfahlfeuer!" Heiko bellowed. Six stakes grew on each of the underside of his wings and fired at Beatrice like a machine gun.

But before they could hit Beatrice…

"Aureum!" Her mace shoots golden energy coiled with lightning at Heiko, electrocuting him and the stakes dissolved into splinters.

"Nachahmung!" Heiko clenched his fists and flexed his arms. Small wooden vines slid from his arms and coiled around his hands. They transformed into wooden clawed gauntlets, shattering the electrocuting energy.

Beatrice lunged forward, jumped, and aimed a precise kick at Heiko's shin. The spike grazed his leg.

He gritted his teeth, voice sharp with pain. “The fascists have been out for your blood for 77 years, correct? How many times have you nearly been assassinated?”  

"Why do you care?" She swung her mace and unleashed another Tempestas Aurea. The golden gust charged toward Heiko, but he quickly dodged it.

He charged and launched a flurry of punches aiming for Beatrice’s face, chest, abdomen, then a swift uppercut. But each blow gets blocked by her mace. 

The more he punches, the more the gauntlets deform, so he thought of an idea to make use of them before they break.

"Hölzerne Faust!" Heiko conjured another giant wooden hand that burst forth from the floor. Beatrice managed to evade it once more until…

Heiko lunged forward and delivered four deep slashes to her abdomen while they're both mid-air.

The only noise echoing in the train station at this moment is Beatrice's blood-curdling scream. As she fell, her mace vanished into light as her outfit transformed back to civilian clothes.

Heiko landed and grabbed her collar, “I think Italy should be better off without you, La Signora Morte. Pray Dr. Four-Eyes arrives before you bleed out.”

"Siegfried-" Beatrice paused for a second as if it was a huge mistake to say that name, "May his Seraph blood burn you." she whispered, her voice fierce despite the agony.

Heiko froze, the word "Seraph" sparking fear in him. The strobing blue lights and sounds of police sirens wailing outside made him spat a curse, frustration etching across his face. Police officers would be the first wave, he knew who would come next.

He snapped his fingers, and the wooden hand punched through the glass ceiling, shards raining down like a fractured sky. He soared through the gap, vanishing into the night, and so are his gauntlets and the giant hand.

Beatrice’s vision blurred as she closed her eyes, like the world was fading away into darkness.

Chapter Text

Heiko's wings cut through the night sky, the cold wind hitting his face as he flew higher, blending into the darkness to dodge the police sirens wailing below.

The gash on his right shin pulsed with each wingbeat. Peering down, he saw a grove of trees and descended, his wings folding quietly as he landed.

He realized he's in a cemetery not too far from his apartment. The old burial ground marked by weathered crosses gives off an eerie silence.

Heiko slipped off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and tugged down his face mask so he doesn't look suspicious. His black pants hid the blood from his wound, though each step sent a sharp stab of pain.

He swept his gaze across the cemetery, ensuring no shadows moved among the graves, then exited through a creaking gate, merging into the street's faint glow.

He reached the worn brick building, unlocked the door, and climbed the stairs from the ground floor to the second floor.

Inside his apartment, Heiko closed the door, took off his shoes and socks and went to lock his balcony door to prevent unwanted visitors.

He entered the bathroom and took off his sunglasses and face mask and set them on the washing machine, then pulled down his pants leaving boxers on, grimacing as the fabric caught on the jagged wound. He stepped into the shower to rinse the wound with warm water, cleaned the gash with soap, and then wrapped it with bandages.

He went to his room to change into a loose shirt and sweatpants, then shuffled to his drawer where his phone was left behind to avoid tracking during the attack. He powered it on, the screen's light stark in the dim room. He opened Discord to inform Lämmer.

Heiko: I'm back. Felix didn't get to train me, he had a stomach ache. But I got to take down Beatrice, though.

Only two members were online: him and the leader, Adler.

Der Hirte Adler: Well done, Heiko. I applaud your efforts, but you should've killed her outright instead of provoking her. Provoking a fight risks exposure and we're not ready for that.

Heiko turned off his phone and set it on the nightstand. He collapsed onto his bed, grateful that he had a day off so he didn't need to wake up early.

---

BAB Berlin Division — Temporary Field Office, somewhere in Moabit 

The fluorescent lights flickered, humming softly above the battered operations table. A half-empty thermos of stale coffee sat forgotten near a cracked monitor. Two agents stood over a projection of Berlin Hauptbahnhof’s floor plan.

Bundesagentur zur Abwehr von Blutsaugerbedrohungen (BAB) is a federal agency founded in West Germany in 1956 after multiple deaths caused by Blutsaugers from war-torn areas sparked mass hysteria. They collaborate with Blutsauger Research Institute, but they also maintain their autonomy. 

In 1961, their Austrian counterpart Sonderkommission für Blutsaugerkriminalität (SBK) was founded in response to Blutsaugers who crossed from the Balkans. It took time to establish because of politics, budget disputes, and initial reliance from West Germany. Based in Vienna, the SBK has secret facilities in the Alps and Lower Austria. They're more militarized and pragmatic than BAB. Joint operations with them are frequent in cases involving cross-border crimes and extradition.

"Only faint blood droplets. No scent markers, no dropped feathers." murmured Agent Reitz, pinching the bridge of his nose.

His colleague, Senior Agent Waldbauer, was already dialing a secure line, "We don’t have time to reconstruct the whole scene. Not before Rome starts pointing fingers." He said, "Frau Gastaldello’s bleeding out and the foreign affairs unit is going to demand names by morning." 

"Half of our people are recovering from Kreuzberg. We have three forensic specialists available, but none of them are cleared for combat duty." 

Reitz paused, "Are you really calling the Potsdam Division?" 

Waldbauer puts his ear on the phone, "Verstak handled spontaneous Stray transformations without causing a security failure. She’s a Dhampir, they won’t hide from her. Krönig knows how to lock a scene down before the press starts sniffing around." 

Reitz muttered, "You know how they are. Verstak walks in and the whole room goes quiet like she’s already reading your mind." 

The line connected. 

Waldbauer's tone hardened. "This is the Berlin Division. We need Verstak and Krönig deployed ASAP. High-risk rogue Blutsauger case and potential foreign political blowback." 

He paused, "And let them know we're in their debt.”

--- 

The night was already heavy with fog when the call came in. 

Inside the Potsdam Division’s operations center, the mood turned tense as encrypted channels flared to life. On the map of Germany, a red alert signal blinked over Berlin Hauptbahnhof. 

Agent Sofia Verstak stood behind the main table, her face lit cold by the projected crime scene reports being streamed in real time.

"No scorch marks, walls are intact. This was a clean job, whoever flew in here knew the layout down to the millimeter."

Behind her, Elias Krönig scrolled through a classified dispatch. "No ID, no registry hits. How the hell do you fly into Berlin’s central station, attack a quasi-god, and vanish?" 

"Berlin’s local unit is short-staffed. Half of them were pulled into that Kreuzberg smuggling ring last week." Verstak said. 

Down the corridor, Division Commander Jezierski appeared, slipping a briefing folder onto the table without ceremony. 

"You’re being deployed," he said. "Field command from Berlin requested backup. Someone upstairs pulled strings to make sure it was you two since you've dealt with spontaneous illegal transformations and blood trafficking before.”

Krönig raises a brow, "Is it that bad?" 

Jezierski nodded, "Frau Gastaldello was critically injured. Berlin doesn’t have time to spare resources for a complete search right now."

"Containment will be a nightmare if this spreads." Krönig muttered.

Jezierski turned his attention to Verstak, "We’ll need your senses on this one if the scent trail hasn’t gone cold. The Italians will send their own watchdogs. Keep it clean, Verstak. One diplomatic incident and we’ll have a Council audit breathing down our necks." 

Verstak didn’t ask who gave the order because she didn't need to. Any assault on a quasi-god, especially one from a foreign country, meant the Federal Security Council wanted answers from the people who wouldn’t fumble under diplomatic scrutiny.

Krönig exhaled slowly and grabbed his sidearm. "Then let’s hope we intercept the second one before Berlin wakes up to a full outbreak." 

Verstak glanced at Krönig. No words passed, but Krönig gave a single nod, the same one he always does when things are about to get worse.

--- 

The air was colder here. Not just from the night wind, but from the mood. 

A matte-black BAB response van pulled up to the outer perimeter, engine still humming as the doors swung open. Verstak stepped out first, her boots hitting the pavement, the identification badge on her vest catching the floodlight. She has a Glock 17 on her thigh holster. 

Krönig followed, he has Walther Q5 Match SF on his right. Both of the agents are wearing navy blue tactical vests with white text saying “BAB” on the back and compact containment kit clipped to their belt, standard issue for neutralizing Blutsaugers or preserving contaminated evidence. 

The press was being held back by the two local Berlin agents, but the crowd of reporters shouted questions no one answered.

"What’s the Federal Security Council's response to a foreign quasi-god being attacked on German soil?”

“Was it terrorism? A Blutsauger attack? We have the right to know!”

The local agents walked in. One of them is Agent Mohl, a tall man wearing an unzipped flak jacket, who gave them a brief nod but didn’t offer a greeting. The other on his right is Agent Feldhoff, holding a tablet with its right handle, it had SANGUIS (U is stylized like V) written on the back.

"You’re from the Potsdam Division?" asked Mohl.

"Yes." Verstak nodded, "Agent Verstak." 

“If Potsdam insists on contributing, I suppose we’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Of course they sent the Dhampir.” Feldhoff turns his head to the Potsdam agents walking toward the entrance, “Potsdam might as well move into our office.” 

They ducked under the police tape and ascended the escalator to Level 1, the site of the attack.

"Witnesses said the attacker flew through the ceiling, spoke German, and appeared to be in his early 20s.” said Agent Mohl, "Some recall him shouting about carrying out the will of the far-right just before the fight broke out. It points to a possible Neo-Nazi link."

Verstak crouched down, scanning the broken glass and splintered wood on the floor. "Wood magic."

She breathed in, trying to find the Blutsauger blood, and picked up a faint scent leading toward the east hall. 

She traced the smell a few steps and then knelt down where some blood had landed and dried into tiny spots. No puddles, so the wounds weren't deep. 

She turned back toward the railing, scanning the distance to where Beatrice was attacked. The smell of her blood still lingered.

Verstak stood up, "Tell Agent Reitz I want a full record of thermal traces and residual blood scent mapping.

“Already pinged the forensics team.” replied Feldhoff.

Krönig let out a sharp breath. "Looks like we’ll be here all night."

Verstak stood up and turned to Krönig, "Check the surveillance. Look for anyone who entered the station in the last thirty minutes. Run a check on heat signatures and any wing movement.

"Already on it. The attacker hid his face completely with sunglasses, hood, and a mask. We only caught a glimpse at his wings which had patterns underneath that looked like wood grain." said Krönig.

"Italy's going to raise hell over this. And if Siegfried gets involved..." said Verstak.

"He’ll demand blood. And with him on the case, you can bet the whole city will feel the fallout. Especially if it’s tied to Neo-Nazis, he gets personal. That’s when he stops holding back." Krönig muttered. 

Feldhoff jogged over and showed Verstak his tablet. It's an advanced tech that scans Blutsauger blood and confirms the Blutsauger's type on a heads-up display.

"SANGUIS confirms a recent human-to-Blutsauger transformation. Could be a Neublüter or Stray and there's no registry match."

Verstak clenched her fist, "Then Berlin has become a testing ground. Someone’s distributing Blutsauger blood." 

Krönig clenched his jaw. "This might be the beginning of something worse.”

He exits the station, his back turned to all the noise of reporters and his tactical phone glued to his ear. Behind him, the police were trying to hold back the cameras from getting past the cordon.

"Agent Krönig here reporting from Berlin. We have confirmed an attack on Frau Gastaldello. Perpetrator at large. Suspected unregistered Stray or Neublüter. Victim is alive but in critical condition." 

"The Italian quasi-goddess?!" The higher-up's voice crackled through the phone. 

Krönig nods slightly before continuing, "We suspect ideological motive, possibly extremist ties." 

"Any symbols? Slogans?"

Krönig shakes his head while replying, "No, but according to accounts, he declared he was here to carry out what the far-right demanded. Combined with the fact that SANGUIS confirmed a recent human-to-Blutsauger transformation, we could be looking at a Neublüter or a Stray with extremist ties."

"Has Herr von Wagenheim been notified?" 

"No, he hasn’t arrived. But he will. And when he does, this won’t stay quiet." 

"Should we classify this to Level 2? There might be political ramifications from this." 

"Yes, let's put this under Level 2 for the time being if things take a turn for the worse."

The call ends. 

Krönig lowered his phone, "We're authorized to monitor for escalation. If this bastard resurfaces, we have clearance to engage." 

“Then let’s hope he makes a mistake soon.” said Verstak.

—

(A warning that doesn't need to be added but I had to: The phone call and portrayal of how hospitals work may be inaccurate)

von Wagenheim Mansion, Grunewald, Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, Berlin

In the grand dining room of the von Wagenheim mansion, a chandelier casts a warm glow over the mahogany table adorned with elegant dinnerware. 

Siegfried, as the head of the mansion, sits at the right end of the table. Heinrich Würdemann, the quasi-god of Berlin and the von Wagenheim family’s butler, pours water with precision. The rich scent of Eintopf, a traditional German stew, fills the air. 

He is now 90 years old but physically looks like he's stuck in his 20s thanks to his quasi-god physiology, and has become taller than he was back in 1949. At some point, he became a trauma surgeon in Aquilegia Hospital.

Siegfried leaned back, taking a sip from a glass of water, "Heinrich, this Eintopf is exceptional. You’ve outdone yourself."

"Thank you, Herr Siegfried. Even though some ingredients I've used might bring some..." Heinrich pauses for a moment, "...memories." 

Siegfried's smile fades, "I remember father used to make these. Back when things were simpler."

Heinrich sets the water pitcher down, his gaze soft yet cautious, "Your father could cook a fine Eintopf too, but you already know how he treated us."

Siegfried grips his spoon, “Since your return to become my butler again, you started calling me like I’m your son rather than your master. Not that I mind. Father never deserved your loyalty." 

Heinrich sighs, adjusting his cufflinks, "The far-right is growing louder here." he says while looking at the large windows, "Rallies, slogans, it’s unsettling. Like echoes of the past we buried."

Siegfried grips his spoon tightly, "And a businessman in America thought doing a Nazi salute on live TV was a good idea." 

"I would love to chop his head off." His hand mimed a throat-slitting gesture, "Cleanly, one swing."

Heinrich’s grimace cut him off. Siegfried sighed, finishing his meal. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to-"

His pager buzzed and pulled it from his pocket, frowning at the screen, then answered his phone. "Yes, Dr. von Wagenheim." he said.

"Herr Dr. von Wagenheim," came the urgent voice of Dr. Merzbach, Head of Emergency Medicine. "High-priority case in the ER. Beatrice Gastaldello, Italy’s quasi-goddess. Critical condition: four epigastric lacerations from a Blutsauger attack at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. Suspected mesenteric bleeding. CT scans are in progress. OR 3 is being prepped, we need you scrubbed in."

Siegfried stood, his pupils shrinking as his heart raced. "Beatrice? What’s her condition?"

"Fragile but stabilized with transfusions. She's at risk for sepsis. The police are securing the ICU and BAB's already notified so special security is in place. Get here fast."

"On my way." Siegfried hung up, turning to Heinrich. "Beatrice is in the hospital. Blutsauger attack at Hauptbahnhof."

Heinrich steps forward, "Go save her, Herr Siegfried."

Siegfried pushes his chair back. He hurries to the bathroom, the sound of running water and frantic brushing echoes. Moments later, in his room, he pulls on a white coat over his shirt, tucks his ID into the breast pocket, grabs his keys and leaves. 

Pausing at the front door, he looks back at Heinrich. 

"I’ll call you when I get updates." he said, his voice steady but urgent, "Don’t wait up." 

Heinrich halted him with a firm hand on his shoulder, "Herr Siegfried, I have to tell you this. Let Frau Gastaldello stay here after her recovery. Our enemies are growing bolder and she would be safe under this roof once she recovers. Let her remain here for both your sakes."

Siegfried nods before he rushes out and gets into his car, the engine roaring through the night as he speeds toward the hospital.

The full moon loomed over Berlin like a silent sentinel, casting a silver glow across the city’s spires and streets. Its light is both a beacon and a warning in the tense night air.

Chapter Text

BAB Headquarters, Bonn, North Rhine-Westphalia

The operations room hummed with the low thrum of computer fans. Screens glowed with surveillance feeds, external security footage, and south side camera angles, each monitored by analysts. 

Deputy Director Riehl stood at the center table, one hand on a spread of printed reports while his eyes tracked the scrolling updates on the main display. 

An analyst looked up from his station. “Berlin Division reports Potsdam Division is on-site. Surveillance footage is being cross-checked against external security cameras and main entrance feeds.”

Riehl walked behind him, hands clasped behind his back. “Any leads on the suspect?”

“Witnesses describe the attacker as a male in his early twenties, dressed entirely in black with sunglasses and a mask. They reported him shouting about fulfilling the far-right’s cause before striking. Alongside SANGUIS confirming a recent transformation, that makes extremist recruitment the leading theory. His wings have a distinctive wood grain pattern. Two witnesses near the south side reported seeing him descend from above and head inside.”

“What about forensics?” Riehl asked. 

“Thermal trace mapping and residual blood scent analysis are in progress. Berlin expects preliminary results within the hour.” 

“Status on diplomatic channels?” 

“Foreign Affairs has been briefed. The Italians haven’t issued a statement yet, but one is expected.” 

A soft chime cut through the room. From the forensics desk, a tech strode over with a tablet in hand. The screen showed an infrared map of the train station's main entrance.

"A thermal anomaly near the main entrance," he said. "Four minutes before the attack." 

Riehl’s eyes narrowed. "See if any station activity lines up. If not, get someone on it before we lose the trail." 

Another voice came over the comms, "Foreign Affairs needs an update in half an hour. Italians are suggesting sending their own liaison." 

"That will crowd the field." Riehl said. "Lock it down. Nothing leaves without the director’s approval.”

—

Aquilegia Hospital, Berlin

Siegfried’s car screeched to a halt in the staff parking lot. The full moon cast sharp shadows across the concrete.

He hurried through the hospital’s sliding glass doors, his coat trailing behind him and the smell of antiseptic overwhelming his senses.

The busy corridors buzzed with urgency. A pair of BAB agents stood quietly near the entrance to the ICU. One of them glanced up as Siegfried passed but said nothing. At the nurses’ station, Dr. Merzbach waited, his face showing signs of exhaustion but still focused.

“Herr Dr. von Wagenheim,” He said, handing over a chart. “Frau Gastaldello’s stable for now. Four epigastric lacerations from the Blutsauger attack, no major organ rupture per initial scans, but suspected mesenteric bleeding. We’ve started IV cefuroxime for infection risk and continued transfusions. The trauma team’s prepping OR 3. Also, BAB stopped by an hour ago to collect some of her personal effects for evidence.”

Siegfried nodded, his jaw clenched as he scanned the chart, “Vitals?”

“BP 90/60, heart rate 110, oxygen saturation 92%. Her quasi-goddess physiology is keeping her stable, but we’re monitoring for sepsis.” Merzbach replied, pointing to a monitor displaying Beatrice’s data.

Before Siegfried could ask more, a chill ran down his spine. He felt as if his shadow might move on its own. He forced a smile. “I need to review the scans. I’ll be right back.”

Dr. Merzbach nodded, unaware of Siegfried’s situation. Siegfried strode to the men’s restroom down the hall.

—

Thankfully the bathroom was empty. A faint hum of fluorescent lights cut through the silence. Siegfried locked himself in a stall, sitting on the closed toilet lid, he breathed in short gasps.

His shadow, fully morphed into an eagle, slid across the stall door to face him.

“I told you not to show up at work,” Siegfried hissed, his voice a harsh whisper. “You’re making a scene!”

The eagle’s form flickered, “You cage me, Siegfried. Since the end of the Cold War, you keep me trapped as your shadow thanks to the drug from that quack Dr. Eisenträger.”

Siegfried clenched his fists. “It keeps you from wreaking havoc.” he snapped, “After the reunification, I couldn’t risk letting you run wild.”

The eagle's wings twitched, radiating defiance. “You fear my power. I am your strength, yet you bind me. For what? To play surgeon while Beatrice bleeds?”

Siegfried’s stomach twisted, guilt flaring. “Don’t test me, Elzebul." he growled. “I need to save Bea, not deal with you.”

Elzebul’s tone turned venomous, his words slicing through his host's mind. 

“Save her? You’re obsessed. You've been mooning over her since the Eurozone crisis. Secret dates, dodging the press. Until her best friend found out and forced her to end it. Her allies despised you for your country's grip on their economies. They would've torn Beatrice apart if they knew she was with you.”

“Enough!” Siegfried’s voice cracked, echoing in the stall. He stood, glaring at the eagle’s silhouette, his chest heaving. “That’s in the past. She needed space, and I respected that.”

Siegfried’s vision blurred with anger, his hands trembling. He wanted to lash out to silence the demon, but Elzebul’s words stung because they held the truth.

The Eurozone crisis had fractured more than economies. It had shattered his romance with Beatrice. Their stolen moments in 2010, whispered promises in dark cafés, had crumbled under the weight of geopolitics.

Beatrice had tearfully ended it, but Siegfried couldn’t let go. He watched her from afar, his heart a tangle of longing and pain, even when she avoided him at summits or flinched when their eyes met.

“She is hurt. I’m her doctor, her friend. And I won’t lose her again.”

Elzebul’s shadow shrank slightly, as if relenting, but its tone stayed sharp.

“Friend? Keep lying to yourself. But if you want to save her, my power could-”

“No.” Siegfried cut in, unlocking the stall. "You stay dormant. I don’t need your chaos." He took off his glasses and splashed water on his face at the sink, forcing his breathing to steady, then put his glasses back on and straightened his coat. “I’m going to Bea. Stay out of this.”

He pulls out a blister pack from his coat pocket containing small round lavender pills and opens one.

“Shutting me out again?”

Siegfried ignores Elzebul's question and pops one pill into his mouth. After swallowing it, the demon's eagle-shaped silhouette melted back into Siegfried’s shadow.

He left the bathroom, his resolve hardened despite the demon’s taunts, determined to reach Beatrice’s side.

—

Siegfried paused at a workstation outside the ICU and pulled up Beatrice’s CT scans. The images showed four epigastric lacerations, a small mesenteric hematoma, and no splenic or hepatic rupture.

He nodded to the scrub nurse. “Prep OR 3 for exploratory laparotomy. Alert the anesthesiologist and surgical team.”

He tapped his ID card against the reader by the ICU’s glass doors. The lock clicked, and the BAB agent pushed them open for him. 

Inside Beatrice’s room, the soft beeping of monitors greeted him. She lay motionless with an oxygen mask covering her face. IV tubes snaked from her arms, and bandages wrapped her abdomen, hiding the Blutsauger’s claw marks.

Her chest rose weakly with each fragile breath. Siegfried gripped the bedrail, feeling anguish wash over him. His childhood friend and lost love lay reduced to this.

Memories flooded back: their secret nights, the Eurozone crisis, and their tearful breakup under pressure from Chrysanthe and her allies.

“How do you stay so calm during emergency shifts?” A female voice behind Siegfried said.

“It’s in my blood.” Replied a male voice.

Siegfried caught the double meaning, but said nothing.

These voices are revealed to be Nurse Rahel Lohmann and Dr. Lars Schriebl, entering to check the monitors.

Rahel glanced at the chart. “Her quasi-goddess physiology is helping her. Blood pressure is up to 95/65, but the fever is climbing. We’ve adjusted the cefuroxime dosage.”

Siegfried nodded and adjusted Beatrice’s blanket. “There might be internal bleeding. I’ll confirm in surgery.” He turned to Rahel. “I need a private consultation room to assess her mental state. Wheel her there.”

Rahel hesitated. “Herr Doktor, that’s outside protocol. I’d have to report it to the ethics board-”

“It will be quick.” Siegfried interrupted with a sharp look. “Hold the report until I'm done.”

Rahel nodded reluctantly, and Dr. Schriebl helped wheel Beatrice to a secure consultation room with its blinds drawn.

Alone, Siegfried closed his eyes, slipping into the dreamscape as the room faded into a swirl of light.

Chapter Text

Beatrice half-opened her eyes, confused as she found herself in an unfamiliar location. Right in front of her blurry vision is a figure approaching her, it was impossible to tell what or who it was. However, as the blur dissipated, a familiar face came into focus.

"Siegfried?"

Large black wings gracefully unfurl on Siegfried's back, evoking an image of a fallen angel.

"Looks like fate made us run into each other again~" Siegfried's voice dripped with allure as he spoke.

Confusion overwhelmed Beatrice as she closed her eyes once again, mentally questioning whether she had somehow ended up in Hell. She opened her eyes wider, only to find Siegfried leaning in close, his face mere inches from hers.

As Beatrice struggled to get up, she came to the unsettling realization that she was trapped within the ominous confines of a dimly lit cathedral.

The surroundings seemed eerily reminiscent of a sinister setting where she could become the sacrificial offering in some demonic ritual. The presence of the altar behind her and stained glass windows adorned with enigmatic symbols doesn't help.

"Please tell me this is a dream, where am I?" She said with a feeble and faint voice.

“This is your dream.” Siegfried said, stepping back from Beatrice, “A Blutsauger attacked you at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. You’re in Aquilegia Hospital as my patient. I used Dream Manipulation to reach you privately. BAB is securing the ward and the police are handling the press. You’re safe for now.”

"That fucker ruined my vacation.” Beatrice growled, “I should've listened to Chrysa, I shouldn't take vacation in Germany! Once I get out of here I'm going to find him and wring the answers out of him!”

“I don't think you should do that alone, he could be from a terrorist group. I will be offering you a contract to become battle partners and find the perpetrator. BAB’s already on the trail, but you and I both know they won’t get the full picture. Not like we can.”

With a single snap of his fingers, a black liquid began to swirl around, growing bigger until it morphed into a contract paper.

“Sign this, and your blood will bind us to seek vengeance together.”

Siegfried snaps his fingers again, causing the haunting cathedral to melt into a starry night sky, and the two of them now on a carpet of verdant grass.

"Furthermore, once you get your revenge, that revenge will be mine as well. Fascism is on the rise and we have to take action. We will do anything to end my father's legacy, and make the Neo-Nazis and Fascists wallow in our wrath for they have tarnished our beloved nations. Don’t you want that too?"

As Siegfried extended his hand towards her, Beatrice's intuition instantly grasped the impending outcome.

It felt akin to a Faustian bargain, surrendering your very soul to the devil in exchange for obtaining your desires, rather than encountering the charming prince in fairy tales, gallantly arriving on a majestic white steed to rescue his damsel in distress.

She was torn, uncertain about whether to take Siegfried's hand or not. The idea of her blood as payment stirred unease, her instincts screaming caution.

"Go on, will you accept the contract or not?"

Siegfried expected an acceptance. Instead, he received a hard slap on his hand. This caused the contract to vanish into feathers, and Beatrice tackled him to the ground.

“Don't give me that “knight in shining armor” crap!” Beatrice snarled. “I can look after myself!”

“Here you go again, always trying to leap into the jaws of danger and push anyone who will try to stop you.” Siegfried said, pinned beneath her, met her glare with calm intensity. “You almost died seven times now. Did that teach you nothing?”

His right hand cupped her cheek, his touch gentle but deliberate, sending a flush across her face.

Flustered, Beatrice scrambled up and turned around to run, but her right foot caught on a root from a nearby tree and tripped.

In the blink of an eye, the dream world shifted into a golden ballroom full of guests with black eagle heads. The moment they blinked, it became clear that these heads weren't masks, but actually parts of them.

Beatrice got up and found herself draped in an elegant red and white dress and a small golden crown.

“Care for a dance?” Siegfried is behind her, donned in a green and white uniform. It made him look like a prince.

Beatrice, with no way out, took his hand. Her grip was firm but hesitant. They waltzed, Siegfried leading with a confident box step. His left hand held hers while his right rested on her waist, drawing her into a slow, deliberate turn.

Their steps glided across the polished floor. Her dress swirled in tune with his uniform. The guests watched with their red eyes glowing eerily.

The musicians, who also had the same eagle heads, played a haunting waltz melody that filled the air. Violins paired with a mournful piano in a minor key created the sound. Its bittersweet rhythm echoed the quasi-gods’ stolen nights.

Beatrice’s movements became stiff as she resisted his pull. Still, Siegfried's firm grip guided her into an underarm turn. Their bodies brushed close, and his wings cast fleeting shadows that heightened the dream's allure.

“It's just like the old times, isn't it?” Siegfried teased.

“Oh shut it, Zig.” Beatrice muttered and turned her face away from Siegfried's to hide her blush.

Siegfried’s both hands slid to her waist, “You can’t run from this, Beatrice." he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek, “Not from me, not from us.”

His words made her flush redder. He pulled her close and, with a gentle push, guided her down as the ballroom’s golden light faded into a warm, rosy haze. They landed softly on a heart-shaped bed.

The room is filled with pink neon lights, and heart balloons floating above, making it look like a Valentine's Day party.

Beatrice pushed Siegfried away, scrambling to her feet. Her crown vanished, and her ballroom dress changed back to her usual clothes.

“You pulled me into love during the crisis.” She growled, her face reddening with fury and embarrassment, “You ignored how much it will ruin me, and now you're invading my mind with this contract nonsense?! Chrysa found out about our secret relationship and made me end it because I betrayed her, I betrayed my allies. Do you know what that cost me?!”

Siegfried’s smirk faded. His voice softened, but his gaze remained fixed on hers with intense focus.

“I care about you, Beatrice. And I still do. But you’re lying to yourself if you think you can face your assailant alone. You were nearly assassinated six times because of your past as a CLN partisan. Now a Blutsauger almost killed you. Let me help.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away, moving to the edge of the bed.

“You don’t get it,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “Every time you’re close, I lose control. I lose myself. Chrysa was right. You’re a threat not just to me, but to my nation’s struggles. I won’t sign your contract. I don’t need you!”

Siegfried rose. His expression was unreadable, but pain flickered in his eyes. “You don’t need me,” he said quietly. “But I need you to live, Bea. This isn’t just about love; it’s about survival for both of our nations.”

The dream world wavered, the room distorting as he stepped back. “Think about it. I’ll be waiting.”

The dream began to dissolve. Siegfried opened his eyes. The steady hum of the consultation room brought him back from the dream's rosy haze.

Beatrice’s rejection created a new wound on top of old scars.

Chapter Text

Beatrice’s words, “I don't need you!” echoed in Siegfried's chest, mingling with the pain of their breakup. He clenched his jaw, forcing his emotions down. She was still in danger, and the Blutsauger attacker was still on the loose.

He left the room and signaled Rahel to take Beatrice back to the ICU. Her gurney rolled quietly past the police guards at the ward’s glass doors.

In her curtained bay, Beatrice lay still. An oxygen mask fogged with her shallow breaths. Her jacket and jeans were draped over a chair.

Dr. Schriebl approached with a tense expression. “Herr Dr. von Wagenheim, OR 3 is ready. The latest blood work shows stable clotting factors, but her white cell count is at 16,000. There’s a risk of early infection.”

Siegfried nodded as he smoothed his coat. “Get ready for exploratory laparotomy. I’ll do the surgery to fix the lacerations and check for mesenteric bleeding.”

Rahel hesitated. Her voice was soft. “Herr Doktor, about the consultation room, it’s outside protocol. I held the report, but we need to inform the ethics board.”

“I understand,” Siegfried replied. His voice was steady despite the weight of the dream. “Log it after surgery. She’s my patient. I’ll take responsibility.”

Rahel nodded and took the chart as she coordinated with the trauma team. Schriebl hurried off to finalize OR preparations.

Alone, Siegfried adjusted Beatrice’s monitors. His hands were precise, but his mind raced. Her six near-assassinations and this specific Blutsauger attack indicated a pattern, likely connected to the rise of fascism he had warned her about in the dream.

In the OR, Siegfried scrubbed in. Cold water grounded him. He walked through the double doors, surrounded by the sterile light that enveloped Beatrice’s draped form.

The trauma team worked efficiently. Nurses checked monitors, the anesthesiologist adjusted IV lines, and the scrub tech arranged instruments.

“BP is 90/60 with transfusions. Sedation is optimal.” said the anesthesiologist.

Rahel, assisting, added, “White cell count is elevated, but antibiotics are on board. IV cefuroxime is given as per protocol.”

Siegfried nodded as he examined Beatrice’s abdomen. “Scalpel.” The weight of the blade steadied him as he extended the lacerations to access the damage. Blood welled, but suction cleared his view.

His hands moved skillfully, separating tissue and clamping bleeders. The liver and spleen were intact, but he noticed a slow ooze from a torn mesenteric vein that needed his attention.

“Suture, 3-0 vicryl." He ordered, tying off the bleeder. The monitors beeped steadily, showing Beatrice’s vitality.

“Retractor.” he said, and Rahel exposed the abdominal cavity. The lacerations had torn muscle and fascia, but deeper structures were intact.

He sutured carefully, layer by layer. “Vitals are steady." Rahel reported. “You’ve got this, Herr Doktor.”

Siegfried got to close the final laceration. The surgical lights shone brightly, washing out the colors, especially the blood on his gloves.

He irrigated the cavity, checked for missed bleeders, and closed the outer layers. “Antibiotics confirmed?”

“Broad-spectrum to cover infection risk." the anesthesiologist replied.

Siegfried stepped back and removed his gloves. “She’s stable. Move her to recovery and monitor for fever or bleeding.”

The team wheeled Beatrice out of the operating room. As Siegfried scrubbed out, the antiseptic smell followed him as he entered the recovery ward.

Beatrice lay in a curtained bay. IV lines were in place, and fresh bandages covered her. Heart rate was 80, blood pressure was 95/62, and oxygen saturation was 98%, displayed on the monitor. He adjusted her antibiotic drip, noticing the elevated white cell count but no fever.

Dr. Schriebl arrived with a tablet, “Herr Doktor, This just came through the Crisis Communications Office. It's marked high-priority from BAB. They said you should see it immediately.”

Siegfried's jaw tightened as images from the dream flashed in his mind. Beatrice tackling him in the grassy field, their waltz in the golden ballroom, and her fury in the neon pink bedroom.

“Keep me updated,” he said. “This wasn’t random.”

Rahel entered. “An Italian diplomat called about her condition. I told him she’s stable but critical and that no visitors are allowed yet.”

“Good.” Siegfried replied, “Monitor for sepsis. Is the trauma team on standby?”

“Yes. The team are aware of her high-risk status and are monitoring her lab results every two hours. The staff are still on the edge since the agents arrived, but procedures are being followed.” 

Rahel left while Dr. Schriebl stayed behind.

“Herr Doktor, what you did in the consultation room was risky.” He said, “You seemed shaken afterward.”

“I’m fine." Siegfried snapped, then softened. “She’s my patient, Dr. Schriebl. I’ll do what it takes.” He adjusted Beatrice’s blanket, whispering, “You don’t need me, but I won’t let you die.”

Italy’s involvement meant political pressure, raising the stakes of Beatrice’s position. 

Now that international attention was looming, every action would be scrutinized.

—

In Siegfried's office, he opened an email marked “Berlin Hauptbahnhof Incident.”

It was forwarded from the joint Police-BAB task force folder. The sender’s address bore the BAB domain, marked “For Internal Review Only.”

Grainy footage showed the attacker’s precise strikes. Siegfried pulled out his phone to call Heinrich.

“Hello?”

“Herr Siegfried, how is Frau Gastaldello?” Heinrich’s calm voice came through.

“Stable but critical.” Siegfried said, eyes on the blurred figure on the screen. “Surgery went well. Lacerations stitched, bleeding stopped. White cell count is high, so there’s concern for infection.”

He paused the video, “The attacker’s face is unrecognizable since he had sunglasses and a face mask on. But one notable trait are the wood grain patterns on his wings. Compiled witness statements note the suspect declared to carry out what the far-right demanded before the attack. Authorities are investigating it as a premeditated politically motivated assault. Look into Blutsauger activity in Berlin, starting with the station. Then look for Neo-Nazi ties. This seems targeted.”

“BAB has increased patrols. The attacker is unregistered, so you'll probably have better luck than they will. I’ve heard about extremist cells moving into Berlin.” Heinrich said, “Remember to bring her to the mansion when she’s stable.”

“I’ll consider it,” Siegfried said, “But I need to know who did this.”

Chapter Text

Some safehouse somewhere in Mitte, Berlin

October 31, 2023, 22:00

The air in the low-lit safehouse beneath Berlin's Mitte district was cold and stale, heavy with the scent of concrete and old metal. 

A single light bulb cast sharp shadows on a cluttered table strewn with maps, blurry photos, and a laptop displaying surveillance footage from the Berlin Hauptbahnhof.

Heinrich stood at the table’s head, his expression taut as he studied the hooded figure on the laptop.

His call with Siegfried had set his course: dig into Blutsauger activity, starting at Hauptbahnhof, and check for Neo-Nazi ties.

The door creaked open, revealing two state quasi-gods. Adelheid Hauschildt of Hamburg strode in, her eyes scanning the room. Behind her is Lorenz Rittermeier of North Rhine-Westphalia, his broad frame filling the doorway.

“Heinrich,” Adelheid said, her Hamburg accent clipped, “You dragged me from a perfectly good Fischbrötchen. This better be worth it.”

“Beatrice Gastaldello, Italy’s quasi-goddess, was nearly killed at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. The attacker is a Blutsauger wearing sunglasses and a face mask. Police are suspecting extremists, possibly Neo-Nazis. We need to trace this fast because the attacker’s unregistered. BAB is also involved, but they're swamped. We can't sit around waiting for the paperwork to clear.” Heinrich replied, his voice calm but firm.

Lorenz crossed his arms, “That’s bold, even for a Blutsauger.”

“Frau Gastaldello’s history of six near-assassinations points to a targeted hit. The law enforcement are chasing shadows, so it’s on us.”

Adelheid leaned over to the laptop, reviewing the footage that captured Beatrice's collapse, with the graphic parts censored with a blur.

“This was planned.” She noted, “No way this could be a random attack.”

Heinrich nodded, pointing to a map of Berlin pinned to the wall. Red markers dotted Kreuzberg, Neukölln, and Mitte, known hotspots for extremist activity.

“I've got informants in these districts. Rumors circulated last week about a small, mobile Neo-Nazi group involved in black-market weapons deals. They’ve been quiet, but Blutsauger involvement changes the game. BAB flagged Neukölln twice last month for illegal blood trafficking. There's nothing concrete yet, but it’s too close to ignore.

Lorenz frowned, studying a photo of a graffiti near Hauptbahnhof, a crude swastika scrawled in red paint. 

“That’s sloppy. They’ve got coordination. Do you think they’re working with someone bigger?”  

“Possibly,” Heinrich said, “My contacts in Mitte reported a Blutsauger loitering near the station two days ago. I want you two to shake down your networks.”

He turned to face Adelheid, “Ada, Hamburg’s ports are a smuggling hub. Check for weapons or Blutsauger movement.”

“I'm on it.” replied Adelheid.

Heinrich then turns to Lorenz, “North Rhine-Westphalia’s industrial zones are a haven for extremist cells. Dig there.”

“Alright.” replied Lorenz.

“We'll find this Blutsauger before Italy ignites.” Heinrich muttered.

November 1, 2023, 02:00

In Neukölln, an abandoned warehouse stood dark. Its boarded windows hid a gathering of four men. All of them are in their mid-20s.

A man in a black beanie and leather jacket sat on an overturned barrel, cleaning a blade with a rag, “Looks like Heiko's attack on Italy’s quasi-goddess got Berliners in a frenzy.”

Another man is leaning against a crate. He wears a light gray hoodie with matching sweatpants and a black fanny pack around his chest.

“You’re late, Alain.” The man in a light gray hoodie snapped, his Italian accent cutting through the silence. “We told you to show up on time and you’re strolling in like it’s a damn café meetup. What’s your excuse?”

Alain slunk into the circle, looking pale in the lamplight and his eyes darting around, “Got held up in Kreuzberg.” he mumbled, running a hand through his disheveled hair, “Police and BAB were everywhere since the attack. I had to take the long way.”

A man in a red sweater and cream puffer vest lounged against a wall, “He’s always been slow, Clemente. Remember back in Gymnasium? Alain trailing us like a lost puppy begging to fit in.”

Alain’s jaw tightened, He remembered at sixteen, he was the outsider desperate for acceptance. The trio had drawn him in with promises of power. The memory of those days stung.

“You kicked me in the courtyard!” Alain shot back, his French accent thick with defiance. “You cheered while Clemente pinned me down. Your idea of “bonding” is a black eye.”

Clemente laughed with a cold edge to it. “You loved it, Alain. Remember when your sister, what was her name, Eulalie? Caught us that day? She saw me kick you and screamed like we're murderers. We begged her not to tell the Direktor.”

Adriano grinned, “And that time she found you after class curled up in the classroom. Me and Traugott were egging Clemente on while he beat you up. Eulalie nearly tore us apart. ‘Please, don’t tell the teachers!’”

Traugott sets down his blade, “Enough nostalgia. Eulalie’s long gone, back in France.”

Alain’s hand twitched, touching a scar on his neck, “Assassinating Beatrice was our message. No quasi-god is untouchable.”

Traugott stood tall, his voice firm. “Heiko did what the Italian members wanted. Now the assassination has stirred the pot. Italy’s raging while this country's on the edge. The fact BAB hasn’t connected the dots means we’re still in the clear. Lämmer is growing and buzzing with new recruits and we’re the mods keeping it tight.”

Adriano smirked, his claws tapping the crate. “Sansone’s probably having a meltdown in Rome right now. Bet he’s blaming it on Siegfried. Their drama’s our best cover. Everyone’s too busy with their soap opera to even look at Pankow.”

Chapter Text

03:30

Heinrich moved through Neukölln’s predawn darkness. The district’s gritty streets hummed with distant sirens. His eyes scanned the shadowy alleyways. His tailored suit stood out against the graffiti-stained walls under flickering street lights. 

The meeting at the Mitte safehouse set his mission: Investigate Neukölln for any Neo-Nazi or Blutsauger activity. He was following leads about a cell connected to the attack.

He stopped at an abandoned warehouse. The windows and faded graffiti matched what his informant had said.

Four men came into view as footsteps echoed from the building's left side.

“Oh great. The von Wagenheim family’s butler.” Traugott said, “What’s he doing in Neukölln’s dirt?”

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m looking for information. There was a report of a Blutsauger attack on Berlin Hauptbahnhof about eight hours ago. Have you seen or heard anything about a Blutsauger with wood grain patterned wings?” Heinrich asked.

Traugott grinned wider and quickly shook his head. "Not a clue. That's just another night in Berlin."

“It won’t be long before BAB sends investigators here.” Heinrich said.

Traugott scoffingly replied, “Let them come. They’ll just blame it on someone else and call it a day.”

"I heard rumors of Neo-Nazi activity here. Do you know anyone-" Before Heinrich could ask more, Alain stepped forward.

“No. Enough questions. Now leave us alone.” the Frenchman snapped.

“L'œil du tireur d'élite.” He muttered as a rhombus-shaped crosshair appeared in his vision and locked onto Heinrich.

Alain pulled his pistol and fired. The shot rang out, but a force field flared up around Heinrich. The bullet deflected against the barrier, leaving tiny cracks on its clear surface.

The gang's eyes glowed red, except for Alain, whose pupils were circled with red thorny rings. Wings sprouted as they all lunged forward.

“Ascia dell'ordine!” Black feathers formed a battleaxe. Clemente grabbed it and swung, splitting the air. Its shockwave further damaged Heinrich’s force field.

“Lanciafiamme Tricolore!” Adriano created black feathers that turned into a flamethrower. It fired orange, yellow, and white snake-like flames.

“Sturmgeist!” Traugott unleashed a spectral storm cloud that formed into an eagle. Wind and lightning battered Heinrich’s barrier. The eagle cloud opened its mouth and shot a ball of energy at the force field, making it crack even louder, barely holding up.

Heinrich bolted, rushing to the side street Planetenstraße, barely outpacing the Blutsauger gang. The streetlights stretched shadows as he crossed to Sonnenallee.

The flames of Lanciafiamme Tricolore coiled toward him. As the third flame struck, the force field shattered, but Heinrich managed to sprint to Köllnische Heide station.

He slipped into the station's sparse crowd, boarding a train to Grunewald at 04:00. His suit was singed, but he had no injuries.

—

Heinrich stepped off the train at 04:30. As he walked toward the path, he could see the von Wagenheim mansion looming ahead, its gothic spires slicing through the sky.

After reaching the mansion, Heinrich texted Adelheid and Lorenz:

“Got attacked in Neukölln by four Blutsaugers. They likely have ties with Neo-Nazis. Report your findings.”

BAB won’t arrive until sunrise. If they even bother with Neukölln, Heinrich's not waiting around for them.

Adelheid was last seen chasing down leads at the Hamburg port, and Lorenz has been silent since his investigation in Dortmund. So Heinrich called Siegfried, who was still at the hospital.

“Hello? Herr Siegfried? I couldn’t get any clues and got ambushed by four Blutsaugers in Neukölln. They're heavily armed.”

“Heinrich, are you alright?!” Siegfried's voice crackled through the line.

“Yes. No injuries.” Heinrich replied, pacing outside the mansion's oak gates. “Their powers cracked my force field. An axe, flamethrower, storm cloud in the shape of an eagle, and one guy with a sniper’s vision.”

“Damn it.” Siegfried muttered, his concern clear. “Please take a rest, Heinrich. Don’t go to Neukölln alone again. We’ll regroup tomorrow.”

“We need to warn BAB. We may already be a step behind if the thugs are this organized.”

“Not now. If they get involved too soon, the real players will vanish underground.”

“Alright.”

“Let's hold off for the time being. Goodbye.”

The call ended.

Heinrich entered the mansion, its dim halls thick with dust. He went to his room, a simple space with a single bed and a desk cluttered with maps.

He sank onto his bed as exhaustion settled in, but his resolve remained strong.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

08:00

Heiko woke up with a start, morning light streaming through the cracked blinds. He looked at his hands, went to the mirror to check his eyes and teeth and saw they had returned to normal. 

He doesn't need to worry about spending time with his family and friends during the day. The problem is if they invite him for dinner and he accidentally reveals that he is a Stray.

Heiko then recalled Felix's words. After 6 days, a Stray will lose control of themselves. He has 5 days left. After his 6th day, he won't be able to hide his secret any longer.

He peeled off his bandages and took a shower before putting on fresh ones. He grabbed his phone, hands shaking as an alarm went off; he was scheduled to meet Veronika, his co-worker, at a café just a four-minute walk from his apartment so he quickly put on a gray hoodie and jeans. 

Stepping into the crisp morning air, he halted as he passed a newsstand. The headline read: “Attack at Berlin Hauptbahnhof! Italy's quasi-goddess Beatrice Gastaldello in hospital after Blutsauger attack"

Last night felt unreal. Becoming a Blutsauger to assassinate a quasi-goddess. Heiko thought about what would happen if his co-workers found out he is the perpetrator and has ties to Neo-Nazis. He shook his head, not wanting to dwell on it.

As he arrived at the café, he pushed through the glass door. The place felt cozy with its exposed brick walls and the smell of fresh coffee. A chalkboard menu displayed their Daily Special: Currywurst.

He found Veronika sitting at a corner table, her dirty blonde hair tucked into a loose bun, scrolling on her phone. 

“Morning, Heiko.” She said.

Heiko forced a smile as he slid into the seat across from her and picked up a menu. His eyes focused on the black coffee and bread rolls with butter and jam (flavors are strawberry and apricot), which cost 2,20 € and 3,20 € respectively. He put down the menu when he heard the waiter's footsteps.

“Good morning! How can I help you?” The waiter smiled, holding a notepad.

“Good morning! I'll have milk coffee and avocado toast, please.” Veronika said.

“I’d like a black coffee and bread rolls with butter and strawberry jam, please.” Heiko said.

The waiter started writing down their orders. “Anything else?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you.” Veronika replied.

“Alright! I’ll bring everything shortly.” The waiter went into the kitchen.

Veronika opened YouTube on her phone and tapped on a news video. “Last night was chaotic. I could barely sleep with the police sirens blaring at my window.” she said, frowning.

Heiko's eyes widened when he saw the video's title was the same as one at the newsstand earlier.

"We interrupt our programming with breaking news from Berlin Hauptbahnhof, where a violent attack by an unidentified Blutsauger terrorist has left a quasi-goddess hospitalized after her arrival. The BAB has now launched a joint investigation with Italian authorities."

Words from the news anchor made his heart race, knowing all the other international news channels would also refer the perpetrator as a terrorist. Even though they hadn't discovered it was him, how would he face his family and friends after all this?

The video then shows a reporter outside Berlin Hauptbahnhof with blaring sirens, police tape and shattered glass in the background.

“Chaos broke out here at Berlin Hauptbahnhof earlier when a Blutsauger terrorist launched a sudden assault, mere minutes after quasi-goddess and Polizia di Stato officer Beatrice Gastaldello arrived from Berlin Brandenburg Airport. The suspect shattered the station’s glass ceiling to escape, leaving devastation behind.”

The video showed grainy footage of the attacker, a hooded figure in sunglasses and a face mask. The footage blurred when it showed him slashing Beatrice's abdomen.

He was that hooded figure, and his pulse raced as his fingers twitched, nearly spilling his coffee at the part when Beatrice collapsed.

“That’s… awful.” He said, pretending to be shocked. “Who would do something like that?”

Veronika leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “They’re saying this could be politically motivated.” She exits YouTube to open Twitter and scrolls down, showing tweets demanding justice. “And now #VivaBeatrice is all over Twitter.”

Heiko's stomach twisted as he bit his lip but he had no time to think as the waiter returned to serve their food and left.

The warmth of the bread offered faint comfort. Heiko’s mind raced as he spread the jam with a butter knife while Veronika sipped her milk coffee.

Veronika turned off her phone and set it on the table. “It’s weird, though.” she said, taking a bite of her toast. “Attacking a quasi-god in a train station. It could be something personal, considering the number of Frau Gastaldello’s political opponents.” She glanced at Heiko. “You okay? You look kind of pale.”

“I’m fine,” Heiko snapped, “Just a rough night. All this news about an attack on a quasi-god is making it hard for me to sleep.” He took a sip of his coffee and bit into his bread roll.

He looked curiously at Veronika’s toast. “Your avocado toast actually looks better than my bread roll.”

“Want to try some?” Veronika asked.

“No, thanks.” Heiko shook his head. “I'm sticking with classic today. Butter and jam.”

“They seasoned the avocado perfectly.” Veronika said as she examined the spread.

“The jam's not bad either. I think it’s homemade.” Heiko replied, taking another bite of his bread roll.

“Want a sip of my milk coffee?” Veronika sets her cup close to Heiko's.

“Only if you’ll take a bite of my roll in return.”

“Deal.”

— 

After finishing their food, Veronika handed her euros to the cashier and left the café with Heiko after the payment.

The streets of Mitte buzz with early morning travelers. Veronika pressed the unlock button on her key fob to open her car, “We're going to the mall. I'm buying a new frying pan because my old one's coating peeled off.” 

Heiko nodded and slid into the passenger seat. Veronika started the engine and blended into Berlin’s traffic. She flicked on the radio, and a news report crackled through: 

“Protests erupt across Italy following the attempted assassination of Beatrice Gastaldello at Berlin Hauptbahnhof last night. Demonstrators in Rome and Milan demand for justice-”

Heiko’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Cem, his Turkish co-worker:

Hi Heiko! I'm inviting you, Veronika and Reuben for dinner tonight at my place, 19:00. I'm going to cook some traditional Turkish food. Mercimek çorbası, köfte, baklava. Let me know if you're interested!

Heiko’s blood boiled at the fact this text came from Cem. He only accepted to be in his contacts to play along.

Reuben is another one of Heiko’s co-workers. He was also his classmate in university.

“Cem’s inviting us for dinner.” He said to Veronika, his voice flat as he tried to stay calm, “It's Turkish food. You in?”  

Veronika stopped her car when the traffic light changed to red, “Sounds fun.” She turned to look at Heiko, “Are you okay? You’re looking tense again.”  

Heiko’s jaw clenched, but he shrugged. “Just stressed about the news. Now Italy’s lighting up with protests.” His lie was thin, but he leaned back, staring out the window at the buildings. 

Veronika changed the radio station, concerned about the politics getting into Heiko's head. It played Rammstein’s “Ohne dich”, its melancholic guitar riffs and Till Lindemann’s low vocals filled the car.

They pulled into the mall's parking lot, its building looming in the heart of Mitte. Inside the kitchen appliance store, the shelves are stocked with a variety of appliances. Veronika beelined for the cookware aisle, inspecting a nonstick skillet. 

Heiko got nothing to buy, so he aimlessly strolled through the store until he noticed a familiar face at the checkout. 

Carrying a bag of utensils, the man glanced to his left, and their eyes met. It was Felix, Heiko's neighbor. A brief moment of recognition flashed between them but neither spoke. Felix quickly turned and left, leaving Heiko standing there, frozen.

“Heiko?” Veronika’s voice snapped him back. “You're zoning out.”

“Thought I saw my neighbor,” Heiko lied, heart racing.

Veronika raised an eyebrow but let it slide, and went to the cashier to pay for her frying pan.

As they exited the store, Veronika carried her newly bought frying pan in a reusable bag. The mall had begun to fill with early shoppers, the murmur of footsteps and distant chatter echoing through the corridors.

“Mind if I go to the bathroom real quick?” Heiko asked.

“Go ahead,” Veronika said, “I’ll wait near the exit.”

Heiko made his way through the tiled halls to the nearest public restroom. Inside, he entered the farthest stall, locking the door behind him. 

He pulled out his phone, hands trembling while trying to message Felix.

Felix: Sorry I didn’t answer sooner. I know we were supposed to start training but things got messy after the incident. I wasn’t expecting it to blow up like that.

Heiko: It’s fine. I understand. They’re calling it a terrorist attack now. News said BAB is involved.

Felix: Yeah. They’re digging through everything. Listen, don’t text me details. We don’t know who’s watching what. Just lay low. Also, if your power’s starting to fade, I’ll drop off a small box with snacks. It's human blood. There's also Atropa ointment in case you'll bump into a light user.

Heiko: Where did you get the blood bags?

Felix: Some leftovers from a raid on Wedding last month. I'll put it in a junk box that was in my apartment. They’re sealed, you’ll need it in case anything gets weird. Use only if you feel weak. Don’t overdose.

Heiko’s stomach churned. He didn’t know how to respond to the next message.

Felix: You took the vial, right? The one I mixed with wine? You didn’t drink it raw, did you?

Heiko typed: I did.

His thumb hovered over the send button but he backspaced, then typed again.

Heiko: I didn't. Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine. Just trying to survive the next few days.

Felix: Good, you’ve got time. Just don’t go anywhere near Sonnenallee. Those light users would fry you alive without asking questions.

Heiko: Yeah. I heard stories.

Felix: I’ll send the box around midnight. Keep your door unlocked.

Heiko: Understood.

Heiko stared at the screen a bit longer, then turned off his phone, slipped it into his pocket, left the bathroom and headed to the mall exit where Veronika was waiting.

She looked up from her phone. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said. "Let's go to Reuben’s.”

Chapter Text

31 October 2023, After the attack on Berlin Hauptbahnhof

In a white-stone villa nestled in Mount Lycabettus, Greece's quasi-goddess, Chrysanthe Angelopoulou, had just finished dinner. 

The evening air was balmy, rustling the curtains as she stacked her empty plates into the sink. Faint sounds of tourists drifted from afar.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It appears to be a message from Dragomir Isaković, quasi-god of Serbia. She wiped her hands and picked it up.

Dragomir: Have you watched the news? Beatrice’s in Aquilegia Hospital.

Dragomir linked a video of the news report. Chrysanthe’s eyebrows furrowed as she watched the footage showing the shattered ceiling of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, police tape, and then her best friend being wheeled away on a stretcher.

Chrysanthe: This can’t be. What is she doing in Germany?

1 November 2023 – Paris, France

Sunlight filtered into the opulent salon of Évélina de Lafosse’s mansion, gilding the marble floors and casting long shadows across oil paintings older than many nations.

She sat by her antique desk, dressed in a cashmere robe.

On her laptop screen is a weary face of her ex-husband Henry Carslaw blinked into view. A mug with a text “Yes, English can be weird. It can be understood through, tough, thorough, thought, though” in his hand steamed faintly.

“Good morning, De Lafosse.” Henry said cheerily.

“Good morning, Monsieur Carslaw.” Évélina replied with a crisp smile, “To what do I owe this digital reunion?”

“Just checking in,” Henry said, “The news of the Berlin Central Station incident spread like wildfire across the Channel. Even the tabloids are now screaming about a quasi-god attack.”

Évélina and Henry's marriage was far from being a perfect romance. You can’t bind France and Britain together without expecting a few storms. 

Their love was real, but it always bore the weight of past conflicts. When the time came, they didn’t shout or fight, they just simply decided to part ways. 

Their governments needed them apart more than they needed to be together. Better to cut the cord themselves than let it become a rope around someone’s throat.

Évélina sipped from her porcelain teacup as her maid Héloïse Vaugeois, quasi-goddess of Paris, entered the salon and placed a plate of Sablé cookies on the table.

“I made cookies, Madam. It's Sablé.”

“Thank you, Héloïse.” Évélina said softly. The Parisian quasi-goddess bowed and exited the room.

“It’s all over Western Europe,” Henry continued. “Belgium, Spain, even Ireland’s reacting with diplomatic unease. And, of course, the Italians are furious.”

Évélina shrunk Henry's screen and dragged it to the upper right corner to reveal a news article listing the countries who were informed about the incident.

“Greece, Croatia, Albania. All the countries with strong diplomatic ties with Italy are monitoring this closely.”

Her smile faded as she leaned back. “Things were not this tense when we used to be Team EU4. Have you heard from Siegfried?”

Henry’s expression shifted. “No. The last time I spoke to him was years ago. I got scolded for singing ‘Ten German Bombers’.”

“He’s always been like that.” Évélina muttered, fingers tracing the rim of her cup, “I can still recall giving Beatrice shelter when she didn’t know who she was anymore.”

She took a bite of her cookie, “We had a fallout in 2011. I remember when we found ourselves at odds regarding the Libyan civil war, but the real issue was the political tension between our countries throughout the years. We both felt that when our governments grew distant, we had to do the same. Afterward, I worried that Siegfried might cut me off as well since he felt I judged Beatrice too harshly. We remain allies, but it has been quite a while since we spoke as friends.”

Henry leaned back in his leather chair, “These days, it feels like the only thing holding half of us together is some dusty treaty or shared economic panic. Personal ties? They’ve all gone brittle.”

He took a sip of coffee, then added, “As for Siegfried, he always had that stiffness. He never forgets who stood with him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been weighing your fallout with Beatrice on some invisible scale ever since.”

Henry puts down his mug, “Do you remember the rumors that Siegfried and Beatrice were romantically involved? They denied it, of course, but the media wouldn’t let go.”

“I remember that.” Évélina nodded solemnly. “It nearly tore Beatrice apart. She lashed out during interviews, saying there was nothing but respect between them. But I’ve always wondered.”

Her fingers, which had been still on the teacup, now tightened a bit as she got lost in thought.

“Remember the party in 1995?”

She let out a low breath, almost amused.

“I recall Siegfried vanishing down the hall, only to come back from the bathroom with faint lipstick stains on his face. I didn’t say anything but the shade matched the one Beatrice asked to borrow from me earlier that night.”

Évélina gave a slow, bitter smile. “I never confronted her. It would’ve forced something into the open that neither of them were ready for, or perhaps something I wasn’t ready to bear witness to.”

She looked back at Henry, “There was always that invisible thread between them that's deeper than simple affection. It could be longing, guilt, grief, and maybe a bit of shared damnation. Whatever it was, they never said it aloud and chose to bury it again and again.”

Her voice softened, “I don’t think they ever stopped loving each other. I think they simply learned to live with the silence.”

Henry gave a low whistle, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “You always had an eye for those things, De Lafosse.” He said, voice tinged with dry amusement, “Lipstick stains and unspoken tragedies.”

“I recall that night, though not clearly. But I remember I left early because someone from the Foreign Office kept hounding me about Gibraltar.” Henry said with a hint of irritation in his voice, “Siegfried looked like he was scrambling to outrun his own heart.”

A notification sound can be heard in the background and Henry reaches for his phone.

“For a man forged by tyranny, he always had that tenderness within him until it became a problem.” 

Henry puts his phone down after texting someone, “That’s what this world does, doesn’t it? Punish those who feel too compassionate and too willing to open their hearts. It devours them, spits them out and leaves them exhausted and foolish.”

His gaze returned to Évélina, “If the rumors were true, then the silence that followed may have been their greatest act of loyalty to each other, to their countries and to the damned pretense of peace we all live under.”

Évélina's eyes glazed over, as if she were preoccupied with her thoughts, “At a party in Provence back in 1996, Dorothea and I caught them drunk kissing. They didn’t pull away until we separated them. Dorothea tugged Siegfried by the collar and I had to peel Beatrice off like melted wax.”

Henry let out a low whistle. “That would explain a few things.”

Évélina looked into her tea. “Then came 2011. Do you remember what happened that year?”

Henry nodded, “I remember hearing bits and pieces. All too conveniently timed.”

Évélina listed them one by one:

1. A brick was thrown at Siegfried’s dining room window during breakfast. He and Heinrich barely avoided the shards.
2. Beatrice was shot in the leg and struck with a baton while on her way to the police station.
3. A man almost shot Siegfried’s car and was found to have participated in a Dresden bombing commemoration months ago.
4. Three men spray-painted antisemitic messages outside his mansion. They were later linked to the man who tried to shoot him.
5. The gate of Beatrice’s house was also vandalized. Her grandfather Melchiorre chased the man down before the police arrived.”

“All in the same year,” Évélina added. “Do you think this is a coincidence?”

“Maybe.”

“I was wondering if this rift between generations runs deeper than personal grievances.” Évélina finishes her tea and sets the cup beside her laptop.

She continued, “Siegfried and Beatrice are part of the younger generation of quasi-gods. We, the Elders have lived for centuries and there’s been growing evidence that many of the young ones quietly hold a grudge against us. They see us as outdated and out of touch. Perhaps my fallout with Beatrice was not just about politics, it might have been inevitable.”

Henry rubbed his temples, “And yet, it’s the same ones who end up repeating our mistakes.”

Évélina’s eyes gleamed with melancholy, “Indeed. And the same ones who carry our deepest wounds.”

Beatrice slowly opened her eyes. Pale morning light filtered through the curtains of her hospital room. 

She blinked several times, adjusting to the brightness, and slowly lifted her head from the pillow. 

The steady hum of the heart monitor and the low murmur of nurses outside the door told her exactly where she was.

On the overbed table next to her is a food tray with a cup of warm chamomile tea, small bowl of semolina porridge, and a few slices of soft white bread with apricot jam. Nothing too heavy, just enough for someone recovering from abdominal surgery.

She winced as she sat up, her hand instinctively moving to her bandaged stomach. Painkillers still coursed through her veins, but she could feel the strain of the sutures beneath her skin.

Beatrice exhaled sharply and closed her eyes again. Her dream last night felt too vivid to be just a dream. She had tackled Siegfried, danced with him, and argued with him.

She rubbed her temple and muttered, “Don’t show up in my dreams next time, Zig.”

A middle-aged doctor in a white coat stepped inside, clipboard in hand and reading glasses sitting on the tip of his nose.

“Good morning, Frau Gastaldello.” He said, “I’ve reviewed your charts and surgical notes. Your wounds are healing well, no signs of infection, and your vitals are stable.”

Beatrice nodded, her fingers resting lightly on the blanket over her abdomen, “And the pain?”

“That’s to be expected for at least another week,” he replied, noting something on the clipboard. “You’re still on a soft diet for now. Nothing heavy until the internal tissue is further along in recovery. We’ll keep you monitoring for another two or three days, depending on how you respond.”

He adjusted his glasses, studying her expression. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“Only when I try to sit up too fast.”

“That’s normal. Move slowly, and let the nurses assist you.” He glanced briefly at the IV stand, “Tomorrow, we’ll lower your pain medication dosage to see how you manage without it.”

Beatrice exhaled quietly, “When will I be able to walk properly again?”

“You can begin light walking with assistance tomorrow. No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity for at least six weeks. I trust that won’t be an issue?”

Her lips curved faintly, “That depends on your definition of strenuous, Doctor.”

The doctor made a small smile before making a note, “I’ll check on you again later. If you feel anything unusual, like sharp pain, fever or changes around the wound, call the nurse immediately.”

He left the room and closed the door.

Beatrice snapped her fingers to summon her green crystal and released her bag and trolley case onto the floor. The crystal dissolved into particles a moment later.

She rummaged in her bag, pulling out her phone to message her grandfather Melchiorre on WhatsApp.

Beatrice: Good morning grandpa. I'm sure you've seen the news and I just wanted to let you know I'm alive. I'm in Aquilegia Hospital.

Nonno Melchiorre: Bea, thank goodness. The others and I were watching the news last night. I’m flying to Berlin if I have to.

She smiled faintly and replied:

I’m fine, grandpa. Please don’t worry about me. The hospital staff are taking good care of me.

She went to message Chrysanthe next.

Beatrice: Hi Chrysanthe, I just wanted to let you know I'm alive.

Chrysanthe: Please tell me you’re not in Aquilegia Hospital. You better be joking, Bea.

Beatrice: Yes, I’m in Aquilegia. I know what you’re going to say. And no, I didn’t do anything stupid.

She picked at the bread and jam while scrolling through YouTube. She typed in “Berlin Hauptbahnhof Blutsauger attack” and several top news videos appeared, some from major European outlets.

She tapped on one from France 24, showing Évélina behind a marble podium with the French flag and EU emblem behind her. Her voice was poised and diplomatic, but her eyes carried the same glittering sharpness Beatrice remembered from years past.

“The Republic expresses its unwavering support for Officer Beatrice Gastaldello. An attack on a quasi-goddess is an attack on all who value peace and order. We stand with Italy. Nous sommes à vos côtés.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Shut up.”

She scrolled down. The second video is from Dr. Albrecht Eisenträger, flanked by SBK officials in Vienna.

“Though this falls under the jurisdiction of Bundesagentur zur Abwehr von Blutsaugerbedrohungen, Austria condemns the act. We extend our concern to our Italian allies and urge a reevaluation of security coordination across borders.”

Beatrice’s hands trembled while watching the video. She felt an intense rage rising within her, a powerful urge to throw her phone at the wall, but she resisted the impulse.

Next is a video from Chrysanthe.

“My thoughts are with Beatrice, my dearest friend. She always stood strong in dire situations. Greece mourns with Italy, and I personally swear if any harm comes to her again, I’ll fly to Berlin myself.”

Beatrice smiled, her tension easing slightly. “Thank you, Chrysa.”

Another video followed is from Albania's quasi-goddess, Doruntinë Xhelilaj.

“We Albanians have always respected Beatrice Gastaldello, not just as Italy’s quasi-goddess, but as a partisan spirit reborn. This cowardly act will not shake her resolve. May her recovery be swift, and her vengeance complete.”

The last video is from the United States of America's quasi-god, Wilmon Clayton, standing behind a marble building.

“Beatrice Gastaldello is more than just Italy’s guardian. She is the proof that courage and justice can outlive even the worst regimes. The United States stands with her as both an ally and friend. And to those who struck her down, mark my words: She will rise again to put an end to Fascism once and for all, and you will never break the bond between our nations.”

Beatrice swallowed hard at those words and leaned back against her pillow.

Chapter Text

Beatrice picked up her buzzing phone, the screen lit up with an incoming call. The fact it had her best friend's name had her stomach in knots.

She swiped to answer, “Hello, Chrysa?”

“Bea! You scared the shit out of me.” Chrysanthe's voice came through the phone.

“I’m okay, really.” Beatrice replied, adjusting the blanket over her lap. “Just recovering. The doctors say it’s clean surgery. No permanent damage.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not flying over there if I hear you’re brushing this off.” A pause. “That video of you collapsing in the train station? I nearly dropped my plate. Do you realize half of Europe’s been talking about this?”

“Yes, I was browsing on YouTube and I saw your video-”

“You’re in Aquilegia, aren’t you?” Chrysanthe’s tone sharpened.

Beatrice closed her eyes. “Yes, it's where the ambulance brought me. I didn’t ask for it.”

Silence crackled between them.

“Bea, tell me the truth. von Wagenheim didn’t seduce you again, is that correct?”

“He didn’t, why would he do that?!” Beatrice's reply came fast. She blushed at Chrysanthe’s question, thankful she couldn’t see it. “I’m here because I almost died, Chrysa. That’s all.”

Chrysanthe didn’t press further, “Good. Because if I find out he’s sniffing around again, I’m hopping on a plane with a shovel. Just don’t let your guard down, not even with him.”

Beatrice smiled faintly, “You still dig your own olive trees?”

“I still bury my problems six feet deep.” Chrysanthe let that hang for a second before softening. “Just promise me you’re keeping your head on straight. I know what he meant to you. I was there when you fell apart.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Beatrice said quietly.

“You’d better not, you’re not that emotionally naive young woman you used to be. You’re stronger than that.”

“I know. I'm not going backwards. Not this time.”

“Good. Because I want you back on your feet. Whole. Not just patched up.”

Beatrice smiled, “I’ll try.”

“Call me when you’re up.” Chrysa’s voice was gentle now, “I’ll make sure the others don’t panic.”

“Thanks, Chrysa.”

“I mean it, Bea. If von Wagenheim does something to you, I will break his kneecaps.”

Beatrice chuckled. “Understood.”

The line went quiet, then the call ended. Beatrice lowered the phone to her chest, heart full of unspoken weight.

—

A tall glass of iced espresso sat untouched beside Chrysanthe's laptop, the call with Beatrice still echoing in her mind. She scrolled quickly through her contact list, sighing before tapping to open a group video call with her closest Western contacts: Eleuterio, Sebastião, and Fintan.

The screen is divided into three squares.

Eleuterio Íñiguez, quasi-god of Spain, sat on a wide terrace with a cigarette between his fingers, and was backlit by the Madrid skyline. His perfectly pressed white shirt had the top buttons undone.

Sebastião Mascarenhas, quasi-god of Portugal, is wearing a clay-red linen shirt and aviator sunglasses.

Fintan, quasi-god of Ireland, Fintan sat in his dimly lit room. A streak of light seeped through the curtains.

“Is this about Beatrice?” Eleuterio spoke first, flicking ash from his cigarette, “I saw the news last night, but I didn’t believe it until Chrysanthe texted.”

“I just got off the phone with her.” Chrysanthe replied calmly but with a slight concern, “She’s awake and stable, recovering in Aquilegia Hospital.”

“She’s in Germany?!” Sebastião’s voice sharpened, “Isn’t that the hospital where von Wagenheim works? What the hell was she doing there? And who attacked her?”

“No one knows yet,” Chrysanthe said, “But the fact she’s in Aquilegia makes everything messier.”

Fintan leaned forward with his elbows on the table, “The attack was on German soil, and if he was anywhere near it, the press will tie the two together and conspiracy theories will explode again.”

Chrysanthe exhaled, “You know how the BAB works. They’ll keep the investigation airtight, and they’ll never tell the public the whole story. It’s probably the only reason Beatrice is alive.”

Eleuterio gave a slow, contemplative nod. “And yet, there’s no official word from the German government, not even from BAB. Everything’s rumors.”

Fintan snorted, “Silence is a weapon and always has been.”

Sebastião tilted his head, “What did Beatrice say?”

“She’s calm, for now.” Chrysanthe said. “But I can tell she’s shaken. She didn’t mention the attack itself. Only said she’s handling it.”

“Goddamn stubborn woman,” Eleuterio muttered. “She’d walk off a battlefield with a smile just to stop us from worrying.”

“And probably threaten to break my jaw if I said the word ‘rest’.” Fintan added dryly.

Sebastião leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “We’ll need to keep an eye on Berlin. If someone’s targeting quasi-gods again, this won’t stop with her.”

Chrysanthe nodded. “Exactly, it feels off. The train station is a national artery. Whoever did this knew the message it would send. We need to keep our eyes open. The next move might not be in Germany.”

Fintan raised his glass of dark ale, “To Beatrice, and to keep our heads while the rest of Europe starts to boil again.”

The others lifted their drinks in turn.

—

Eleuterio sat in his study, the glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows over stacks of paperwork he had no intention of reading. He tapped his fingers against the polished wood, then picked up his phone to call Siegfried.

It rang, and rang, and rang. No answer.

Eleuterio lowered his phone and glared at the darkened screen as if it were Siegfried himself. He went to message Chrysanthe.

Eleuterio: Jerk won’t answer my call.

Chrysanthe: He’s probably avoiding everyone. Don’t take it personally.

Eleuterio: Oh, I’ll take it personally.

Chrysanthe: Then you’re wasting your energy. Save it when he does pick up.

Eleuterio: Fine. But when he does, I’m not letting him off easily.

—

The morning light faintly filtered through the shutters of a pub in Milan. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and stale beer. Patrons crowded around the TV, murmuring and fixated on the news. The anchor’s voice carried a sharp undercurrent of alarm.

In Rome, the midday clamor of a bustling restaurant dimmed around a single table near the window. A young woman clutched a napkin to her face, tears streaking her cheeks. 

“I worshipped her as a kid.” she sobbed, her voice cracking. Across from her, a friend reached across the table, squeezing her hand in silent reassurance. Outside, beyond the glass, a protest surged past—placards and flags bobbing in the crowd, voices chanting Beatrice’s name in defiance.

In a cramped office of Polizia di Stato, a policewoman sat at her desk, eyes locked on her phone screen, the headline glaring back at her. The silence was heavier than words. 

The news had crossed oceans of rumors and facts, but the truth that her colleague had been targeted settled in her chest like lead.

—

(Before we proceed, the politicians mentioned here are not real people because I'm uncomfortable with using actual politicians. The Prime Minister is left unnamed for obvious reasons)

Director Sundermeier’s Office

Director Konstanze Sundermeier sat at the head of the table with a single brief dossier next to her as the liaison officer set the conference to the communication device's encrypted channel.

Her brown hair is neatly kept in a bob. It was streaked with gray due to her age. She has a cross-shaped scar etched deep into her right cheek and her right bionic arm rested casually at her side, both permanent reminders of a battle long past.

On the other end of the screen is Italy's Foreign Minister Leuzio Rondi.

“Director Sundermeier, thank you for your immediate response. Things are getting tense in Rome.” Rondi began, voice carrying the formal weariness of a capital called to crisis.

Sundermeier met his gaze through the screen, “I understand, Minister. The attack on Signora Gastaldello is a matter we take with utmost seriousness.”

Rondi’s hand tightened on the tablet, “Our Prime Minister expects clarity. Will we have full cooperation from your agency?”

“Full transparency.” Sundermeier replied without hesitation. “You will receive every verified update as soon as it clears our internal chain. No omissions and no delays.” 

“And the investigation itself?” Rondi pressed, “Italy must be assured her safety is absolute.”

“Siegfried von Wagenheim is on-site.” Sundermeier said concisely, “Berlin Division leads on the ground while Potsdam Division is providing forensic support. Aquilegia Hospital has a layered security system. Agents are in charge of safeguarding around the building and entrances. We have allocated top-level oversight.”

Rondi nodded, a brief flicker of relief crossing his features. “Neo-Nazi involvement is suspected. If confirmed, Italy will press for joint action.”

“We are aware,” Sundermeier answered. “Confirmation comes before escalation. Our goal is precision, not conjecture.”

Rondi exhaled, “We will still send our people to observe.”

“Young envoys will have access,” Sundermeier assured him. “Under BAB supervision, they will be able to view sites and personnel relevant to their mandate. We will not allow political barriers to hinder this case.”

“Rome will hold you to that promise.” Rondi said.

“And I intend to keep it, Minister.” She replied, “Level 2 threats have protocols for a reason. Berlin is under our watch and that will not falter.

“So you believe you can contain this?”

“We will contain it, or we will escalate on our terms. Tell your Prime Minister that BAB’s focus is on the attacker, not on political theatre.”

“Very well.” Rondi nodded, “We will expect your next update by evening.”

“You will have it.” She said with a hint of smugness in her tone.

The liaison officer then pressed one of the device's button to end the call.

Sundermeier glanced at the large windows. The city outside was a cacophony of traffic and sirens.

She spoke in the empty room, her voice quiet but firm, with an unwavering resolve.

“A century of alliances, betrayals, and blood.” Sundermeier puts her bionic hand on the glass, “Italy wears its pride like a crown while Germany carries its resolve like a blade. If they think we will play the supplicant in their theatre, then they have misread the script. We will keep our promise. But the ending will be ours to write.”

Then she turned away, reaching for the next report on her desk.

—

Palazzo Chigi, Rome

The late afternoon sun cast golden rays through the tall windows of Chigi Palace, Italy’s seat of government, illuminating a grand meeting room where polished marble floors gleamed. 

The air was thick with tension with the faint rustle of papers. Around an oak table, Italian politicians and aides sat in heated discussion, their voices echoing off the ornate walls. 

The Berlin Hauptbahnhof attack dominated the agenda.

The Prime Minister leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly.

“This is no ordinary assault. Signora Gastaldello was nearly killed at Berlin’s central station. Four deep lacerations and in critical condition. This Blutsauger attack reeks of intent. We need answers.”

Foreign Minister Leuzio Rondi, adjusting his glasses, tapped a tablet displaying a grainy still from Hauptbahnhof security footage: A hooded figure in sunglasses and a face mask attacking Beatrice. 

“The German Police suspect extremists are involved, possibly Neo-Nazis. Given Signora Gastaldello's past, with five attempts during the Cold War and another in 2011, it appears to be a planned assassination attempt.” Rondi stated calmly.

He continued, “Our embassy in Berlin has confirmed that she is in stable condition after the surgery. At this time, she is not allowed to have any visitors yet. The Berlin authorities have assured us that the BAB is managing the case. This matter goes beyond the scope of regular police procedure.”

Venanzio Sansone, Rome’s quasi-god and Beatrice's bodyguard, sat rigidly, his dark eyes blazing. His tailored blazer bore a pin shaped like a Roman she-wolf.

“This is personal,” He said, his voice low but cutting, his Roman accent thick with resolve, “Signora Gastaldello ignored my warning not to vacation in Germany. Her past as a CLN partisan made her a target, and now this? Fascist resurgence is no coincidence, it’s a direct challenge to Italy’s soul.”

The room murmured, aides scribbling notes. 

Deputy Prime Minister Tullio Coardi, a burly man with a skeptical frown, leaned back. 

“Signor Sansone, we do have evidence of the perpetrator using extremist language, but that doesn’t automatically prove a coordinated conspiracy. It could still be a lone actor. We need to be cautious before accusing Berlin of harboring networks.”

Venanzio snapped, slamming his fist on the table. “Six near-assassinations, Vicepresidente! Whoever this is knows her weaknesses and movements. We cannot ignore the pattern.”

The Interior Minister, a wiry man with sharp features, cleared his throat.

“Both of you are missing the immediate issue that is coordination. The Berlin police and BAB are already stretched thin. If Neo-Nazi cells are moving across borders, our intelligence services must verify whether Italian groups are involved. We cannot afford to be blindsided by copycats here in Rome or Milan.”

The Defense Minister crossed his arms and spoke in a gravelly tone.

“And if these Blutsauger extremists are organized, this is beyond the police's jurisdiction; it's a threat to state security. A quasi-god under attack is a national humiliation. France and Poland will not hesitate to use this to argue for stronger EU security measures that sideline us.”

The Prime Minister raised a hand, silencing the room. “Enough. We need facts, not a shouting match. Ministro Rondi, what else has Berlin confirmed?”

Rondi scrolled through his tablet. “Dr. Siegfried von Wagenheim performed the surgery. Lacerations stitched and bleeding is controlled. Her quasi-goddess vitality is keeping her stable, but infection’s a risk. The German Police and BAB are investigating the footage, but the attacker’s face is obscured. They’ve tightened security at the hospital.”

Venanzio’s jaw tightened, his voice bitter. “Siegfried. Of course he’s involved. His obsession with her never faded, even after the Eurozone crisis ended their… entanglement.”

The Prime Minister shot him a sharp look. “Signor Sansone, focus. Dr. von Wagenheim saved her life. Personal history aside, he’s a professional. What’s our next move?”

An aide, Giulia Molfino, spoke up, “The press is demanding a statement.” She adjusts her glasses, “Social media’s exploding and Italians are furious, calling it an attack on our nation. Some are blaming Germany, citing their far-right rallies. We need to address this before it escalates.”

Coardi nodded. “A statement is fine, but we don’t accuse an entire country without evidence.” He continued, “If BAB is already on-site, we might actually get answers. But we should still send our people to observe. We will verify every step.”

The Interior Minister interjected, “And we must prepare for the internal repercussions. If word spreads that Neo-Nazis targeted a partisan icon, far-right sympathizers here could retaliate or recruit.”

Venanzio leaned forward, his tone icy. “Protection isn’t enough. We need to hunt this monster. Signora Gastaldello would demand it, she’d be out there herself if she wasn't unconscious. I propose a joint task force with the Germans with Italy leading. Berlin’s security is compromised.”

Rondi hesitated. “A joint task force risks escalating tensions. Germany is already under pressure with their far-right issues. If we overstep, it could strain EU relations.”

The Defense Minister muttered, “Relations mean nothing if we can’t keep our quasi-gods alive.”

Venanzio sighed, “Signora Gastaldello is Italy’s heart. An attack on her is an attack on us. If Germany can’t secure their capital, we will act.”

The Prime Minister exhaled, rubbing her temples. “We will tread carefully. Director Sundermeier of BAB has contacted our embassy and promised full cooperation. Molfino, prepare a diplomatic team. Two envoys, no press. Signor Sansone, you’ll brief them, but no unilateral moves.”

Venanzio nodded, though his eyes burned with restraint. “Understood. But if this is tied to fascists, Italy will demand justice.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words lingering beneath the ceiling.

Chapter Text

Sanssouci Park’s manicured lawns stretched under the gray sky, the rococo palace glinting in the distance. 

Werner sat at a table in the park’s café. Across from him is his great-grandson, Siegfried, who is sipping chamomile tea.

Werner's lunch is spinach quiche with salad, while Siegfried's got gnocchi garnished with zucchini, red onions, bell pepper, cherry tomatoes, scallions and goat cheese, plus a pesto dip.

Werner set his teacup down, “You look tired,” he said, “The kind that doesn’t come from one sleepless night.”

“Johannes-” He noticed Siegfried’s confused reaction and corrected himself. 

“No. I mean, Siegfried.” He paused, shaking his head, “Forgive an old man. I thought you were my first son every time I saw you.” A hint of grief tinged his tone. 

“Since you called me here to talk about the Berlin Hauptbahnhof incident. What else do you know?” Siegfried twirled the stabbed gnocchis and vegetables in the pesto dip.

Werner’s expression hardened, “BAB still hasn't found evidence of terrorist organizations. Still, I think whoever did this is trying to get to you. Like I said, our status as higher ranks of the Blutsauger world draws enemies, and your history with Beatrice makes her a target.”

Siegfried was munching on his food before swallowing it all down.

“Aquilegia Hospital hasn’t calmed down since the attack. Every headline, every call from Rome made it feel like I’m keeping her alive for the sake of the entire continent, not just herself.”

Werner scanned around the customers, who were all just minding their own business.

“We'll continue about this later. This café probably isn't the safest place to discuss this.”

By the time Siegfried stepped through the heavy oak doors of Werner’s mansion, the muted grandeur of the place pressed down on him. 

The living room smelled faintly of old leather. Werner sat on a high back armchair while Siegfried took the opposite seat on a velvet couch.

“Last night, I gave Heinrich orders to look around for Neo-Nazi activity in Berlin.” Siegfried said, “He went to Neukölln and encountered a gang of four Blutsaugers. He questioned them but they ambushed him for asking about Neo-Nazi rumors. I told him not to go to that district again so that we can regroup tomorrow. Could they be connected?” Siegfried asked.

Werner hesitated to respond, worried about his former butler Heinrich’s safety.

“It could be possible.”

“He wanted me to warn BAB about this, but I advised him to hold off involving them too early. We don't know who's really pulling the strings, and if we did, they might just disappear.”

“We should solve this fast instead of waiting for BAB to step in." Werner folded his hands, his expression grave. “Rome is boiling, and there are protests going on not just there, but in Milan, Piazza Venezia and right outside Palazzo Chigi as well. They’re treating this as an attack on Italy itself and not just Beatrice.”

Siegfried leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It was meant to be a quiet arrival and yet it’s turned into a continental storm.”

“In their eyes, a German Neo-Nazi almost butchered their quasi-goddess. History doesn’t need much fuel to reignite. Italian media's hammering Germany for letting fascism crawl back into daylight.” Werner said.

Siegfried’s jaw tightened.

“Berlin has no choice but to bend,” Werner continued. “The Chancellor already gave a statement this morning for condemnation, apology, and promises of justice. The President will do the same. If Italy pulls their ambassador, if Rome accuses Berlin isn’t acting fast enough, trade talks and joint projects will freeze overnight.” 

“And if this escalates…” Werner's voice trailed off, “Then the EU could fall apart.”

“Do you really think it could go that far?” Siegfried asked.

Werner exhaled, “Public outrage fuels politics. Italians are already demanding blood. Our people are humiliated. The opposition will call the German government soft on extremism if they don’t find the attacker fast, which could lead to internal instability.”

He reached for a folded newspaper on the side table, “The media’s stoking the flames. Italians see this as Germans failing to leash their monsters while Germans see it as shame. The narrative writes itself: The old fascist nightmare never died, and the price is Beatrice bleeding in a Berlin hospital.”

Werner’s tone softened but stayed sharp. “This won’t vanish. Even when the streets calm down, it will leave scars. Security for foreign dignitaries will be torn apart and rebuilt. Every visit, every summit, will be shadowed by this failure. And every nationalist in Europe will seize it for their own ends. Some in Rome are already sneering that Germany’s rot is contagious, some in Berlin are shouting for harsher crackdowns.”

He shifted, meeting Siegfried’s eyes. “You are at the center. For better or worse, your name will be dragged into this storm.”

“You know children look up to you.” Werner's eyes darted to the left, “Every time you walk into the hospital, every time you survive another battle against Neo-Nazis. Children see you as untouchable, an executioner of oppressors. They want to be you.”

Siegfried’s hands curled on his knees, “It’s not something to feel proud of. It’s strange being seen as a messiah when I know what I am. Those same children grow up to join BAB and walk blind into fire. They don’t understand the cost, great-grandpa. They see the wings, but not the nights where I drown myself in blood and regret.”

Werner studied him with an inscrutable calm. “You think you’re sparing them by despising yourself. But what you despise, Siegfried, is what they cling to.”

Siegfried shook his head. “Clinging to an illusion. They’ll never see the broken parts that make me no better than the Blutsaugers I hunt. And if they do, they’ll resent me for it.”

Werner leaned forward, “And Beatrice? Do you think she resents you?”

Siegfried leaned closer across the table, “I entered her dream last night. I tried to make a contract with her but she rejected me.”

A dry, rumbling chuckle escaped Werner's chest.

“A man like you ought to know better than to rush a woman. Patience, boy. Patience is half of conquest, the other half is control. If you can’t bridle your lust, you’ll have nothing but tough luck.”

Heat rushed to Siegfried’s face. His composure faltered as he blurted, “I don’t need to know about your wedding night.”

Werner didn’t respond. He only leaned back in his chair, amused.

Siegfried lowered his gaze to the table, his face still hot from Werner’s jibe. But the silence that followed pressed heavier than the teasing itself. 

He envied Werner, not for his power or stature, but for something far simpler.

Siegfried's great-grandparents had built a bond that had lasted centuries. Their union had begun in 1618 as an arrangement, a political necessity between Brandenburg and Prussia, but it had become something more. 

Even when tragedy struck—their firstborn, Johannes, quasi-god of the proto-state German Empire of 1848 and the first bearer of the black-red-gold flag, died 9 months after his first birthday when the Central German Government was replaced by a Federal Central Commission. Werner and Luise stayed together, facing the highs and lows as a united front.

Then Anton was born, carrying the mantle of the North German Confederation and later the German Empire itself. 

Through triumphs and disasters, Werner and Luise had stood side by side, bound not just by politics, but by something Siegfried feared he might never grasp.

It's a story of endurance and love surviving centuries of war and upheaval.

His chest tightened. Could he ever have that with Beatrice?

The thought of marrying her felt both wonderful and daunting. He longed for it—her hand in his, her presence beside him, no longer divided by politics or bloodshed. But what about children? 

The idea caught like a thorn in his mind. Beatrice might recoil from the thought of binding herself so permanently to him.

He bit down hard, pushing the thoughts away. It was foolish of him to fantasize about this when she's fatally wounded in his care. Yet the envy lingered—Werner had built a life across centuries, and Siegfried feared he might not manage even one lifetime with Beatrice.

Siegfried sat in the guest room, its high windows spilling a pale light over the antique furnishings. 

His phone rang across the desk, its glow cutting into the silence.

Eleuterio Íñiguez

Siegfried hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen before he answered.

“von Wagenheim.” Eleuterio’s voice came sharp, the static crackling faintly behind him. “So you finally decided not to hide.”

“I wasn’t hiding.” Siegfried rubbed his eyes, leaning back against the chair. “I’ve had more than enough to manage here.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Eleuterio replied, “Beatrice is lying in the hospital, in your city, after being carved open by a Blutsauger. And not a word from you to her friends, to the ones who carried her through hell before you laid eyes on her.”

Siegfried’s jaw tightened, “She’s stable.”

“That’s not reassurance, von Wagenheim. That’s possession.” Eleuterio’s tone darkened, “Do you realize how this looks? An Italian quasi-goddess nearly slaughtered on German soil, saved only because she was sent to the hospital you worked in. Italy is in uproar. Rome is already whispering that Berlin is letting fascism breathe again.”

“And Madrid-” his voice paused, “Madrid wants to know what the hell you are doing.”

Siegfried bristled. “Do you think I planned this? That I let her bleed just to tighten some phantom grip? Don’t insult me.”

“Then prove it,” Eleuterio snapped back. “Tell me you’re not dragging her into another mess. Tell me this isn’t 2011 all over again, with rumors and blood on the cobblestones. We remember, von Wagenheim. We remember how she broke the world to keep you hidden.”

The words stung more than Siegfried expected.

“Íñiguez, I didn’t ask her to come to Berlin. But since she’s here, I’ll provide her protection. Whatever else you think of me, you can trust.”

Silence lingered on the line, only the faint sound of traffic drifting through Eleuterio’s end. Then a long exhale.

“Listen,” Eleuterio said, his tone softening though it carried no warmth, “I don’t care about your pride. I care that if Italy snaps, the fracture will spread across the continent. BAB will keep its secrets, and Rome will demand someone’s head. If you fall, Europe falls with you. You can’t afford to make this personal, von Wagenheim.”

“It already is.” Siegfried murmured.

Eleuterio's reply became colder, slightly sobbing, “May Lady Europe help her.”

The line clicked dead.

Siegfried set the phone down, his chest heavy. Werner’s voice from earlier returned to him: 

“You are at the center. For better or worse, your name will be dragged into this storm.”

And now the storm had found his doorstep.

The air felt cool as they walked the tree-lined path in Babelsberg, the crunch of gravel a quiet rhythm to their steps.

The Havel’s surface glimmered faintly beyond the branches, broken only by the occasional ripple of a passing bird.

Siegfried adjusted his coat collar against the breeze. His voice broke the silence, low and flat:

“Did you know that adding an extra O in “noticing” turns it into a Nazi dogwhistle?”

They walked until the iron span of the Parkbrücke Klein Glienicke rose before them, its beams arching across the water. Werner lifted his right arm, a subtle signal to halt. Siegfried slowed, following his gaze.

They moved down beneath the bridge, the hum of distant traffic muffled by stone and steel. The air smelled of damp earth and rust. 

On the brick wall, there is a message scrawled in jagged black spray paint:

Germany for Germans

“This wasn’t here when I was jogging yesterday.” Werner said, his hand brushing the wall as though confirming its freshness.

Siegfried stepped closer, his phone already in hand. The shutter clicked, capturing the graffiti in cold digital clarity. He stared at the words a moment longer, then lowered the device.

“Maybe it’s nothing.” He said, though his tone betrayed little belief. “But if it’s spreading into Brandenburg, we can’t ignore it.”

Chapter Text

“BAB’s Saarbrücken Division confirms the capture of a Stray Blutsauger attempting to cross illegally into France. No casualties have been reported. BAB officials emphasize that cross-border monitoring remains at the highest alert.”

The screen shifted to shaky phone footage of armored BAB operatives tackling a man against a chain-link fence, crackling restraints binding his wrists.

Werner’s brows knitted, “Even at the border. They’re slipping through every crack.”

Siegfried leaned back in his chair, gaze fixed on the screen. “It’ll only get worse if cells are moving across countries. France will raise hell over this.”

He exhaled sharply, pulled out his phone, and dialed. Heinrich answered within moments.

“Hello, Herr Siegfried?”

“Heinrich, I will be staying at great-grandfather's mansion tonight,” Siegfried said. His tone was steady, but fatigue laced his voice. “I will return to Berlin tomorrow. Hold things down until then.”

“Understood,” Heinrich replied. “Take care of yourself, Herr Siegfried.”

The call ended. Siegfried set the phone on the table and glanced back at the newsfeed.

“The world’s watching every move we make.” Werner said, “One misstep, and the fires will spread.”

Outside the mansion, the wind rustled through the skeletal branches of the oaks that lined the estate. A figure crouched in one of the trees, motionless except for the slow turn of his binoculars.

The black knit of a balaclava concealed his face, leaving only his blue eyes visible as they fixed on the glowing windows of the mansion. The faint outlines of Siegfried and Werner passing between rooms confirmed what he had been sent to find.

He lowered the binoculars and pulled a phone from his pocket. The screen lit his gloves in cold blue.

“Traugott,” he muttered when the line clicked, “It’s me. I’ve got eyes on him. Siegfried is in his great-grandfather's mansion.

On the other end, footsteps crunched gravel. Traugott’s breath was heavy, “Good. I just got into Potsdam. Don’t lose sight of him, Tilo. I'll strike when the time’s right.”

Tilo's gaze darted back to the window, where Werner’s tall frame crossed behind the curtains. 

“You sure about this?” Tilo asked. “The old guy's with him.”

A low chuckle crackled through the speaker. “All the better. Two birds with one storm.”

In the guest room, Siegfried stood before a chipped mirror, moonlight sliced through the window. 

He reached for the blister pack of round lavender pills from his coat pocket. His shadow twitched on the oak floor, stretching unnaturally, then coalescing into a hulking eagle.

“74 years I have waited in your marrow, and you still deny me. Why chain the only weapon that can end them?”

Siegfried returns the blister pack in the pocket, “Because that weapon is a bomb. You think I can let you run loose in a country already rotting from fascists crawling out of their graves?”

Elzebul’s wings scraped the ceiling, casting jagged shadows across the oak floor. “Then let them burn. Let the cowards wail about collateral damage. When you unleashed me in your dream, you carved your whip from your rage and reduced your father to ash. You could do it again.”

“Stop. I won’t turn my homeland into another graveyard because I couldn’t leash myself.”

The eagle’s beak lowered until it nearly pierced Siegfried’s face. “The world knows you have the power to stop them but you choose restraint.”

Siegfried's eyes squinted to the window, catching a shadowed figure at the gate. Elzebul’s form dissolved back into his shadow.

The glass panes rattled softly as he pushed the window open. Cold night air slashed across his face, carrying the musk of damp earth and distant pine. The figure at the gate slipped away into the woods.

Siegfried slid on his coat, slipped from the guest room and closed the window. Gravel crunching underfoot as he landed.

Beyond the wrought-iron gate, the figure was deliberate yet unhurried, as if daring him to follow.

Siegfried vaulted the gate and sprouted his wings. His breath fogged in the cold moonlight as he took off into the woods.

The forest stood beneath the dark sky, the clouds cracked open just enough to let the moon drip pale silver across the mossy ground. Shadows stretched like claws over gnarled roots.

Siegfried landed softly, boots brushing the wet earth, his wings’ feathers folded behind him like a judge’s robe. He paused, his eyes fixed on the figure ahead.

"You." Siegfried said, "You were that man at the gate, aren't you? Were you looking for me?"

The figure stepped out of the shadows, revealing to be Traugott, “Figured I’d find you out here, Prince Conquest.”

"Who are you and what is your business with me?" Siegfried asked, perplexed by his presence.

“To take you down.” Traugott said in an eerily casual tone, “Just like every other ruffian in Berlin.”

Siegfried's eyes shrunk at the response. Could he be one of the thugs that Heinrich mentioned?

“That doesn't answer my question. Why would a mere mortal like yourself seek out a Seraph? Are you an assassin or part of an extremist group?”

Traugott’s eyes glow red. He spread his arms to the sky, and bellowed with a scream that could tear through the clouds:

“Sturmgeist!”

Dark clouds gathered and formed a massive eagle, black as soot and vast as a cathedral. It opened its beak, revealing a growing energy ball.

“I see. A Blutsauger clinging to a Hakenkreuz like a starving dog to bone dust. How tragic. All that power in your veins and you chose to kneel to ghosts.” Siegfried said sarcastically, pretending to feel sorry for Traugott.

His shadow morphed into an eagle, revealing his demon Elzebul.

“Hey! Are you making a mockery of me?!” Elzebul exclaimed, looking up to the sky and noticed the storm eagle.

“Don’t provoke him, Elzebul. You always enjoy turning pain into theatre.” Siegfried lowered his gaze, voice steady but tinged with a hint of weariness as he replied.

Siegfried lunged just as the eagle fired the energy ball straight at him. A green crystal etched with a white outline forming the map of Germany appeared in a flash in front of Siegfried and swiftly grabbed it, which transformed into a riding crop.

Siegfried’s clothes glowed and burst into feathers. He now wore a blue and silver Prussian hussar uniform, a dark blue beret with a large white feather on the right, adorned with a bronze brooch shaped like an eye, and black knee boots with three-inch heels.

He snapped the riding crop upward and it grew into a long whip with a silver grappling hook resembling an eagle's claw at its end. It caught on a tree branch, and he swung himself up into the sky and the hook released itself from the branch. He spun around, dodging the energy ball.

Fangs bared and wings outstretched. The two Blutsaugers clashed like attack dogs off the leash. The whip wrapped around Traugott’s right leg and yanked him downward.

Traugott spun, dragging Siegfried with him, both crashing through the fog. Traugott kicked off a tree, soared higher and screamed: “Sturmgeist Blitzkrieg!”

Three more eagles appear, slightly shorter than the first. They open their beaks to form energy balls.

Siegfried felt a sharp sting inside him, causing him to uncoil the whip. A familiar agony, like a barbed wire coiling through his spine. The same agony he felt when he was sixteen.

“The hell?!” Traugott exclaimed.

Siegfried groaned loudly, holding his head up high. It felt like that pain was slithering through his mind, then dramatically threw his head back.

His eyelids snapped open, revealing sigils with the letter S etched on his pupils.

“I awakened in this body 74 years ago as a manifestation of his vengeance." A demonic voice came through Siegfried's mouth, “Siegfried will not rest until every roach beneath your banner drowns in the blood they swore to purify, and we will carve justice into your bones and feed on your carcasses!”

“This is the power of a Seraph?!” Traugott whips out his combat knife from his jacket's pocket.

After Elzebul's tirade, Siegfried was able to use his consciousness to punch his own face with his right hand so he could take his turn.

“The truth is, I fear man more than what exists in the higher plane. It was man who created this virulent ideology and I learned my purpose is to destroy it!”

Traugott snarled, “Shut your privileged ass up and let’s get this over with!” he surged toward Siegfried, wings slicing the air. He grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into a tree trunk.

“While you hid in your fancy mansion, we were picking up what was left. We kept the flame alive while you sat on your throne of ash pretending to cry for the dead!”

He spun his combat knife, aiming for Siegfried's throat. Yet, both of the latter's hands swiftly caught his as the blade's tip got close.

The eagles behind Traugott screeched, their energy balls streaked like shooting stars.

“Someone had to protect the real Germany. If that makes me a villain, then so be it!” Traugott spat and Siegfried knee struck him in the stomach, freeing the latter from the grip on his collar.

Siegfried hovered in the air to dodge the eagles' attacks. His wings spread wide, blocking the moonlight. Then, with an eerie calm, he spoke:

“You're not protecting Germany. You're digging the grave of an old regime, wearing its corpse and calling it patriotism. Want to hear a lesson? I doubt the old era Nazis would accept you. Sloppy, disheveled and unrefined.”

He moved down to properly face to face with Traugott.

“Try being a child in the 1940s, shoved into a Hitler Youth uniform and forced to swear allegiance to a man who thinks he saved this country from predicament. My father drilled that loyalty into me. He called it love while sharpening me into his legacy. I watched the Reich fall. Cities burning, children orphaned, souls lost beneath that flag. And I swore no one would ever raise it again.”

⚠️⚠️⚠️

After his monologue, sigils in his eyes glowed. “Siegfried” stretches his whip, running his long tongue over the strip of leather.

With a crack of his whip, his voice echoed through the woods.

“Partial Override.”

Siegfried's saliva turned into a dark purple glow of jagged lines spiraling the whip.

⚠️⚠️⚠️

Traugott snorted, “Oh don’t make me laugh.” He dodged from the incoming whip which left a huge scar on the tree trunk, “You're a Seraph. You're supposed to be above us, but you don't know how to take your job seriously.”

"Mind your tongue, peasant. You're speaking to a higher rank. Have some respect.”

“Your father worked hard so that you could become the Reich's new quasi-god. But you decided to become a trauma surgeon of some flimsy hospital.” Traugott sneered.

“Siegfried saves lives with his hard work. Something your kind will never understand. His work is noble, far above your hatred.”

“Siegfried” cracks his whip upward, lashing Traugott’s face and leaving a huge diagonal scar. Traugott covered his bleeding face with hands as he screamed in agony.

“Siegfried” cracked his whip again, but two shorter storm eagles got in the way and tried to lunge at him. The whip sliced them into horizontal halves and vanished.

“You’re neither a soldier nor a martyr. You’re just a roach scuttling through the ashes and I’ve come to crush every last one of you beneath my heel. There is no redemption waiting for you. No martyrdom, only silence. And I will be the one to grant it.”

Traugott landed on a tree branch that could get him behind Siegfried's gaze. He desperately reached his arm up high to command the larger storm eagle, but “Siegfried”’s taunts made it hard for him to focus. It felt like a worm got in his ear so he gave up.

The storm surged, then stopped. The larger storm eagle has turned back into normal clouds. Then, a cold gust blew past the trees.

Traugott turned around and cussed under his breath.

A faint shimmer of silver can be seen from a distance. A winged figure glided like a ghost between the trees, dressed in what looks straight out of the 17th century.

An arsenal of swords appeared behind him. Rapiers, sabers, court blades and cavalry steel hovered into formation behind his head like a halo.

He landed on a branch, revealing himself as Werner as he stood under the moonlight. He spoke in a soft tone.

“A lower rank like yourself should keep your hands off the von Wagenheim family. What are you doing to my great-grandson?”

Traugott screeched at him and the remaining storm eagle zoomed towards Werner.

Werner raised his hand, grabbing a cavalry sword from his "halo". In one swift slash, it cleaved the storm eagle in two and dissolved into vapor.

With all of Traugott’s eagles gone, retreat was his only option because he was no match for the two Seraphs. His muscles burned with exertion as he flew through the forest.

Just as he thought he'd slip away into the darkness, Siegfried's whip coiled around his ankle and slammed him to the ground, rendering him helpless beneath the power of his opponent. It dragged him along so that he could get close to Siegfried.

“I didn't catch your name.” “Siegfried” loomed over Traugott, the Seraph's eyes sharp and commanding. Without hesitation, he stomped on Traugott's chest, earning him a yelp.

“But I don't care because I'm going to finish you off after this. Do you have a connection to the man behind the Berlin Hauptbahnhof attack? If so,”

The whip untangled and morphed seamlessly back into a riding crop. Siegfried crouches down, pressing his boot further, earning a groan from Traugott. 

The pressure was relentless, a reminder of who held the power in this confrontation.

“Siegfried” brushes Traugott’s chin with the riding crop's tip to force him to meet his gaze.

“Tell me about him.”

“I don't know him!” Traugott growled and clenched his teeth from the pain.

“I heard from Heinrich that you were in Neukölln last night with your posse.” “Siegfried” hissed.

Hearing “Siegfried” bring up that incident, Traugott frantically tried to get his boot off of him, but it was futile.

“A French buddy of yours tried to shoot him before he could ask more questions of rumors of Neo-Nazi activity, then four of you ambushed him. What was that about?”

“He won't leave us alone!”

“Was that necessary? It's like you're hiding something.”

“Let me go!”

“Tell me where your friends are.”

“No! We have nothing to do with this!”

“Sure, I'll let you go but you need to answer one last question: There was a man found dead in Neukölln with four bite marks. Does this ring a bell?”

Traugott grabbed his combat knife and stabbed it into the side of Siegfried's thigh. 

Siegfried screams and rolls over, Traugott quickly pulls the knife out then stands up and soared into the sky with unnatural speed.

“Siegfried!” Werner landed beside Siegfried, who is now in his normal clothes, writhing on the ground and clutching his wounded thigh. Werner's swords dissolved into feathers as he detransformed.

Werner knelt to examine Siegfried's wounded thigh, “Let’s get back to the mansion.”

Siegfried’s eyelids flickered, Werner’s eyes narrowed, noticing the sigils on his great-grandson's eyes.

“Elzebul?!” Werner reached into his coat's pocket, pulling out a blister pack of round lavender pills, “You went off your medication, what made you think unleashing him was a good idea?”

Werner took a pill from the pack. “Siegfried” winced and jerked his head as if he were a kid being forced to eat food he disliked.

“Please take this.”

“No!”

Werner quickly dropped the pill on Siegfried's mouth before he could close it, crushing the pill into pieces, forcing him to swallow the crushed pieces dry. The sigils dimmed, fading like a smothered ember.

Werner’s gaze softened, but his tone was iron. “We’ll deal with this at the mansion.” He lifted Siegfried, wings unfurling, and soared toward the glowing windows of his Potsdam estate, the oak door creaking open under moonlight.  

Inside, the study’s lamplight cast Werner’s scars in sharp relief as he laid Siegfried on a leather couch, his sweater stained with dirt. He knelt, tearing a strip of cloth to bandage the gash from Traugott’s knife. “Hold still.” Werner said.

He tightened the knot on the makeshift bandage as Siegfried grimaced.

“We still don’t have answers. Not about the man at Hauptbahnhof, not about the gang in Neukölln, not even why Beatrice was the one they chose. Every time we get close, the trail collapses into smoke.”

Werner looked up, his expression unreadable, though his eyes softened.

Siegfried’s voice became hoarse with frustration. “I keep asking myself if this was just chaos, or if there’s a hand guiding it all. If it’s just Neo-Nazis scavenging for power, or if someone is pulling the strings.” 

He exhaled sharply, the weight pressing against his chest. “And the longer we wait, the more I feel like we’re running in circles while Rome and Berlin sharpen their knives.”

Meanwhile, Traugott’s wings battered the cold air. The diagonal scar oozed beneath a makeshift rag. He landed on a rooftop, pulled out his phone and dialed Tilo. 

“Tilo, it’s me.” His voice rasped.

“Oh hey. Did you get Siegfried?”

“No, he made a huge scar on my face. I’m going to stay at your place tonight. I can’t go back to Berlin looking like this. Meet me at your block.”  

“Got it. I’m in my apartment.”

He spotted Tilo’s lanky figure below, waving from a dimly lit apartment block. Traugott swooped down, his boots scraped the pavement, and followed Tilo inside.  

The apartment reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash. Traugott, now with a bandaged face, collapsed onto a sagging couch.

He powered on his phone to make a video call with his gang. Clemente’s face appeared on the screen first.

“Traugott, you look like butcher scraps. What happened?”

Adriano's face appears on the second screen. The last one to join the call was Alain, with his screen on the bottom.

“I’m in Potsdam,” Traugott growled, “I’m holed up at Tilo's apartment until tomorrow.” 

He facepalmed, “We need a new plan to gut that von Wagenheim bastard. He’s sniffing around us, asking about our ambush in Neukölln.”

Clemente leaned forward, “You screwed up, Traugott. You’re supposed to be the Shepherd's right-hand man. You have to tell him. He needs to know you failed.” He said in a cold tone.

Adriano chuckled, “Yeah, run to Daddy Adler. Maybe he’ll forgive you for letting a Seraph humiliate us.”

Alain nodded meekly, “How about bombing Siegfried's mansion?” His voice shook, braced for Clemente’s usual venom.  

“Oh shut it.” Clemente snapped, making Alain flinch.

Clemente turns his attention to Traugott, “Traugott, you have to message the Shepherd now. No excuses.”

The group call ended. Traugott’s fingers trembled as he opened Lämmer’s server.

Bruder Vierzehn: I'm in Potsdam. Got a call from Treue43 that he spotted Siegfried in his great-grandfather's mansion. I lured Siegfried into the woods and fought him. Left a huge scar on my face and then Werner showed up so I flew away. I'm in Treue43’s apartment right now, I'll be back in Berlin tomorrow. What’s the next move?

Der Hirte Adler: Siegfried’s still breathing and you’re hiding like a rat? Get back by dawn and make no more mistakes. You know I won't be easy on you. I'll have one of my other operatives take care of Werner. But we'll take a break first to have some time to strategize since we're facing two big shots now.

Bruder Traugott: Fine. But if I see any signs of interference again, I won't hesitate to take matters into my own hands. 

Traugott gritted his teeth, as if he felt Adler’s scorn burning worse than his scar.

“Their blood will paint Berlin red,“ he growled, “And I will deliver it to the Shepherd myself.”

Chapter Text

Veronika’s car pulled up to a graffiti-streaked apartment building where Reuben lived.

Heiko texted Reuben: 

Cem’s inviting us to dinner at 19:00. It's Turkish food. You coming?

Reuben replied instantly: 

Hell yeah, köfte sounds dope. Come up first, we're going to watch a movie.

Reuben’s apartment was filled with vinyl records and rock band posters. The air smelled strongly of popcorn. 

Reuben opens the door and greets them. He wore a lavender gray t-shirt featuring a chubby unicorn holding an Antifa flag against a background of red stars.

"Heiko, Veronika! Perfect timing." He held up a DVD with a cover featuring a close-up of a zombie’s head, adorned with a Tyrolean hat and a missing jaw, "Who wants to watch this zombie film I just rented?"

They settled on the couch, the TV displayed lederhosen-clad zombies chasing screaming villagers in a snowy alpine village, their decaying bodies lurching about.

Heiko's brow furrowed at the film's absurdity, he expected something decent out of it but half of the dialogue are just the main characters cracking jokes that fell flat. 

He leaned forward to grab the DVD case from the coffee table. Critic quotes such as “A laughable mess” and “One-star disaster” are plastered on the front. He turned the case to read the plot summary, it seems to be a zombie comedy film with a generic plot set in the Austrian Alps.

He turned to Reuben, "Reuben, what the hell?! Can we watch something else?"

Reuben smirked, "Nah, this is gold. Campy gore’s the vibe tonight. Just chill and enjoy the chaos."

Veronika munched on her popcorn. "It’s bad, but it’s fun. Those zombies are so dumb they’re brilliant."

"Fine, but I’m not laughing." Heiko pouted as he slumped back.

The movie dragged on until the ending with the zombies' defeat in a chaotic ski slope bloodbath.

After the movie, Reuben got up to stretch, “You guys ready for dinner? I’m starving for some baklava.”

Veronika nodded and grabbed her keys. "Let’s go. Heiko, you good? You’ve been awfully quiet."

"Cem is texting me again." Heiko replied, looking at his phone which showed Cem’s message: 

See you soon! Bring your appetite!

His fingers twitched as he fought the urge to crush his phone.

—

Cem’s apartment is on the third floor. When Reuben rang the bell, the door swung open to the warmth of cumin, garlic, and simmering tomatoes.

“Good evening… Cem.” Heiko greeted sheepishly as he stood in the center.

“Heiko! Great to see you!” Cem beamed, ushering them inside. He wore a navy sweater and apron dusted with flour, his dark hair tied back. “Come on, get in here before dinner gets cold!”

The small dining table was crowded with dishes—mercimek çorbası steaming in clay bowls, platters of köfte with parsley, bowls of pilaf, fresh salad, and trays of baklava waiting in syrupy sheen.

Veronika let out a delighted hum. “This looks amazing.”

Reuben sniffed the air like a child at a fair. “Man, you’ve outdone yourself. I’m not leaving until that baklava’s gone.”

Heiko forced a smile as he sat, the aroma of spiced lamb and lentils turning his stomach for reasons no one else could guess.

As Cem ladled soup into bowls, he said lightly, “My mother taught me this recipe during the time we stayed in Hatay Province when we left Syria from the civil war. When we moved here, she told me: ‘Feed people, and they’ll see you before they see your passport.’”

Reuben tilted his head. “You moved here during the war?”

Cem nodded, taking his seat. “It was 2011. My family lost our bakery in Aleppo, but we never lost the taste of home. Germany gave us a chance. I’ve been here ever since.”

For a moment the table went quiet, the clatter of cutlery filled the silence. 

Reuben scratched the back of his neck, then muttered, “Guess food really does carry more than taste.” 

Heiko stirred his soup, jaw clenched.

Cem broke the silence with a grin. “But tonight isn’t about sad stories. I made enough food for the four of us. Afiyet olsun.”

Heiko slurped the warm soup. The smell of cumin and mint rose up, but he hardly tasted it. 

His mind slipped elsewhere, and instead of broth, he imagined the coppery taste of blood. 

He gulped, the image of Cem's throat right there at the table popping into his head. 

A peculiar thought crossed his mind: Would he taste like iron? Or would it be sweeter if he screamed?

His stomach twisted, half with hunger, half with shame.

The others laughed at some joke Reuben cracked, but Heiko’s spoon hit the bottom of the bowl with a hollow clink. He pushed back his chair.

“I'll be right back, I need to use the bathroom. Could you tell me where it is?”

Cem pointed, “It's over there.”

—

Heiko stood in the bathroom, staring at his reflection for what felt like an eternity. Two minutes, to be exact. 

He noticed a yellow glow in his eyes, but he fought to keep it under control. His hands tightened around the edge of the porcelain sink, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

A vibration in his pocket broke the silence. He pulled out his phone.

Felix: We're going to start the training in Trimm-dich-Pfad Park. I'll be waiting.

Training. That word sank in like a blade. He slipped his phone back and left.

—

The night felt thick as Veronika's car pulled up to the curb.

“Thanks for the ride.” Heiko said as he got out of the car, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Reuben shouted a muffled “Take care!” from the back seat as the car pulled away.

Heiko climbed the stairwell of his apartment. When he reached his floor, his gaze dropped. 

A box sat neatly before his door.

He took the box inside, shut the door, and grabbed a bag of blood. The cold plastic jolted his fingers. He twisted the cap and let the liquid pour into his mouth.

It wasn’t the same as he remembered. The metallic tang is gone. Instead, a strange, savory sweetness dominated his palate, something disturbingly similar to meat sauce.

The texture clung to his tongue like warm broth. It tasted like comfort food and a nightmare all at once.

He stumbled back against the table, his pulse racing.

It was intoxicating, revolting, but he couldn’t stop.

Heiko dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing red. He shuddered as the hunger dug in deeper, whispering for more.

But he forced himself to set the bag down, staring at the half-drained pouch with wide, trembling eyes.

—

The park's lamps cast thin halos of light that barely touched the gravel paths. Heiko arrived after an eighteen-minute walk, wearing a beige trenchcoat and sunglasses.

Felix perched on a bench with his hood up. He glanced at Heiko’s attire and raised an eyebrow.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses? No one comes here late at night.”

Heiko tugged them higher on his nose. “I just like them.”

Felix didn’t press. Instead, he stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders with the casual ease of someone used to working double shifts. 

“I apologize for having to reschedule our training session. My boss called me last night because some guy collapsed from a drug overdose. I'm a paramedic.”

Heiko gave a short laugh, “That explains the blood bags. You’ve got access.”

“Not really. What you got was scavenged human blood.” Felix then tilted his head. “So, you tried one?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t what I expected. It tasted like…” Heiko paused for a second, “Meat sauce.”

“That’s your body rewriting the flavor. To you, it’s sustenance.”

Heiko frowned. “It was intoxicating.”

“That’s the part you need to watch.”

Felix flexed his hand and deliberately dragged a nail across his palm.

“Aderlass.” He whispered and glowing red rings appeared on his eyes.

Blood came out of his palm and slithered into a tendril.

“Sometimes your strength comes from giving it up.”

The tendril lashed forward. Heiko reacted instinctively, slamming a palm to the dirt. 

“Baumstammsperre!”

A thick wall of bark and timber erupted in front of him to block the strike. But the tendril didn’t stop, it skewered through, forcing Heiko to dive sideways.

Felix grinned, “Fluid beats rigid.”

Heiko gritted his teeth, “Nachahmung!”

His fists became shrouded in wood and lunged. Felix slashed his own other arm and muttered “Eisenblut.”

Blood coiled around his arm and hardened into jagged plates, bracing against Heiko’s blow. 

Wood met blood-iron in a spray of splinters. Felix absorbed the hit, then countered with a whip crack of Aderlass that grazed Heiko’s cheek.

Wood against blood, claws against armor until Heiko roared and unleashed Hölzerne Faust, a massive wooden hand tearing from the earth. 

It struck Felix squarely, hurling him across the path. He crashed into a bench, splinters flying as he landed hard on his back.

He wheezed, forcing himself to sit up. Blood trickled from his mouth.

Heiko stepped forward, then paused. His hand slipped into his coat pocket and pulled out a blood bag. He tossed it across the grass. Felix caught it mid-air.

“You’re bleeding yourself dry.” Heiko said.

Felix stared at him, conflicted. Before he could respond, he surged forward again, one last clash to test Heiko’s guard. 

His spiked gauntlet met Heiko's wooden gauntlet, and the impact staggered both of them.

Heiko lowered his head and his sunglasses slipped off, clattering against the gravel.

For the first time, Felix saw Heiko's glowing yellow eyes.

Both of their gauntlets, Felix’s tendril, and the giant wooden hand shattered and vanished.

The world froze between them.

Heiko gasped. He ducked down, picked up the glasses, and put them back on.

His voice cracked as he spat, “Forget you saw that.” 

Then he turned, his trenchcoat billowing out, and took off running into the night.

Felix stood among the splinters and the destroyed bench, the blood bag still in his fist. His chest heaved, caught between fury and dread.

Felix’s boots hit the pavement in sharp bursts, his body moved faster than any human in the empty streets. 

Within minutes, he reached the apartment building. He rushed up the stairs and knocked hard against Heiko’s door. 

“Heiko!” His voice cut through the silence of the hallway. “Open up! We need to talk!” 

No answer. 

Felix pressed his palm flat to the doorframe. He pulled out his phone and dialed. 

—

Heiko sat curled in his bed, wrapped in a blanket like a cocoon. 

The glow of his phone screen lit up the nightstand: 

Felix calling… 

He ignored it and let it ring until it stopped.

His throat burned. The half-drained pouch lay beside him, red smears streaked down its plastic. He snatched it up, pressed it to his lips, and drank until it sagged flat and empty. 

Warmth spread through his veins. His pulse steadied, strength humming back beneath his skin. 

He let the crumpled pouch fall to the floor and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. 

Heiko shut his eyes, sleep could drown the gnawing hunger clawing at him.

—

Felix sat hunched on the edge of his bed. After Heiko ignored his calls, he tried messaging him instead.

Pick up. We need to talk.

You can’t just shut me out after what happened tonight.

If you keep this up, you won’t make it past the fifth night.

He stared at the screen, waiting for the typing dots that never came. His thumb hovered over the call button again, but he dropped the phone onto the mattress.

If Felix reported this to the authorities, they might search through Heiko’s phone. But if he stays quiet, a Full Stray will be prowling the city by November 5th.

Either choice is like pulling the pin on a grenade.

Felix leaned back against the wall, exhaling sharply.

Chapter Text

2 November 2023 

The ambulance rattled through Berlin’s morning traffic, its siren wailing against the gray sky. 

Felix pressed the gauze against the forehead of a cyclist who had been clipped by a car door. The man groaned, blood running in threads down his temple.

“Stay still.” Felix said, his voice brisk but steady.

The driver radioed in updates, weaving through the maze of Mitte's streets. Felix could feel the faint thrum of hunger under his skin, the low reminder of what he was. He swallowed it down, focusing on the patient’s breathing, counting each rise of the chest.

When they finally rolled into the hospital bay, he helped the orderlies transfer the stretcher. Only when the doors shut behind the patient did Felix exhale, dragging off his gloves.

For a moment he stood in the sterile brightness of the corridor, sweat cold on his back. He thought of the night before.

Their training at the park, Heiko’s eyes, and the truth he could no longer ignore. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Heiko’s name, but turned it off and slid it back into his pocket.

—

Years ago in Neukölln, Berlin

The underground concert had the odor of spray paint and sweat, with neon lights flashing on leather jackets.

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta loosen up.” 

Stephan, Felix's classmate, shoved a soda can into his hand. Music from some half-broken speakers thumped against the graffiti-covered walls.

Back then, Felix felt like he didn't belong. He was skinny, quiet, and his jeans were way too clean next to everyone else's tattered clothes and boots.

But Stephan had pulled him in anyway, grinning with that reckless charm.

“You're in the punk scene, Felix. Nobody cares who you are. If you’ve got a rebellious spirit, you're one of us.”

Felix smiled faintly, sipping his soda while the others danced and screamed to the music. 

For the first time, he thought maybe he did fit in.

—

Stephan’s apartment

On the TV, talking heads are debating about immigration, the rise of hate crimes, and security concerns.

“If they're that worried about illegal immigrants,” Felix muttered, “Then they should also stop letting Blutsaugers roam around too.”

“They’re worse.” Stephan said, slouched on the couch with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled against the yellowed ceiling. “This country would be less of a hellhole if humanity never made peace with them in 1900. And the von Wagenheim family wouldn’t be perching above the rest of us like kings. It’s just classism in fangs and feathers.”

Felix frowned, unsettled. “But they keep order, don’t they?”

Stephan laughed bitterly, “Order? You mean a leash? We get scraps while they rule the dark. Screw that. Only one of those leeches I ever respected was Arnulf. At least he knew how to put Germany first.”

Felix took a bite of a ham and cheese sandwich, “Say what you want, Arnulf didn’t treat Blutsaugers like pets of the state. He was a wolf, not a lapdog.”

“He had vision.” Stephan muttered, almost reverently. “He didn’t just feed in the shadows, he made others bleed for a cause.”

“The Wagenheim family since has been soft,” Stephan added. “But Arnulf? He understood strength. He made people fear us.”

He dug into a plastic bag and tossed Felix a beer can.

Felix frowned at him, “You know that I’m not allowed to drink.”

“Oh come on.” Stephan snatched the can to open it, “My parents come home late all the time because they think teenagers are too stupid to burn the house down.” 

He leaned closer, “Don't your parents do the same?”

Red rings glowed on his pupils and his nails elongated and darkened. With a quick slice across his index finger, blood droplets fell into the beer’s opening.

Felix froze, “You’re… one of them.”

Stephan grinned, revealing rows of sharp teeth, “I met some guy at the concert. He gave me a vial of his blood, telling me that letting go of your humanity makes it easier to get away from the police.”

He handed the can to Felix, “Take a sip, and you’ll never be powerless again.”

Felix’s throat went dry. He hesitated, then lifted the can to his lips. The beer foamed bitter on his tongue, but beneath it, the blood’s taste clung like iron and fire.

—

Felix’s apartment

Felix staggered into his room as he felt like the world was spinning. He slammed the door shut and collapsed onto his bed, his chest pounding with heat.

Sharp pain lanced through his body. He stumbled to the mirror and clutched the dresser, gasping for air.

Red rings shone in his reflection as his fingernails grew and darkened. Then, black wings burst from his back, spreading wide.

Felix gasped, pressing his palms against the glass as if it could hold him together.

The boy staring back at him wasn't human anymore.

—

Neukölln Gymnasium

Felix pushed open the bathroom door and froze. Stephan stood at the sink, washing out a small glass vial. The red-orange tint clung to the water as it swirled down the drain.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Felix snapped.

Stephan looked up to him and smirked, “Relax. Just cleaning up.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed, “That’s blood, isn’t it? Who did you give it to?”

“Paula. She wanted to feel strong, like me.”

Felix runs to Stephan and grabs him by his shirt collar.

“Hey, don't look at me like that. She begged for it.”

Felix’s stomach dropped, “Are you insane? You’re creating more unregistered Blutsaugers. If the Institute finds out-”

“They won’t,” Stephan cut in, “The system’s stacked against us anyway. Why play by their rules?”

Felix slammed his fist against the stall door, the sound echoing. “You’re not helping anyone! You’re ruining her life!”

Stephan shoves the vial into his backpack, “You sound just like a teacher. Loosen up, Felix. The future’s not theirs. It’s ours.”

He walked out of the bathroom, leaving Felix pondering about what might happen to Paula if she ends up at the Institute.

—

Felix's apartment was quiet except for the news on the TV. He sat hunched on the couch, the remote slipping from his hand as the news anchor’s words sank in.

“Police confirm that a 16-year-old girl, Paula K., was reported missing after her family could not locate her at home. She was later discovered by a couple returning from shopping, nearly colliding with their car. During the incident, she injured five people before authorities confirmed her transformation into a Full Stray. Following intervention by BAB, she has been transferred to the Blutsauger Research Institute for containment.”

The anchor paused as a blurred photograph of Paula flashed on screen.

Felix’s throat tightened.

The report continued.

“Authorities also detained 16-year-old Stephan R., identified as an unregistered Neublüter. Investigators allege he had been illegally selling Blutsauger blood, with records on his phone suggesting links to Neo-Nazi groups. He has undergone preliminary reversion treatment and will be transferred to juvenile detention.”

Felix sat frozen, the glow of the screen searing into his eyes. He had warned Stephan. But now Paula was lost, and Stephan, reckless, smiling Stephan, was gone too.

He turned the TV off and the room plunged into silence.

—

The classroom was unusually quiet that morning. Even the scrape of chairs and shuffling of notebooks seemed muted.

A middle-aged teacher stood at the front with a book in his hand, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older than usual.

He cleared his throat. “Before we begin. I have to make an announcement.” 

His voice carried the practiced solemnity of someone who had been told what to say, but not how to soften it. 

“As you may have heard, two of our students, Paula Kirdorf and Stephan Reiler, will not be attending classes for the foreseeable future.” He paused, “Due to… circumstances you are all aware of from the news reports.”

Whispers moved through the room. Some students exchanged uneasy looks, others lowered their heads to their desks, pretending to be busy with pens and papers.

Felix felt the words land like stones in his chest. He already knew, he had watched the late-night news, had seen Paula’s name, Stephan’s face, the surreal confirmation that they were gone from normal life forever. 

But hearing it in the classroom from the teacher, surrounded by the empty seats where his classmates should have been, made it unbearable.

His throat tightened. The air in the room felt suddenly too thin, his desk too small, his body too heavy to stay sitting there. 

He pushed back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor with a screech that drew every pair of eyes.

The teacher looked up, “Herr Hasenmüller? Where are you going?”

Felix’s lips trembled, but no sound came. The room seemed to spin, and the teacher’s voice faded as a rush of blood pounded in his ears.

Before the teacher could say another word, Felix bolted. He shoved the door open and sprinted into the hallway, the echo of his footsteps carrying away the silence he had left behind.

—

Blutsauger Research Institute

Razor wires glinted on the tall gates of the Institute as Felix sprinted toward them, ignoring the guards yelling at him.

“Hey, kid! You can’t be here!”

He ducked, weaving past their outstretched arms, his sneakers pounding the pavement. 

He made it into the sterile corridors. The air smelled of bleach and metal.

At the end of a hallway stood a tall figure in a white coat, with his face bearing the flag of Austria. His red hands were clasped behind his back as a scientist murmured beside him.

Felix came to a halt. “Dr. Eisenträger!”

Albrecht turned to him, “Who are you?”

“I’m Paula’s classmate.”

Albrecht gestured to the heavy steel door in front of him. “Paula is in this cell. But you will not like what you see.”

Felix edged closer. Through a small reinforced window he saw Paula in a hospital gown, restrained against a chair with leather straps binding her arms. Her eyes glowed ferociously yellow, teeth bared as she writhed and snarled against the restraints.

“She is no longer your classmate.” Albrecht said, “Treatment is the only option, but many do not survive it.”

Felix’s hands trembled against the glass. Paula’s muffled scream echoed in his ears.

Albrecht stepped forward, resting a cold hand on Felix’s shoulder. “This is what happens when one plays god with hunger.”

Felix tore his eyes away, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t move.

—

Mitte, Berlin

April 2023 

The glow on Felix’s laptop lit his room. He sat at his desk and put on headphones.

A blank profile picture on the Discord call pulsed with the other man’s voice.

“Good evening, Felix318.”

Felix leaned closer. “If you want me to think this isn’t just another lie, then show your face.”

“I can't. You know the rules.” The man replied, voice flat and distorted, “What matters is that you understand what we stand for. Germany is bleeding, and leaders are too busy appeasing parasites to save it. You’ve seen it yourself. How many patients have you patched up just so they can go back to a country that spits on you?”

Felix’s jaw tightened. The images of Paula strapped to a chair and the news footage of Stephan being dragged away flooded his mind.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“Then you know peace is a lie. Our enemies hide in shadows and parliaments alike. We bring light to expose them. But light needs warriors. Men who aren’t afraid to bleed.”

Felix’s hand curled into a fist on the desk.

The man’s voice lowered, “So what will it be, Felix? Stay silent, or stand with us?”

For a moment, Felix thought of the time Stephan pressured him into drinking a beer can with his blood in it.

“I’ll stand with you.”

The voice on the other end exhaled, pleased. “Welcome to Lämmer.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Pankow hummed with the dull chatter of morning traffic. Felix, with his hood up, walked with a restless mind.

A man with a bandaged face brushed past him, talking on his phone.

“Yeah, send it to goldenhand. I'll be there soon.” The man muttered.

Felix froze mid-step.

goldenhand. That username hadn’t been spoken aloud anywhere outside Lämmer’s server. Whoever this man is, he’d just ripped a hole through the veil of secrecy.

In one motion, Felix grabbed the man’s hoodie from behind and yanked him into a narrow alleyway. The stranger staggered, nearly dropping his phone, until Felix grabbed and slammed him against the wall with a force that rattled brick.

“Hey, who the hell are you?!” the bandaged man barked, fists clenching.

Felix pressed his forearm against the man’s chest, pinning him harder. His eyes narrowed. “You know Lämmer?”

The man stiffened, voice sharp with sudden recognition. “What did you just say?”

Felix leaned in, close enough for only the bandaged man to hear. “I’m Felix318.”

A long silence hung between them, punctuated only by the sound of a distant tram. The man’s shoulders eased, and a slow, dangerous grin spread beneath the bandages.

“Bruder Vierzehn.” He said at last.

Felix kept his mouth shut as his throat tightened.

He found it hard to believe the man in front of him was actually Bruder Vierzehn himself, Adler’s right-hand man and one of the mods. 

If he blurted out what he knew, he’d risk getting gutted on the spot. Instead, he let the tension bleed into a cold mutter.

“Let's keep this between us.”

Traugott’s grin only widened. “You're a smart man.” He slipped his phone into his pocket, clapping Felix on the shoulder like they’d been comrades for years. “Come on. Let’s talk somewhere better.”

—

Traugott’s Apartment 

Clemente and Adriano were in the middle of a card game, a deck spread out on the coffee table between them.

As the door opened, Felix froze, catching the lilt in their voices as one cursed the other in Italian. “Why the hell do you have Italians in your apartment?”

Traugott chuckled and closed the door. “They're one of the mods!”

He gestured to each of them, “This is Sei, and this is Moschetto.”

Clemente looked up from his cards, “Traugott, who the hell is this vagabond? What happened to the rules?”

Felix tightened his jaw. “Name’s Felix Hasenmüller. You know me as Felix318.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched. Then Clemente burst out laughing, “Idiots. Breaking the one rule the Shepherd drilled into us: no real names, and no faces. You Germans can’t help yourselves.” 

He tossed down his cards and leaned back. “Fine then. I'm Clemente Fioretti,” he points at Adriano, “This is Adriano Origlio… and you already met Traugott Winkel.”

Felix’s mouth went dry. He should’ve kept quiet, but it was too late now.

He cleared his throat, fumbling for something to ground him. “I live next to Heiko.”

That got their attention.

“We know that, Felix. Heiko already told us in the server before the attack.” Adriano said.

Clemente smirked again. “You Germans really don’t value your masks, huh?”

Felix ignored the jab, staring at the cards instead. “He’s been avoiding me lately.”

He didn’t say why. Didn’t mention the training, didn’t mention the fact Heiko became a Stray. Just left it at that.

Traugott leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “I have one more to introduce but he's at work right now. His name is Alain Porion, the one who calls himself Fauri online. He's a waiter at a French restaurant.” 

A crooked smirk twisted under the bandages. “I bet you won’t like him because he’s French.”

Felix shifted, looking around the room. These men weren’t just online avatars anymore.

Traugott raised his glass in a mock toast. “We’re Ungezogen. The little gang the Shepherd trusts to get our hands dirty.”

Felix felt the word sink in his stomach like lead, “What exactly do you do for a living?”

The three shared a look, amusement flickering between them. 

Clemente answered first, “Day job? I fix cars.”

Adriano smirked. “I work in a junkyard.”

Traugott pulls out a knife from his jacket's pocket. “And I move the toys. Guns, knives, whatever the boys in Neukölln need to play soldier.”

“I’m a paramedic.” Felix sheepishly said.

Clemente’s laugh cut sharp. “No offense, but you don’t look the type.”

Traugott shot him a glare. “Stop that.”

Adriano leaned forward, eyes narrowing with intrigue. “A paramedic? Tell me, Felix. Have you ever looked at someone bleeding out and thought, ‘maybe I don’t have to save this one?’”

Felix stiffened. “That’s not how my job works.”

Adriano snickered. “Doesn’t have to be your job. Just a thought experiment.”

Traugott clapped Felix on the shoulder, jolting him from the moment. “Relax. We’re all friends here.”

—

The corridor smelled faintly of dust and detergent as Felix followed the three men.

He glanced at Traugott’s bandaged face, the gauze peeking out from under his hood. “What happened to your face?”

Traugott sighed. “Got scarred when I fought Siegfried in Potsdam.”

Felix paused for a second. “He's in Potsdam?”

“Yeah.” Traugott adjusted his hood. “Treue43 spotted him in that old geezer's mansion.”

Felix muttered under his breath, more to himself than the others. “So he’s really hiding in Brandenburg…”

They pushed through the front doors and crossed into the cold morning air.

—

The French restaurant is small but polished, its red velvet walls adorned with framed posters in looping French text, map of France, and dim sconces. The clink of cutlery and low conversation filled the air.

Felix frowned as they slid into a table set for four near the back. He leaned toward Traugott, whispering, “Why are we in a French restaurant?”

None of them answered.

Alain emerged from the kitchen doors, dressed in a black vest and pressed white shirt. 

His hair was slicked back neatly, and his face looks oddly bare without glasses. 

For a second, he froze when he recognized his peers, then quickly masked it with a waiter’s professional smile.

“Bonjour, messieurs. What will you be having today?” His tone was casual, like any other server.

Traugott glanced at the menu. “Onion soup and boudin noir.”

“Duck confit.” Clemente said.

“Bouillabaisse.” Adriano added, tapping his finger against the edge of the table.

Felix skimmed the list of mains, settling on the line that looked familiar. “Beef bourguignon.”

Alain scribbled in his notepad. “And drinks?”

“A non-alcoholic sparkling wine from Alsace.” Felix said.

Clemente wheezed, leaning over the table. “Non-alcoholic? What? Worried you’ll get tipsy off half a glass?”

Felix shot him a look. “I just prefer it this way.”

“Whatever you say.” Clemente chuckled as Alain noted it down.

“And for dessert?” Alain asked.

“Tarte Tatin.” Traugott said immediately.

“Lemon meringue pie.” Clemente added.

“Apple tart.” Adriano chimed in.

“Crème brûlée.” Felix said.

“Parfait. I’ll bring your wine first.” Alain nodded and walked away, slipping back toward the kitchen.

As soon as Alain was gone, Clemente leaned across the table, “That waiter? That’s Alain.”

Felix's brow furrowed. “What? The more I learn about your circle, the more peculiar it gets.”

“Hiding behind mundane jobs is our wool, Felix. We're all wolves in a pack.”

Felix turned to Traugott, lowering his voice. “What is up with you and Italians?”

Traugott smirked. “They’re my classmates. Been around since we were 16.”

Adriano snorted. “And Alain’s always been our punching bag.”

“Hey, not here.” Traugott whispered, “We'll continue later because the rest of our story is not for the public ears.”

Plates were set down in front of them, steam curling upward in savory waves. 

Felix glanced at Traugott’s boudin noir. He figured he probably ordered it because the fight with Siegfried had left him completely drained.

Adriano speared a piece of fish from his bouillabaisse and leaned back with a nostalgic grin. “This reminds me of Provence. My parents took me there when I was 10.”

Felix chewed on his beef bourguignon. It unsettles him to see Adriano talk so casually about a childhood vacation. 

For a moment, Ungezogen looked almost normal. It was strange and jarring to see softness in men who lived in violence.

When their mains were cleared away, Alain reappeared to drop off the desserts and then headed over to another table to take an elderly couple's order.

He’d caught enough of his friend's hushed talk and the way the stranger fit in among them. 

“You’re too modest, Felix Hasenmüller.” 

That voice could be Clemente’s, even though some voices from the customers drown out the rest of their conversations.

“Stop” is only what Alain could hear from Felix.

This Felix Hasenmüller… Could he be Felix318? If so, the idiot was breaking the rules.

He steadied his expression, writing “escargots” on the pad. Still, unease gnawed at him. 

If Felix was truly who he suspected, then secrets were bleeding into daylight.

Desserts were eaten, spoons scraping the last of the plates, and soon the bill was settled.

Chapter Text

The group arrived at a tall, abandoned building that towered above them.

“So, Felix. Ever murdered someone?” Clemente said, with his elbows up and hands behind his head.

Felix blinked, taken off guard. “No. Why are you asking me that all of a sudden?”

“I had this question in my mind when we were in the restaurant but you know, I can't say that in public.”

Adriano tilted his head. “You’ve really drunk blood before though, right?”

Felix exhaled, steady but tense. “Only blood bags. If there isn't scavenged blood available, I use substitutes. Blutwurst, Schwarzsauer, Tote Oma.”

Clemente glanced to his left, “Doesn’t that mean ‘Dead Grandma’?”

Felix shot him an annoyed look. “It’s an East German dish.”

Clemente chuckled, muttering something in Italian to Adriano, who grinned.

—

The abandoned building smelled of damp concrete and rusted metal. Dust floated through the shafts of daylight bleeding from broken windows. 

Traugott spread his arms wide as if unveiling a throne room.

“Here it is. One of our favorite spots.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t have met you if you hadn’t mentioned goldenhand out loud.”

He turned to Traugott. “Earlier Adriano called Alain a punching bag, but you never let him finish. What did you mean by it's not for the public ears?”

Clemente smirked, leaning against a crumbling pillar. “I’ll tell you.”

He crossed his arms, voice tinged with amusement. “We were seventeen, fresh out of Gymnasium. Traugott, Adriano and Alain snuck into my apartment late at night because my parents were working on night shifts. We had a little graduation party and toasted with some wine I brought from the cabinet.” 

His grin sharpened. “Alain won't stop trailing around us, so we promised him power by mixing my blood into his drink.”

Felix stiffened but stayed silent.

“The next night, he was captured by the BAB for his unregistered status and sent him to the Institute for reversion treatment.” Clemente’s tone hardened. “When they released him, he came crawling back to me and begged me for my blood. So I did it again, this time with orange juice.”

“Since we’re talking secrets, let’s all spill something.” Traugott said, his scar catching the light.

Clemente glanced at Adriano, then back at Felix. “We were 14 when we moved here. Our births were a scandal in Italy in 1999. Back when my parents were university students, they mixed Blutsauger blood from smuggled vials into their wine. My grandparents from both sides found out and they were not happy about it.”

He continued, “My paternal and maternal grandparents were 13 at the time they fled with their families from Italy. Beatrice's brother, Renato, was overseeing crackdowns on Italian families accused of disloyalty. Nazi soldiers accompanying him opened fire on them near the border. They survived, got to a vessel to America, worked in factories, and lived in New York's crammed tenements. After the war, they came back to Italy to rebuild.”

Clemente sighed, “You see why, when my parents drank Blutsauger blood, their families called it betrayal. They had escaped Renato only to watch their children become like him.

Felix tilted his head. “What about you, Adriano?”

Adriano shifted uneasily. “There was a Blutsauger raid in Rome in 1998. My father was caught in a crossfire when one of the Blutsaugers attacked civilians. My mother dragged him into their apartment because they didn't have access to proper medical help. She used a vial that was dropped in the pavement and mixed it with water. It saved his life, so she drank the mixture as well to become a Blutsauger as a way to survive.”

“I was born 2 months after Clemente. Another child, another scandal. After we graduated at 14, The Italian government declared it's unsafe for us to remain in Italy. Both of our parents planned to move to Austria, but SBK's reputation for brutality was too much for us to bear, so we moved here instead.”

Traugott crossed his arms, his voice heavy. “My turn.”

He stared at the cracked floor. “I was 15, reading forums and watching videos talking about how this country has lost its backbone. When Clemente, Adriano and Alain transferred, I showed them what strength looks like. When we reached university, we strolled around Neukölln, going to places the BAB wouldn't set foot.”

He pulled his combat knife and twirled it. “In one of those, we ran into an arms dealer who was selling weapons for Blutsaugers who wanted to save their powers. I met the Shepherd on Twitter, praising my skill as a gang leader so he made us mods.”

Felix folded his arms. “When we first met, you were talking about goldenhand on the phone.”

Traugott’s mouth curled. “goldenhand lives in Neukölln. She was asking where the arms dealer lives. I called Clemente to send her the location of our boys. Simple business.”

Felix hesitated. “I'm also from Neukölln, but I moved to Mitte for my job. I became a Blutsauger at 16 from my classmate who introduced me to the punk scene.”

“Hold on a second, how old are you?” Clemente asked.

“I'm 23.”

Adriano raised an eyebrow. “How did you dodge being unregistered years during COVID?”

Felix’s jaw tightened. “Let’s just say I found ways. Swapped samples, stayed invisible.”

He paused a bit, “Back to my story. I found out that my classmate gave his blood to his girlfriend. We fought about it because he didn't think of the consequences. Five days later, they were both detained in the Institute. His girlfriend became a Full Stray while he was given the reversion treatment to get transferred to the youth detention center for having Neo-Nazi contacts on his phone and illegal selling of Blutsauger blood.”

Clemente tilted his head. “Have you visited your classmate?”

“No,” Felix muttered. “Not after my parents grounded me because he’s a terrible influence, and also the time I left school without permission to visit his girlfriend at the Institute. Years later, Treue43 reached out to me in April, he was on recruitment duty since you guys were busy hunting. That’s when I got pulled into Lämmer.”

Clemente broke the silence with a grin. “Why don’t you come with us to Neukölln? You’ll get a lot of fun in there.”

Felix knew exactly what “fun” meant—either dragging him into a murder spree or gang activity. 

He shook his head and walked to the exit. “No thanks.”

“Where are you going?” Clemente called after him.

“I'm going back to Mitte. I need some rest.”

Clemente leaned back, smirking at Adriano. “See that, Adriano? Blutsaugers who prefer animal blood will never be more than cowards pretending they’re not starving.”

Clemente and Adriano snickered. Felix said nothing, only pulled his coat tighter and left, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the hollow building.

—

Mitte, Berlin

Felix stepped inside the quiet coffee shop, the air filled with the faint aroma of roasted beans and milk froth.

He spotted someone familiar near the window, cloth in hand, wiping the glass. When the man turned his head to the side, Felix immediately recognized him as Heiko.

Felix strode over. His voice was low, edged with command. 

“Meet me after work.”

Heiko froze mid-wipe. His eyes flicked up, then down again, pretending not to recognize the man who haunted his doorstep. He only gave a quick nod.

Felix slid into the corner seat where the staff can't see what he's looking at his phone.

Heiko’s knuckles whitened around the cloth. His chest felt tight, like someone had slipped a belt around his lungs.

Reuben walked up to Heiko, “Who’s that?”

“That's my neighbor.” Heiko said, “I accidentally spilled a smoothie on his expensive shoes yesterday and now he's stuck wearing his worn-out ones.”

“No wonder he looks pissed.” Reuben glanced at Felix's scuffed sneakers and then walked away, none the wiser.

Felix knew Heiko was lying but chose to stay silent.

Reuben came over to him. “Good afternoon, what would you like to order?”

Felix immediately replied. “Latte macchiato.”

When Reuben left, Felix slipped his phone out. The glow lit his face as he opened up Discord.

goldenhand had posted a photo: a pistol laid neatly across a messy bed. Beneath it is a video showing her hand holding the weapon, half-lit in lamplight. 

Felix’s thumb hovered, but he didn’t tap.

Not here. Not even with the staff in front of him. His pulse spiked at the thought of what the video might show.

These were the replies below:

Bruder Vierzehn: 🔥

Sei: That’s the stuff

XXTUFFI: Where did you get that?

Felix turned off his phone just as Reuben returned with a glass of Latte macchiato.

Felix murmured a thanks, lifting the glass to his lips. The warm foam brushed his mouth, but his eyes strayed past the steam.

Heiko has four days left. If he keeps this up, he’ll become a Full Stray by Sunday.

Felix gripped the mug tighter, trying not to look like a predator studying his prey. But all he could think was how quickly the clock was running out for Heiko, and how messy it would get if anyone else found out.

Heiko scrubbed the window harder than he needed to, cloth squeaking against the glass.

Felix’s voice from earlier still sat in his skull like a hook.

He forced his jaw loose, tried to keep his movements casual. Reuben bought his lie, but Felix’s stare from across was heavier than the glass he cleaned.

To Heiko, Felix looks like he was waiting for the cracks to show.

Heiko’s stomach twisted. The sunglasses in his pocket suddenly felt like dead weight. He knows. Or he will soon.

He turned back to the window, cloth trembling in his grip.

All he could think was: Just a few more hours. Then the real questions start.

Chapter Text

Morning – von Wagenheim Mansion

The large oak doors groaned as Siegfried pushed them open. Because of his quasi-god and Blutsauger physiology, he walked with a slight limp and has an unusual pain tolerance.

Heinrich was already waiting in the dining room, setting down two steaming plates. One is Blutwurst, and the other is Schwarzsauer.

“Good morning, Herr Siegfried,” He said, though his eyes lingered on the stiffness in Siegfried’s leg. “I read your message that you went a little overboard with your powers last night. So I cooked some Blutwurst and Schwarzsauer.”

Siegfried sank into his chair. “Thank you Heinrich. I left Potsdam without any breakfast.” He stabbed the Blutwurst with a fork and took a big bite.

“I heard from your great-grandfather that Elzebul’s been… giving you a hard time?”

Siegfried paused for a second, chewing the sausage bits down. “He told you everything?!”

“Yes, he talked to me on the phone.”

Siegfried had never once heard Werner chatting with Heinrich on the phone, not even when he was heading out of the mansion. Perhaps Werner might have called Heinrich the second Siegfried was out the door?

“You’re 90, Herr Siegfried. You know that this country will be a graveyard if you can’t get a grip on your familiar.” Heinrich retorted as if he was scolding a child, “I remember Kruse telling me once that you-”

“No! Don't mention that!” Siegfried snapped. Those words brought back the memory of when he was sixteen.

“Then at least listen when I tell you, if Elzebul slips the leash again, it won’t be your enemies who ruin you, Herr Siegfried. One lapse and he will twist you into his will.”

Heinrich folded his hands. “Since you have run into one of the Blutsauger thugs from Neukölln, I think it's time we should warn BAB.”

Siegfried nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

He pulled his phone, thumb tapping across the screen.

> To: Senior Agent Waldbauer

I’m injured. I was at my great-grandfather's mansion last night. I was attacked by a Blutsauger using powers called Sturmgeist and Sturmgeist Blitzkrieg. Heinrich encountered the same one in Neukölln yesterday when he was investigating in Neuköllnische Allee. He has a scar across his face from my Talon Whip. Please inform BAB to watch for a man with a scarred face or the power to turn clouds into eagles. He might also be bandaged.

—

BAB Field Office

Senior Agent Waldbauer leaned back on a chair, the desk piled with papers, while Agents Reitz and Lauen stood across from him. 

His phone's ringtone broke the silence; he picked it up and read Siegfried’s message.

“Neukölln?!” Reitz blurted out, “Why didn't he tell us there was an ambush there?”

Waldbauer replied to Siegfried and immediately got answers.

Siegfried: Heinrich told me to warn BAB when he returned to the mansion but I told him to hold off because we don't know who's pulling the strings.

“Given that it happened on Neuköllnische Allee, do you think this ties to the murder from yesterday?” Reitz asked.

“Possibly. The victim might be a witness, and the Blutsauger may have offed him to prevent him from reporting what he saw.” Waldbauer replied.

“I think I might have seen the bandaged man in Pankow.” Lauen said, and both men looked at her.

She smoothed her blonde hair back, “He was leaving the station when the train I was on arrived this morning.”

Reitz's jaw dropped. “He’s walking around like that?”

“Or he wants to be seen.” Waldbauer replied flatly. He pocketed his phone. “Pull surveillance from Pankow. If this man is stirring Neo-Nazi activity, we can’t afford another missed chance.”

—

Siegfried’s fork scraped the porcelain plate as he worked through the Schwarzsauer. Between bites, he sent another message, this time an email to Aquilegia Hospital.

> Subject: Medical Leave

I will be unable to work for the coming days due to an injury. Will provide documentation if necessary. — Dr. Siegfried von Wagenheim.

He joined Heinrich in the living room, where the butler had tuned the television to the news. 

Footage rolled a brick wall under Parkbrücke Klein Glienicke, daubed in black spray paint.

“Yesterday, the quasi-gods Werner and Siegfried von Wagenheim encountered Neo-Nazi graffiti beneath Parkbrücke Klein Glienicke, bearing the words “Germany for Germans”. Authorities have not confirmed whether the incident was directly connected to the attempted assassination of Siegfried later that night.”

The footage cuts to a long shot of Werner’s mansion.

“According to official sources, an unidentified Blutsauger appeared outside the gates of Werner's mansion and managed to lure Siegfried into the nearby forest. During the confrontation, Siegfried was stabbed in the thigh before the assailant fled. The Blutsauger remains at large and no eyewitnesses beyond the family circle have been identified.”

The screen cut to a studio-lit shot of Werner von Wagenheim, seated rigidly in a high-backed chair, his hands folded on the armrest. A banner read: “Werner von Wagenheim – Quasi-god of Brandenburg.”

“Herr von Wagenheim, extremist slogans like this are often preludes to violence. Do you believe you, along with Siegfried, are targets?”

Werner pauses, jaw tight. “It would be naïve to think otherwise. Siegfried, as the head quasi-god of this nation, stands at the very center of both reverence and resentment. Assassination is always a possibility when hatred is allowed to fester unchecked.”

“Particularly because of your position?”

“Not only mine, but because we are the last remaining elites of the Blutsauger world.”

“So you believe these threats are directed at you both specifically?”

“We are precisely living symbols of a Germany that refuses to bend to fanaticism. That makes us targets, inevitably. If anyone thinks they can extinguish our bloodline with bullets or blades, they are gravely mistaken.”

A brief clip of police examining damaged trees rolled before the anchor’s face returned, her expression grave.

“Authorities have not issued details regarding the identity or motives of the attacker, though speculation has already emerged about the targeting of high-profile figures since the attempted assassination of Italy’s Beatrice Gastaldello on the 31st of October. For now, officials urge the public to avoid conjecture until investigations progress.”

“I can't believe it's spreading to Brandenburg.” Heinrich said, watching the TV. “I have texted Ada and Lorenz and they reported no signs in Hamburg and North-Rhine Westphalia yet.”

Siegfried turned to Heinrich. “Bavaria or Saxony could be next, but that would be too predictable. But if Herr Franzl or Münzner reach out to me, then things have already gone south.”

—

Afternoon – Aquilegia Hospital

Beatrice slid her tray aside, the empty bowl clinking softly. The door opened. The same doctor from yesterday entered, clipboard in hand.

“Frau Gastaldello,” he greeted, “Your vitals are holding steady and healing is progressing. But I must advise against any exertion beyond walking. You are not yet cleared for combat.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to scoff, but bit it back.

“There is one more matter,” the doctor added. “A liaison will visit shortly for your interview, representing German-Italian cooperation.”

Her pulse flicked faster. She said nothing as the doctor left.

Moments later, the liaison stepped in with a leather folder under one arm.

“Frau Gastaldello, thank you for your time. I’ll be brief.” He said. “For transparency between our governments, I’ll need to ask several questions.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Proceed.”

“Can you recall what the assailant said before striking?”

Her voice was steady. “Yes. He said he was fulfilling what the far-right wanted.”

The liaison jotted it down. “Distinct features? Accent, gait, anything beyond the mask?”

“Nothing I could confirm.” She hated how clipped her answers sounded, but she refused to give more than truth.

He nodded. “Do you believe this was an isolated extremist? Or part of a wider strategy?”

Beatrice’s jaw tightened. “I believe it was premeditated.”

Another note scribbled. “And regarding security arrangements prior to your arrival, would you say they were sufficient?”

A bitter laugh nearly escaped her, but she smothered it. “If they were, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Did you sense any connection to prior Neo-Nazi activity you’ve encountered in Italy?”

“The last attempted assassination on me was in 2011, but I can’t point to a thread tying them together now.”

“Has anyone from your government contacted you since the incident?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Would you prefer this be handled quietly, or do you anticipate Rome will issue a public statement?”

“Quietly, if possible. But I expect a statement once the details filter back.”

“How do you want your presence in Berlin explained to the press?”

“I was here for vacation. I don’t want the public thinking I was sneaking around on official business. Keep it simple.”

“Do you feel fit to travel soon, or should we plan for an extended stay?”

“I can travel when needed. But I’ll follow the doctors’ advice before making promises.”

Has your doctor given an estimate for your full recovery?”

“Only that it will take weeks, not days. Nothing exact.”

“Do you require special accommodations for security or health?”

“Beyond basic protection, no. I’ve lived through worse.”

“Would you be willing to cooperate with BAB’s ongoing investigations into extremist Blutsauger cells?”

“Yes. When I’m discharged, I’ll make myself available.”

“How should we coordinate with Italy’s agencies on this matter? Through you, or directly through your government?”

“Through Rome. I’m not your middlewoman. But I will give my perspective if it helps your work.”

“Some of your colleagues have expressed concerns about your ties to von Wagenheim. Should BAB take that into account for your protection?”

“My ties to him don’t compromise my duty. If anything, they’ve kept me alive in situations where no one else could. If someone here thinks otherwise, perhaps they should examine their own prejudices before mine.”

“Are you aware of any movements or individuals who would benefit from German–Italian tensions right now?”

“Plenty. The far-right thrives on division, so does anyone who profits from an unstable Europe.”

The liaison’s pen paused and adjusted his tie. “Last question: would you permit BAB to share this transcript with the Italian government?”

Her gaze lingered on him, sharp as broken glass. “Yes. Let them know I am not broken.”

The liaison closed his folder, rising. “That will suffice. Thank you for your cooperation.”

When the door clicked shut, Beatrice leaned back against the pillow, her fists tight in the sheets.

—

Reitz leaned against the corner with his arms folded while Lauen is occupied with her phone.

The printer clattered to life. A thin stack slid out the liaison’s transcript, stamped with today’s date. Waldbauer tugged the first sheet free, eyes scanning quickly.

“Frau Gastaldello says the assailant claimed he was ‘fulfilling what the far-right wanted.’” he muttered aloud.

Reitz shifted. “So the witness accounts were right, then. Not just a rogue.”

Waldbauer skimmed lower, his brow furrowing. “She suspects the attack was premeditated but cannot say for sure if it relates to her previous attempt on her life in 2011.

Reitz leaned closer. “Then why’s she pushing for quiet handling? If Rome learns she’s minimizing, it’ll look like she’s protecting someone.”

Waldbauer sets the papers down, steepling his hands. “She’s protecting Herr von Wagenheim. Read between the lines.”

Lauen turned her head sharply. “You think so?”

“She ties her survival to him. States outright he’s kept her alive. That’s not diplomacy, that’s loyalty.” His eyes flicked between them, hard. “Our higher-ups will see it as biased. And bias in the middle of extremist infiltration? It's dangerous."

Reitz exhaled, muttering. “So now we’ve got one of Europe’s loudest voices against fascism making excuses for a Blutsauger half the world already mistrusts.”

Waldbauer tapped the transcript once more, then slid it into a folder. “Not excuses. But leverage. If Herr von Wagenheim's enemies know Frau Gastaldello's faith lies with him, they will take advantage of it.”

“Agent Lahyani and Zemanová said they will be unavailable tomorrow in observance of Shabbat.” Lauen said, looking at their messages on her phone.

Waldbauer nodded, “You’ll be paired with another set of agents until they’re back on Sunday. If extremists are escalating, we can’t leave gaps in coverage.”

Reitz stood up straight, away from the wall. “So what do we do with this?” He glances at the transcript. “Let the higher-ups handle it however they see fit?”

Waldbauer responded firmly, “No, not at this time. The fewer people who know, the less likely the details will be leaked before we want it to. The headquarters in Berlin will get only what they absolutely need to know.”

He pushed his chair back, standing. “Meanwhile, I want surveillance doubled in Pankow. If Agent Lauen really saw the scarred Blutsauger there this morning, he’s moving too freely. Someone is shielding him, or he’s cocky enough to think no one can touch him. Either way, that’s our problem.”

Reitz muttered, “And von Wagenheim?”

Waldbauer paused, his expression unreadable. “He’s injured. Which makes him unpredictable. Keep him looped, but don’t count on him to play by our rules. If he thinks BAB’s dragging its feet, he’ll act alone and we’ll have a bloodbath on our hands.”

He closed the folder with finality. “We will watch him quietly. If he slips, I want to know before Rome does.”

Lauen looked up from her phone, her voice low but pointed. “And Beatrice?”

Waldbauer’s jaw tightened. “She’s walking proof that von Wagenheim has allies in places that matter. For now, that shields him. But it also paints a target on both their backs.”

He gathered the folder under his arm, heading for the door. “So we move first before someone else does.”

Chapter Text

The chessboard lay between them. Heinrich gazed at the familiar arrangement.

“You’re always playing the black pieces.” he said.

“White feels dishonest,” Siegfried replied, his voice carrying the weight of disdain. “It parades itself as purity, but I see only rot. White supremacy, for example.” He knocked Heinrich’s white knight over with the sharp thrust of a pawn.

His eyes narrowed, words spilling with sharpened conviction. “You know, Holocaust jokes and jokes making fun of Nazis are two different things. Some Jewish people are okay with mocking Nazis, and some don’t, because they’re not meant to be joked about. I’m on the side with the latter because I can’t laugh at either of those. Have you heard of Schrödinger’s douchebag? It’s when someone says something offensive and then tries to play it off like it was all a joke.”

He leaned forward, hands tightening on the edge of the table. “When someone who gets cancelled over these jokes is choking on their last breath, I hear justice. I’d toast to their death, laugh at their corpse, laugh loud enough to drown their name. Sometimes, censorship is justified.”

Heinrich frowned, his lined face stiff. “You’re starting to sound like Elzebul.”

Siegfried’s lips twitched, not into a smile but into something darker. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe laughter is too soft and too forgiving.”

Heinrich slid a white pawn to a3. His tone was gentler now, probing. “Have you been thinking about Frau Gastaldello all night?”

Siegfried exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but bitter. “She’s the only reason I hold a leash on Elzebul. If I was born in a world where she doesn’t exist, I’d let Elzebul out-” 

His hand clenched around the rook as he slammed it forward, the black tower crashing into Heinrich’s white queen and sending it toppling across the board. “and burn every banner, every flag, every street that dares sing their filth again until nothing is left.”

He grips the edge of the table, “I lived for ninety years, and what had it amounted to? All I’ve done is chase the same futile dream and fail at what humanity never could. The Reich is dead, but its roaches still crawl in the dark. What if I’m just Elzebul’s cage? And what if the only thing keeping me from tearing it open is Bea? If I lose her, will there be nothing left to hold me back?”

He pressed his hands to his face, but it couldn’t hide the sobs shaking through him. Hot tears traced down his cheeks, shame and rage pouring out in equal measure.

“I'm tired of weighing sins on a broken scale and still pretending I’m not. Maybe Elzebul is all I really am.”

Heinrich rose from his chair, walking the short distance around the table. He set a steady, grounding hand on Siegfried’s shoulder, his voice low but firm. “Listen to me. Elzebul is not you. He’s your shadow, born of pain you never asked for. You decide whether he has power over you, or whether you have power over him. Don’t ever forget that.”

Siegfried lifted his head slowly. His eyes were red and raw, staring at Heinrich with desperate intensity, as though the butler’s words were the only anchor he had left. He nodded once, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

On the surface, he looked calmer. But beneath the mask, something flickered still—hunger and defiance.

“…I’ll remember.”

—

Heinrich went down the narrow stairwell to the basement. The lock had not been turned in years. Dust caked the iron keyhole, and upon turning the key, the sound was as brittle as old bones.

The heavy door groaned open. The air was stale, thick with the scent of mildew and disuse. This basement was created to preserve the relics of a man Heinrich wished had never walked the Earth.

Heinrich’s eyes caught on a leather-bound album lying crooked beneath a stack of forgotten folders. He drew it out carefully, brushing a layer of dust away with his gloved hand. When he opened it, the first photograph stopped him cold: a newborn Siegfried swaddled in white, eyes shut in peace.

The next page has photos of Siegfried as a preteen. One of them has a photo of Arnulf’s hand on young Siegfried’s shoulder, their reflections mirrored in a lake where they bathed together that summer. 

They seem happy together, because these were taken at the time the boy had not yet learned what kind of man his father truly was. 

Siegfried was freed from the grasp of Nazism thanks to the Allies, but Heinrich saw how the past still gnawed at him. His war against Neo-Nazis was no longer just a duty, it was a wound he kept reopening, a poison he drank daily in the hope it might one day cure him. 

He feared that every instance of taking a life wasn't helping him find solace, but instead, was tearing him apart bit by bit until all that was left were scars and rage.

His hand trembled as he turned another page. The smile on Siegfried’s younger self was wide, trusting, and oblivious. Heinrich shut the album quickly, unable to look further.

Heinrich found out about Elzebul's existence back in 1949. At the time, Wolfram Kruse, quasi-god of Bonn, was assigned to work as Siegfried’s butler because Heinrich had not been able to serve due to being bound to West Berlin.

Wolfram had told him about a noise in Siegfried’s room around midnight. By the time Siegfried woke up at six, Wolfram had forced him to confess. 

Siegfried admitted summoning Goddess Europe to create a replica of Arnulf and using dream manipulation ability to contact him in private until everything went out of control that it caused Siegfried to accidentally awaken Elzebul.

Heinrich placed the album back where he found it and left the basement.

He turned the key once more, sealing the door. And with it, sealed his vow: if Siegfried faltered, if Elzebul came close to breaking free, Heinrich would act. Even if it meant defying his boss.

—

Heiko's apartment

Heiko sat stiffly on the couch, Felix leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his expression tight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Felix said flatly. “Be honest with me because you can’t keep dodging this forever since what happened last night. What did you drink?”

Heiko’s throat bobbed. He stared at the floor, then at his quivering hands. “I didn't drink the mix.” His voice trembled. “I… I tilted the vial. Just two drops. That’s all it took.”

Felix’s jaw clenched. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken rage. “So you were lying to me.”

Heiko flinched but forced himself to continue. “I didn’t know what else to say. I thought maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe I’d get power without the curse.” He pulled his knees closer, as if bracing for a blow. “I was wrong.”

Felix sat back, dragging a hand down his face. “You have three days left before you hit the point of no return. Do you even understand what that means?”

His hands curled into fists. “I watched it happen once already to my classmate Paula. She thought she could handle it, thought a few drops of blood would make her stronger. When she became a Full Stray, she was strapped to a chair in the Institute, screaming until her voice broke. That’s what’s waiting for you, Heiko. Straps, needles, white walls, people treating you like you’re already gone. You think I’d let you walk blind into that?”

Heiko’s throat tightened. He had never met Paula before, but Felix's description burned into his mind. 

Straps biting into his wrists, sterile lights above him, his body thrashing while scientists that look more like wardens in coats took notes on his downfall. 

The thought of being dragged from his own apartment, ripped from the last scraps of normalcy he still clung to, made his chest seize with a cold, crawling dread.

Before Felix could say more, both their phones buzzed. They pulled them out in unison.

Der Hirte Adler: @everyone Video call meeting will be held this evening at 20:00. Don't forget your masks.

Felix cursed under his breath and stood up. “I’ll deal with you later. Don’t do anything stupid until then.”

Heiko stayed silent. He just watched Felix leave, the door clicking shut behind him.

The apartment sank into silence again, but for Heiko, it was anything but quiet. His pulse thudded in his ears, his body humming with that unnatural hunger that no amount of denial could bury.

Chapter Text

The shutters rattled faintly as Traugott lifted them with the tip of his fingers. Afternoon light knifed through the gap, catching the sweat on his face. Two BAB agents strolled down the street below, their steps were too sharp and measured for a casual stroll.

He let the slat fall shut and shuffled into the living room. Another peek, another pair. Their eyes scanning every doorway, every window like they expected something to move. His stomach lurched. They were circling.

Traugott snatched his phone off the counter and thumbed through Clemente's number. The line clicked, and his voice came out tighter than he intended.

“Hello, Clemente? There's four BAB agents outside.”

On the other end, Clemente didn’t sound surprised. “And what are we supposed to do about them?”

“They’re walking the whole block.” Traugott hissed, lowering his voice even though the shutters were sealed. “If they knock on my door, then I’m finished.”

“What did you tell your boss?” Clemente asked casually, like he was testing how badly Traugott was unraveling.

“That I can’t work. Said I got attacked by some Blutsauger on the street.” He dragged a hand across his face.

Clemente exhaled through his teeth. “Fine, then don’t leave the apartment. Adriano, Alain, and I will bring food when you're all out because you can’t risk going to the supermarket, not with your face looking like that.”

The words only half-settled Traugott’s nerves. He leaned his back against the wall, phone pressed to his ear like a lifeline.

“Clem…” he muttered, “What if they already know?”

“Then you’d already be cuffed.” Clemente replied sharply. “Just keep the shutters down and stay put. Tonight’s more important anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“The video call meeting.” Clemente’s tone shifted, heavier, like the words themselves carried weight. “It will start at 20:00. You don’t want to miss it.”

The call ended, leaving Traugott alone with the sound of his own breathing and the muted shuffle of boots outside. He let the phone slip to his lap, staring at the shuttered window.

—

The taxi arrived at the hospital, its tires hissed as it slowed down. Two young men stepped out, each carrying their briefcases. Their suits were a shade too pristine for Berlin’s gloomy afternoon.

Agents Nüsken and Zweig were already waiting, their navy BAB jackets stark against the hospital’s concrete walls. They greeted the envoys with perfunctory nods, forced smiles, and a few courteous words in English. The polished mask of cooperation.

Inside, though, their eyes told a different story. To them, these envoys were tourists in a warzone. Paper-pushers from Rome who had never stood in blood-soaked corridors or seen a Stray claw their way through an apartment wall.

The taller envoy, Augello, checked his watch, his jaw set in nervous calculation. Rampini trailed him closely, his gaze flickering between the armed agents and the looming hospital entrance.

Rampini cleared his throat, trying to mask his unease with formality. “We appreciate the BAB's cooperation. Rome understands the urgency.”

“Your presence is noted,” Zweig replied smoothly, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that betrayed condescension. “Director Sundermeier has ensured your access will be… unhindered.”

The envoys nodded stiffly. They were not intimidated by the Germans’ authority, their own government had warned them of that, but by the weight of what they had stepped into: a world of creatures that belonged more to nightmare than an international summit.

“This way.” Nüsken said, leading them through the sliding doors. His tone was polite, almost deferential, but once the Italians turned their backs, his eyes narrowed in a silent exchange with Zweig.

As the group moved deeper into the hospital’s secured wing, the agents’ voices dropped to low murmurs in German, careful not to be overheard.

“Rome's sending us clerks.” Nüsken muttered under his breath.

Zweig smirked faintly, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “Clerks who expect to advise us on how to fight monsters. Let them observe, then go home thinking they’ve done something noble.”

The envoys, oblivious to the undertone, followed in silence. Their footsteps echoed in the sterile corridor, carrying both their anxiety and the uncomfortable truth that, in this place, they were guests at a table set for war.

The envoys were led down the corridor, their polished shoes echoing against the tile until the sound was swallowed by the reinforced doors ahead. As soon as they were out of sight, Nüsken and Zweig's smiles vanished.

“They look like schoolboys lost on a field trip.” Zweig muttered under his breath.

Nüsken smirked, though there was no warmth in it. “They’ll be a liability before the day is over.”

“I can hear you two.” Agent Reitz, who is standing nearby with a folder tucked under his arm, shot them both a sidelong glance. “They’re here under Director Sundermeier’s word. If you want to sneer, keep it to yourselves.”

Zweig shrugged, unconvinced. “You really think they’ll understand what they’re seeing out there? Half of it will look like witchcraft to them.”

Reitz lowered his voice, leaning closer. “Doesn’t matter what they understand. What matters is the Italian government breathing down our necks if Frau Gastaldello dies on our soil. You know how fast that spins into a council inquiry.”

Nüsken’s smirk faded. “Or worse, Herr von Wagenheim goes out of control. Remember when Dresden Division thought it was a good idea to summon him? If he’s pushed again, it won’t stop at Level Two.”

There was a beat of silence. “That’s why you’ll keep your mouths shut and your eyes open. Let the Italians observe, let them write their reports. But when things escalate, it’s us who will be holding the line and not them.” Reitz said.

Zweig exhaled through his nose, muttering, “Always us.”

“Exactly,” Reitz replied. “And that’s how it has to be.”

Nüsken threw a glance over Rampini's shoulder, polite but hollow. “Frau Gastaldello is held in a secured recovery ward one floor above.”

—

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The group stepped out and made their way to Beatrice's room.

“Signora Gastaldello.” Rampini whispered, seeing Beatrice asleep on the hospital bed, “May we… speak to her?”

“Not now.” Nüsken said flatly. “And if she wakes up, she needs to know she's safe.”

Zweig’s tone turned crisp. “You heard him.”

Beatrice woke up with a gasp. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring at faces she didn't expect to see. Two men in suits stood stiffly by her bed, hands clasped behind their backs. 

She recognized who they are instantly. Across the room, Nüsken and Zweig stood guard. Their hands rested near their firearms, their presence as blunt as iron.

Rampini bowed his head slightly and spoke in Italian.
“Buon pomeriggio, signora Gastaldello. Siamo qui su mandato diretto da Roma. La Germania ci ha assicurato piena collaborazione. La direttrice Sundermeier ci ha garantito l'accesso ai rapporti e alle indagini.” (Good afternoon, Miss Gastaldello. We are here under direct mandate from Rome. Germany has assured us full cooperation. Director Sundermeier has guaranteed us access to reports and investigation.)

Beatrice forced herself upright, ignoring the protest from her ribs. Her voice sharpened, switching to Italian as well, though quieter than theirs.

“Devi stare attento. Dato che sei in Germania, non devi preoccuparti solo dei Blutsauger, ma anche delle persone che ti circondano.” (You have to be careful. Since you're in Germany, it's not just the Blutsaugers you have to be concerned about, it's the people around you too.)

She watched their surprise flicker into confusion. She continued, her voice barely above a whisper but weighted like a warning.

“Hai già dimenticato? Come ti hanno trattato i tedeschi durante la crisi dell'Eurozona? Come ti guardavano? Come ti hanno umiliato?” (Have you forgotten already? How the Germans treated you during the Eurozone crisis? How they looked at you? How they humiliated you?)

Augello tensed. Rampini swallowed hard. Neither of them dared to glance at the armed men across the room, but their shoulders rose with instinctive caution. Beatrice’s gaze softened—not in kindness, but in responsibility.

“La stessa presidente sta seguendo da vicino la questione.” (The Prime Minister herself is keeping a close watch on this.) Augello said, still tensed from Beatrice's words, “Abbiamo bisogno di un documento che attesti le sue ferite, i dettagli dell'aggressione e una valutazione delle capacità di BAB. Non si tratta solo della sua sicurezza personale, signora. È una questione diplomatica. Vogliamo essere certi che non abbiano oltrepassato il limite con noi.” (We need a document of your injuries, details of the attack, and assessment of BAB's capabilities. This is not just about your personal safety, Signora. This is a diplomatic situation. We want to be sure they didn't step over any lines with us.)

Nüsken and Zweig had no understanding of the words, but they understood something else: the shift in tone. They exchanged a glance, their posture tightening, suspicion sharpening their stare. Beatrice’s warning had manifested visibly in their stiffening shoulders.

Then, Beatrice turned to Reitz and switched to English.

“Agent Reitz,” She said, her voice carrying a steadier note, “Where is Herr von Wagenheim?”

Reitz stood with a folded folder in his hands, the clipped expression of someone always managing more than one crisis. “He is injured. A Blutsauger stabbed him during his visit to his great-grandfather in Brandenburg.” he replied simply. “It's nothing life-threatening. But he won’t be active for the next day or two.”

Beatrice's jaw tightened, her expression suggesting either concern or calculation. She gave a single nod.

With that, the envoys offered their farewells, reverting to formal phrasing as though formality could protect them.

“We will report your condition to Rome.” Augello said.

The five men left the room. The envoys took the stairs, while Reitz headed to the hall for the elevator. Nüsken closed the door behind them and took his place on one side of it. Zweig took the other.

The instant they believed they were out of earshot, Zweig murmurs to Nüsken.

“Wonder what was that about when they spoke Italian. Something they don't want us to hear?”

Nüsken huffed a cold agreement. “Of course, they didn't want us to understand. They were probably complaining about how much their taxes pay for our hospital beds. Or perhaps, they were probably advising her to file a complaint about the bedsheets. They came here expecting a five-star hotel.”

Their voices faded as they resumed silent vigilance.

As Reitz reached the elevator, he pulled out his phone.

The elevator doors slid shut behind him. He pressed the call icon on his phone. The signal pulsed a few seconds before Sundermeier answered. 

“Yes?”

Reitz straightened instinctively. “Director, it’s Reitz. The Italian envoys have concluded their initial visit.” 

He heard the faint rustle of papers on her end.

Reitz kept his tone neutral. “Envoys Augello and Rampini were escorted through security and held discussions with Frau Gastaldello.” 

“Did they speak with her directly?” 

“Yes, briefly. She restricted the conversation to Italian. Content was unclear, but her demeanor suggested caution. Possibly advising them against political escalation or overstepping.” 

“Good.” Sundermeier said lowly. 

Reitz nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “She also asked about Herr von Wagenheim’s condition. I told her that he is injured and recovering in his home.”

A soft hum from the other side of the call. “We keep his status contained. If Italy thinks he’s fully operational, they’ll demand joint operations. I won’t let them dictate how we deploy our own quasi-god.” 

“Understood,” Reitz replied. “There’s one more matter. Some tension is brewing between our personnel and the envoys. Nothing overt, but… it's condescension. On both sides.”

Sundermeier's voice grew stern.

“We are the host nation. Professionalism is non-negotiable. Remind everyone that the envoys are here to be tolerated, not entertained. If they interfere, they observe. If they make demands, they wait.” 

“What if they insist on access to operations?”

Sundermeier’s tone turned mildly amused, but with a hint of acrimony.

“Then they’ll learn that cooperation doesn't mean they get to be in charge. We’ll show them what we want them to see. Nothing more.” 

Reitz inhaled. “Yes, Director.” 

“Good. Keep security tight around Frau Gastaldello. Keep von Wagenheim’s involvement quiet until I say otherwise. And Reitz,” 

Her voice thinned to a razor. 

“Whatever the Italians think they’re here to oversee, remind them that this is our investigation, on our soil. They can spectate, but Germany writes the report.” 

The line clicked off. 

Reitz slipped the phone back into his pocket. The elevator doors opened, and the bright hallway spilled into view. Behind the polished floors and neutral walls, he could already feel the temperature of Berlin’s crisis rising. 

And somewhere in a mansion across the city, Germany’s most volatile asset was healing just fast enough to become a problem, or a solution, again.

Chapter Text

19:00

The bar in Pankow was dim, smelling of stale hops and lemon polish. In the farthest corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of patrons and staff alike, sat the three members of Ungezogen.

They occupied a U-shaped couch upholstered in cracked red leather, huddled around a small, round table. 

Alain sat on one end, swirling the last dregs of his French 75. He knocked it back, the gin and champagne stinging pleasantly as it went down, and set the glass on the table with a soft clink.

On the other side of, Clemente leaned in. He kept his voice low, a harsh whisper meant only for the two men sitting on the opposite.

“Listen to me.” Clemente hissed, his dark eyes darting to the bar entrance before locking onto Adriano and Alain. “Traugott called me 7 hours ago that the BAB agents are swarming his apartment block like wasps. He can't go outside without getting caught right now.”

Adriano leaned back, looking unbothered, while Alain stared into his empty glass.

“That leaves a void.” Clemente continued, his tone sharpening. “So I’m taking the lead on Ungezogen. We can’t afford to be headless, not with the meeting at 20:00.”

A shadow fell over their table as a woman in a black oversized hoodie slid silently into the center of the U-shaped couch, wedging herself into the space between them.

The air around the table stiffened instantly. Clemente recoiled, his hand twitching toward his jacket pocket where a blade might be hidden.

“Who is this?” Clemente demanded, staring at the intruder.

Her face was obscured by the hood, hidden in shadow save for a few stray strands of blonde hair catching the dim bar light. Her left eye is a glowing, piercing red iris burning through the darkness.

“You can call me goldenhand.” the woman said. Her voice was calm, carrying a confidence that unsettled them.

She reached up and pulled back her hood to reveal short blonde hair and a black face mask. Her right eye is revealed to be blue.

The mood at the table changed. Confusion gave way to a cautious, professional tension.

“Sei.” Clemente said, pointing to himself. Then he pointed to the others. “That’s Moschetto and Fauri.”

“If you're looking for Brother Vierzehn. He can't come here tonight because, you know why.” Clemente replied coldly. He narrowed his eyes, looking from the Dhampir to the man beside him. “Moschetto, how did she know where we are?”

Adriano pulls out his phone from his pocket. He unlocked the screen and slid it across the round table. The glow illuminated a Discord chat log—a direct message conversation between him and goldenhand, coordinating the location.

Clemente's composure snapped. He lunged across the table, grabbing Adriano by the shirt collar. He dragged him forward, his voice a venomous whisper right in his ear.

“Are you insane?” Clemente snarled. “You gave our location to someone we haven't vetted in person?”

“She's a verified member, Sei! Relax!” Adriano wheezed, eyeing Sei's fist.

“At least you didn't give her our real names.” Clemente hissed, tightening his grip. “We are not making the same mistake we made with Felix.”

Clemente held him for a second longer, letting the threat linger, before shoving him back against the leather cushion. He straightened his jacket, exhaling sharply, and turned his attention back to the woman.

“You're bold, walking in here like this.” Clemente muttered.

goldenhand didn't respond with words. Instead, she reached into the front pocket of her hoodie. She pulled out a heavy, matte-black pistol and placed it on the table with a deliberate, heavy thud.

“This is what I got from the arms dealer.” she said, tapping the barrel.

Clemente stared at the weapon. It was exactly what they needed if the BAB closed in, or if they decided to stop running and start hunting.

“It’s loaded.” she added with a faint smirk on her lips. “Standard rounds, but with an extra kick. It should be enough to crack through a barrier. Even that puny butler from Prince Conquest himself.”

goldenhand leaned forward, “Speaking of the Prince's playmates… Which agents are you planning on hunting first? Brother Vierzehn gave me a list of targets.”

Clemente's eyes darted around, scanning for eavesdroppers. He leaned back over the table, his voice low and strangled. “Hey, not here!”

Adriano, however, seemed to relish the recklessness. He offered a name with a predatory grin. “Lauen.”

“The blondie?” Alain asked, shifting in his seat.

goldenhand smirked under her face mask, “There's already a blonde at this table. What do you see in Lauen?”

Adriano chuckled darkly. “I mean… Only if she's on our side.” He then rubbed his hands together. “But failing to claim the enemy blonde…”

Alain chimed in, leaning eagerly over the table. “We should prioritize Lahyani and Zemanová.”

Clemente snarled, spitting the words out like poison. “Those chicks from the kosher shop.”

goldenhand nodded, “Smart. Their bloodlines are pure and untouched by the usual contamination. They’d make excellent long-term subjects for the cult's purification process.”

She rested her hand on the pistol. “Waldbauer, though, he's too old for our tastes. Riddled with the same diseases as the rest of this decadent generation. Reitz is too careful, too much paperwork and protocol. Zweig and Nüsken are easy enough to take, but they're too common to be worth the trouble. Same goes for Mohl and Feldhoff.”

“Irzykowska and Mazuchowski.” Fauri said nonchalantly.

Clemente frowned, shaking his head. “Ugh, Polish filth. They'd contaminate the project. Not worth the risk.”

goldenhand tilted her head, “Perhaps not for the Lämmer's bloodline project, but they are valuable tools for spreading chaos. Killing them would be a strong political statement against the entire BAB structure. It depends on whether Brother Vierzehn wants quality or spectacle.”

She returned the pistol back to her front pocket and stood up, pulling her hood back over her head, once again obscuring her mismatched eyes in shadow.

“See you at the meeting.” she said.

Without looking back, she turned and walked out of the bar, disappearing into the Berlin night as quickly as she had arrived.

—

The suburban street was suffocated by silence, the kind that felt heavy and artificial, like a stage set waiting for a tragedy. 

Wilmon walked alone, his footsteps echoing too loudly against the pavement. The manicured lawns and identical houses now loomed like tombstones in the dark.

A raw, angry scream shattered the stillness.

Wilmon didn't even have time to see what was coming. A force like a freight train slammed into him. He hit the asphalt hard, gasping for air as the wind got knocked out of him. 

He tried to get up, but something heavy was holding him down, trembling with rage.

He looked up into eyes that burned with a familiar, terrifying violet light.

“Siegfried?” Wilmon gasped, his hands flying up to defend himself.

Siegfried didn't answer. He was a blur of motion, a creature of pure instinct. He lunged down, burying his teeth into Wilmon’s throat. A gruesome tear rang out as his teeth tore through flesh.

Wilmon gurgled and thrashed, grabbing Siegfried's shoulders in an attempt to shove him away. 

Siegfried pulled back, blood dripping from his chin, his expression twisted into a mask of self-righteous fury.

“It ends with you.” Siegfried growled, his voice distorted, layering over itself. “You let the rot spread. You fed the cycle while pretending to stand above it. I am here to end it before you turn the world into a graveyard again.”

“Stop…” Wilmon choked out as he felt life drained from him. “Please…”

—

Siegfried jolted awake, a gasp tearing through his throat as he sat bolt upright in his bed.

His chest heaved, sweat cooling rapidly on his skin. He looked down at his hands, expecting to see them coated in Wilmon’s blood, but they were clean. 

He is shirtless, clad only in boxers patterned with small red hearts.

Siegfried shifted, sending a scattering of black feathers drifting down. His wings were out, stretched stiffly behind him and unbearably itchy as they molted.

With a groan, he reached up to his temple. His fingers found the edge of the circular black patch adhered to his skin. 

He winced as he peeled it off and stared at the small object in his palm–a dream recorder provided by the Blutsauger Research Institute. A silent witness to the violence he had just dreamt of, before tossing it onto the nightstand.

He hated the damn thing. It felt like a leech constantly drinking in his subconsciousness.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now the Institute has a front-row seat to that.”

It wasn't just the nightmares that bothered him. It was the lack of privacy. When Dr. Eisenträger and his team reviewed the data, they wouldn't just see him murdering his allies; they also had seen his embarrassing dreams too. The ones where he was a child again, or the ones filled with longing he refused to voice when he was awake.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his chest still tight. The image of Wilmon dying before his eyes lingered in the dark corners of the room. He needed to focus on something else.

​He reached for his phone and dialed the encrypted number for the Berlin field operations.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end answered after the second ring, clipped and alert.

“Agent Reitz.” Siegfried said, his voice rough with sleep but steady. “We need to adjust the discharge protocol for Frau Gastaldello.”

​”The current plan is a transfer to a secure BAB safehouse in Mitte once she is medically cleared.” Reitz replied instantly, reciting the schedule.

​”Cancel it.” Siegfried said. “She’s staying here, at my mansion."

​There was a pause on the line. “Herr von Wagenheim, that is outside Level 2 protocol. The von Wagenheim estate is a private residence, not a sanctioned containment facility. We cannot guarantee the same perimeter control.”

​”You can if you deploy the agents correctly.” Siegfried countered. “The safehouses are too exposed. My butler, Heinrich, suggested the mansion, and I agree with his assessment. The estate has its own defenses, and it keeps her out of the public eye.”

​”Director Sundermeier will want to review this.” Reitz warned. “Putting two high-profile targets in one location-”

​”Is exactly why it works.” Siegfried cut in. “We consolidate the defense. Tell the Director that this is my condition for cooperation. Heinrich is already preparing the guest room. Just handle the transport logistics.”

​Reitz exhaled in a short, sharp sound of resignation. “I will relay the request to the Director and update the security detail. But if anything happens during transit…”

“Nothing will happen.” Siegfried said, “See that you do.”

​He ended the call, already anticipating the diplomatic headache he had just created for Reitz, and the personal argument he was about to have with Beatrice.

Siegfried ran a hand through his head, exhaling slowly. It was a risk, but Heinrich was right. If a Neo-Nazi group was hunting them, he wanted Beatrice where he could see her.

​Before he could stand, his phone buzzed again on the nightstand. 

​Siegfried froze when he saw the caller ID. He cleared his throat, forcing the tension from his voice before answering.

“Beatrice?”

“I didn't wake you, did I?” Her voice is clear on the other end, though there was a tension in it that she couldn't quite mask.

“No,” Siegfried glanced at the clock. “I didn't expect you to call me. Are you... are you alright?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” Beatrice replied quickly. “I'm calling to check the status of things. And before you start, you better not make any flirtations with me.”

Siegfried slumped slightly, his wings drooping. “Hey, I'm not going to.”

He paused, knowing he had to deliver the news about her security detail. “The BAB and I have been coordinating regarding your discharge. Once you are cleared to leave the hospital, you won't be going to a hotel. You will be staying here in my mansion.”

Silence stretched on the line for a moment.

“The mansion.” Beatrice repeated, her tone unreadable.

“It's the safest place in Berlin right now.” Siegfried explained, trying to sound purely professional. “The hotels are security nightmares. Here, Heinrich and I can oversee your protection personally.”

“If Chrysanthe finds out you have me locked up in your house again, she will likely fly here herself. You know how aggressive she gets when you get your hands on me.” Beatrice said, her voice dropping lower.

“I'll take my chances with the Greek.” Siegfried said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It's better than letting the Neo-Nazis have another shot at you.”

Beatrice didn't argue, but her silence was heavy. Siegfried could feel the distance she was putting between them. 

He could tell she was still upset that he had violated her privacy by entering her dream on the night of the surgery, invading her mind when she was vulnerable. 

She hadn't mentioned it, but the wall she had erected in her tone told him she hadn't forgiven him for it.

“I suppose I have no choice.” she sighed. “I am already tired of this circus. The envoys, the agents outside my door. My recovery has become an international spectacle. I just want to heal in peace, not be a headline.”

“I know,” Siegfried said softly. “We'll keep the press away from the mansion. It will be quiet.”

“You sound exhausted.” Beatrice noted, her sharp instincts cutting through his facade.

Siegfried looked at the black patch on his nightstand. He thought of the REM cycle report that would be generated tomorrow, the data spikes that would show his heart rate climbing as he tore out Wilmon’s throat in the dream.

“Just a nightmare.” He said, keeping his voice even. “The REM cycle report will be a mess tomorrow, I'm sure.”

“About what?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” he said quickly. He couldn't tell her he dreamed of slaughtering the American quasi-god because he viewed Wilmon's complicity as part of the fascist cycle.

It would only prove he was as unstable as the BAB feared. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Beatrice let out a weary sound, part sigh and part quiet frustration. “I wish I could believe that, Siegfried. You always say it's nothing to worry about, and then the next day, there’s a new crisis that threatens to pull us all back into the war room.”

​Siegfried leans against the velvet red headboard. “I know, baby. But this time, I’m serious. This is about security. My security detail is being doubled, the perimeter is locked down, and I’m having Heinrich run through every single possible threat vector before you even set foot on the property.” He paused, softening his tone. “I just want you to rest. I need you to focus on getting better, not on political threats.”

​“And what happens when I’m better?” Beatrice challenged gently. “Do you expect me to sit in your mansion like a museum piece, waiting for the next international incident to tell me where I belong?”

​“Not like that.” Siegfried said, a flicker of emotion in his voice. “I expect you to be safe. And then, we will work together. We’ll figure out how to navigate this mess, just like we always have.”

​There was a long silence, less hostile now, more contemplative.

​“You’re right about one thing.” Beatrice finally conceded. “I am exhausted and I’m tired of the noise. I’ll come to the mansion, but don’t expect me to be a quiet patient.”

​“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replied, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. “Please get some more rest, Beatrice.”

​“A presto.” she murmured.

​“Bis bald.” he responded, and gently ended the call.

​Siegfried flexed his fingers, the memory of tearing through Wilmon's flesh still cold in his mind.

Chapter Text

The phone call with Siegfried had left Agent Reitz's ears ringing and his security file-sharing queue overloaded. He immediately disconnected his line and switched to his direct, secure line for the Director. He had less than an hour to update the operational plan for a quasi-god transfer.

​The phone was answered immediately by a voice that was all business and zero patience.

​”Director Sundermeier. Report.”

“Director, this is Agent Reitz. I have an immediate update regarding the Italian quasi-goddess, Frau Gastaldello. Her transfer plan has been overruled.”

​A chilling pause stretched across the line. “Overruled by whom?” Sundermeier’s voice was dangerously even. “I signed off on the Mitte safehouse plan myself.”

​”Herr von Wagenheim, Director. He contacted me moments ago. He is cancelling the BAB facility transfer and demanding that she be relocated to his mansion immediately upon discharge.”

​”Absolutely not,” Sundermeier snapped, the composure cracking. “That is an unauthorized, high-risk consolidation of assets. He is destabilized, and placing Frau Gastaldello directly into his private residence is inviting disaster. It violates Level Two security protocol.”

“And what about the envoys, Agent Reitz?” Her voice was sharp with calculation. “The Italian embassy is already demanding daily security reports and we have Italian envoys still in the city. If Frau Gastaldello is attacked or killed while under German “protection” in a private residence, the diplomatic fallout will make the Eurozone crisis look like a parlor game.”

“We believe Herr von Wagenheim's assertion is that if we simply monitor one security spot, the Italian embassy won't have as much to stress over.” Reitz said. “It's centralized defense, Director.”

​”His counterpoint,” Reitz continued calmly, reading directly from his notes to avoid misinterpretation, “is that the safehouses are too exposed. He insists the mansion's specialized defenses and his personal observation, supported by his butler Heinrich, are the only way to guarantee her safety against a coordinated attack. He defined this as his “condition for cooperation”, Director.”

​Reitz heard the sigh, not of resignation, but of weary recognition. Sundermeier knew the reality: Siegfried is the most powerful, most volatile weapon the BAB had, and you rarely won a fight against his conditions.

​”The mansion…” Sundermeier muttered. “It is technically one of the most protected private fortresses in Europe, even if it is a personal dwelling.” She paused, her thoughts racing through potential diplomatic and security nightmares. “The primary threat is coordination. If we consolidate them, we limit the threat area.”

​She made a quick, decisive calculation. “Very well, Agent Reitz. Inform Heinrich that the BAB will treat the Wagenheim mansion as a Level Two Command Annex. We will triple the perimeter security and assign three rotating teams of Field Agents to the grounds. Log the transfer as a “Hostile Asset Consolidation at the behest of the German Quasi-God.” And Reitz?”

​”Yes, Director?”

​”Make sure von Wagenheim understands this is a trial run. If so much as a piece of dust is disturbed, Frau Gastaldello is immediately transferred to a black site. Now, get Mohl on the line. I need an update on the Berlin Hauptbahnhof attack.”

—

Trimm-dich-Pfad Park

Verstak hunkered down next to the broken bench. Something had blown it apart; this wasn't just some kids messing around. 

“Someone heard the bang around 22:00 last night." Krönig said, holding up a datapad as he stood behind her. "A jogger passed by at 6:00 and, seeing the stains on the ground, they assumed it was a mugging gone wrong.”

Verstak ran her gloved hand over the rough, splintered wood, but not from the broken bench. Taking a long sniff, she recognized the earthy pine smell.

“The scent matches the same splinters found in the Hauptbahnhof attack.” She murmured.

​”So our suspect was here.” Krönig noted.

​”He wasn't alone.” Verstak sidled up to a spot on the ground, gravel crunching beneath her boots. The red-orange stain there hadn't oxidized like human blood. She leaned closer, her nostrils flaring.

The heavy, metal tang of iron filled her nose, like blood from a duel. But underneath that, a faint, sweet smell teased her senses.

​”Two signatures.” Verstak said, standing up and wiping her hand on her coat. “One uses wood. The other uses blood manipulation. They clashed here.”

​Krönig frowned. “Accomplices?”

​”Or enemies.” Verstak corrected. "The Hauptbahnhof attacker didn't feed here. He fought someone.”

—

​Pankow, Berlin

Feldhoff tapped furiously at his SANGUIS tablet, the blue light reflecting in his glasses.

​”This is useless.” He muttered, tossing the stylus down. “The biological markers from the train station are degrading too fast. Without a fresh sample, the tracking algorithm is just guessing.”

​Mohl, gripping the steering wheel as they idled at a red light, glanced in the rearview mirror. “Give it a rest, Feldhoff. You’re overthinking it. We wait for the Potsdam Dhampir to sniff out a ghost in a city of three million, remember? That’s the strategy.”

​”Her success rate is statistically higher than-”

​A massive thud shook the entire van. The suspension groaned as something heavy landed on the roof.

​Mohl's right foot stepped on the brakes. “What the hell was that?”

​He shut off the van and kicked his door open. Feldhoff scrambled out the passenger side. Civilians on the sidewalk were already pointing and backing away.

A figure in an oversized black hoodie stands on the top of the van. Her face was a void of shadow, save for a single, glowing red eye on the left.

“Get down!” Mohl shouted, his hand flying to his holster.

​”A Dhampir! Masks up!” Feldhoff yelled, realizing the threat.

​Both agents grabbed the tactical gear clipped to their vests. They put on their visor helmets, the reinforced glass locking into place to shield their eyes from blood splatter. 

In a practiced motion, they secured the half-mask respirators over their noses and mouths for filtering out the intoxicating, sweet scent of Blutsauger blood.

​The woman didn't wait for them to finish. She leaped off from the top, reaching into her front pocket, drew the pistol and shot from behind.

​BANG.

​The shot was deafening in the street. Mohl threw himself behind the open driver's door as the bullet punched through the front passenger door's side window.

Mohl slid to hide behind the side of the van hood. He returned fire, squeezing off two rounds aimed at the figure and ducked.

The figure turned around to face him and raised her left hand.

“Oberhand.”

A giant translucent golden hand making a halt gesture materialized in front of her.

Mohl's bullets struck the hand-shaped shield with a sharp ping-ping, flattening uselessly against it.

The woman sprouted wings, took the air and aimed her pistol at Feldhoff, who was struggling to deploy a barrier drone.

​”Standard rounds won't cut it, boys.” She said, her voice calm over the ringing in their ears.

​She fired again. The modified high-velocity round struck Feldhoff’s deploying drone, blowing it out of the air in a shower of sparks and plastic.

Feldhoff dived for cover behind a parked car. Mohl aimed at the woman again and fired two shots, but as she made a halt sign with her left hand again, the same hand-shaped shield, albeit resized to protect her face, appeared and blocked the bullets.

The woman hopped to the hood of the van and launched herself upward. She was a black blur against the night sky, flying at incredible speed away from the chaos she had created. 

Mohl and Feldhoff, reeling from the unexpected assault, watched as she landed on the roof of a train heading out of the station a few blocks away. 

The landing was feather-light, absorbed by the rattle of the train cars. So precise that the passengers inside didn't notice.

​“She’s gone!” Mohl yelled, lowering his pistol. He spun around, pulling his gas mask down and approaching the nearest cluster of bewildered civilians. “Did anyone see where that woman came from?”

​A man, still shaking, pointed vaguely down the side street the van had been parked near. “She… she went into the bar down the block earlier. And then she came back out on the roof.”

​Mohl ignored Feldhoff, who was already running diagnostics on the damaged van, and jogged toward the bar entrance.

​The air inside the bar was thick with the smell of stale resentment. Mohl’s uniform and visor helmet made him instantly conspicuous. 

As he scanned the patrons—a mix of drinkers, card players, and others who simply stared into their mugs, he felt a familiar wave of anxiety. 

Every eye seemed to burn with distrust, a hostile energy that made him feel like he had walked into a den of common criminals.

​He spotted a grizzled man at the counter, his face set in a permanent scowl.

​Mohl approached him, keeping his voice steady. “I'm looking for information about the woman who just caused an incident outside. She was wearing a black hoodie. Did you see her talking to anyone in here?”

​The patron took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his voice heavy with disdain. “I saw her hanging out back there with three men.” He nodded toward the U-shaped couch tucked into the deepest, darkest corner.

“They kept their voices low, whispering like they were planning a bank heist. Never caught their names.”

​”Whispering about what?” Mohl pushed.

​The patron snorted. “Who knows? That seat back there? That's a criminal's corner. Always has been. They sit back there because they don't want people hearing their schemes. I mind my business so I don't get stabbed.”

​Mohl walked to the counter and asked the bartender wiping a glass. “Did you know the men sitting in the corner?”

​The bartender shrugged, his eyes avoiding Mohl's. “I got too busy. But one of them ordered a French 75 and he had to show me his ID to prove he's old enough.”

​”What was his name?”

​”Alain Porion.”

​Mohl nodded, the single name clicking into place. He thanked the bartender and quickly exited the hostile confines of the bar.

​Once outside, Mohl pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed Reitz.

​”Reitz, it's Mohl. We were just ambushed near Pankow.” He said, skipping the formalities. “Some Dhampir with her face hidden by a black hood. We couldn't get to see her face, but her ability is called Oberhand.”

​The line crackled for a moment as Reitz processed the data. “Oberhand… You say? That sounds like Ilse Schlag, she was registered by the Institute. We have no criminal record of her. This is… Unexpected.”

​”Unexpected or not, she shot at us then flew onto the top of a train.” Mohl replied dryly. “I got some information from the bar she was in. She was meeting with three men, and one of them was Alain Porion.”

​Reitz’s tone immediately sharpened, the professional detachment fading into urgent focus. “Porion? You're certain? Alain Porion was caught for illegal transformation at seventeen and went through the Institute's reversion treatment. If he's consorting with a rogue Dhampir like Schlag, we have a major problem. Get back here, Mohl. This shifts the threat level.”

—

The train was moving slowly, clattering on the tracks as it neared Neukölln, but hadn't pulled into the station yet. Ilse knew she couldn't risk going through the terminal with all its cameras. 

Taking one last look, she jumped off the roof. The train rushed by below as she flew over a peaceful region with only a few buildings.

She came down on top of a small gym building surrounded by trees. 

Her wings folded and disappeared. Ilse stood up straight to conceal the last visible trace of her identity as a Dhampir.

The red in her left eye faded, slowly changing until it matched the blue of her right.

She set the bag down, unzipped it, and slipped the pistol inside. Then, she yanked the black hoodie over her head, tying it around her waist. She was wearing a thin, long-sleeved white shirt underneath that's too light for the cold. 

Ilse grabbed her bag, adjusted the strap, and sprouted her wings again. Flying low, she skimmed the rooftops until she got to a residential street a few blocks away. She landed fast and let her wings disappear.

Picking up speed, she walked quickly, looking for her friend's apartment to take refuge. She turned a corner and nearly collided with a man exiting from an apartment entryway.

​”Whoa, watch it.” The man said, but then his eyes landed on her, taking in her strange tension. 

“Ilse? What the hell happened? You look like you just finished a race.”

​Ilse recognized him immediately. Martin. A reliable cog in the Lämmer machine, and someone who knew her outside of her online presence as goldenhand.

​She leaned in, dropping her voice to a low, urgent whisper. “I was on a hunt on BAB agents. They might have identified me so I can't go near my apartment right now.” She quickly unzipped her bag and pulled out a key.

“This is my key. I need you to go to my place and get me five clean shirts and five pairs of pants. Two fresh pairs of socks, and one jacket.”

​Martin, unfazed by her urgency, took the key and nodded. “Got it. Consider it done.”

​He reached into his own coat and gave Ilse a key to his apartment, pressing it into her palm. “You can use mine. I'm on the fourth floor. I'll be in the bedroom once the meeting starts. Just use the living room.”

​”Thank you, Martin.” Ilse said, the simple act of help relaxing her rigid shoulders slightly.

“Get inside. I'll get your things.”

​Ilse turned and headed for the building he had just exited from. Within minutes, she went to the fourth floor.

She closed the door, locked it, and dropped her bag to the floor. She walked into the living room and finally allowed herself to stop moving.

Chapter Text

20:00

Commander's Office, BAB's Berlin Field Office 

Waldbauer stood by the window, while Division Commander Ezra Naddaf sat behind his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He is a man in his early fifties, his white hair and beard neatly trimmed, though the lines around his eyes spoke of a long week. 

​”The resource allocation for the Kreuzberg perimeter is stretching us thin, Commander.” Waldbauer said, turning back to the room. “If we pull more agents for the Hauptbahnhof fallout, we’re leaving the southern sectors blind.”

“I know, Waldbauer. I know.” Naddaf sighed, leaning back. “But the Ministry wants visibility. They want the public to see uniforms so they can stop thinking about what happened to Frau Gastaldello.”

He shuffled a stack of files, aligning the edges with meticulous care. “We hold the line until Monday. Which brings me to the handover.”

​Naddaf looked up, “Shabbat starts tomorrow, Friday evening. I won't be around after sundown. Vice Commander Detenyuk will assume temporary command of the Division effective immediately upon my departure.”

​Waldbauer nodded. It was standard procedure; Detenyuk had covered for Naddaf during Jewish holidays and Shabbat for years. 

“Understood. I’ll brief him on the active surveillance logs before you leave.”

​”Good. Vice Commander Detenyuk knows the drill, but with the threat level hovering at Two, make sure he doesn't-”

​A sharp knock at the door cut him off. Before Naddaf could answer, the door swung open. Agent Reitz stepped in, his face grim, flanked by Agent Dähne. 

Dähne, a tall Blutsauger assigned to Division I, his red eyes scanning the room briefly before fixing on the commanders. 

​”I apologize if I interrupted something.” Reitz said, his voice clipped and urgent. “But the situation in Pankow has escalated. We have confirmation of an ambush on Agents Mohl and Feldhoff.” 

​Waldbauer straightened, stepping away from the window. “Are there any casualties?”

​”None. But the assailant matches the profile of a registered Blutsauger.” Reitz gestured to Dähne. “Show them.”

​Dähne stepped forward, unlocking his phone. “It’s already circulating on Twitter.” the Blutsauger agent said, his voice low and gravelly. “A live-streamer doing a walking tour caught the tail end of the engagement.”

​He held the screen out to Waldbauer and Naddaf. The video was shaky, filmed vertically from across the street. It showed the dented BAB surveillance van. A figure in a black hoodie stood atop it, hand raised. A golden hand-shaped shield materialized and deflected incoming fire before she launched herself into the sky. 

​Waldbauer stared at the footage, the color draining from his face. “This can't be.”

“We suspect this could be Ilse Schlag.” Reitz said. 

​”Schlag?” Waldbauer scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “The German-Canadian girl? She’s a Dhampir with a clean record. Why would she open fire on federal agents?” He looked at Reitz, his brow furrowed. “Let's not jump to conclusions, Reitz. There are unregistered Blutsaugers in this city we don't know about.”

​”With that specific power set? And those wings?” Reitz didn't back down. “It matches her file perfectly. Mohl also secured a witness ID from a bartender who saw her meeting with Alain Porion in the bar. It’s definitely her, Waldbauer.”

“Porion? Wasn't he that French kid who got caught for illegal transformation back in 2016? What was he doing there?”

​Reitz took a breath. “There's nothing to confirm yet because none of the patrons have caught bits and pieces of their conversation. But there's also two unknown men with him meeting with Frau Schlag. I've already flagged her file. I’m sending a team to locate her parents. If she’s gone rogue, they might be our only leverage to bring her in without a body bag.”

​Naddaf leaned forward, his hands clasped. “Do it. But keep it quiet. If the press finds out a registered Blutsauger is hunting agents, the backlash will be catastrophic.”

​”There is more,” Reitz continued, shifting his stance. “I received a call from Herr von Wagenheim. He has overridden the transfer protocol for Frau Gastaldello.”

​Waldbauer blinked. “Overridden? She’s supposed to go to the Mitte safehouse.”

“Not anymore. Herr von Wagenheim insisted she will be moved to his mansion upon discharge.” Reitz said flatly. “He claims the safehouses are too exposed and that his estate is the only secure location. Director Sundermeier has practically sanctioned it as a “Hostile Asset Consolidation”.”

​”He's consolidating targets.” Naddaf murmured, exchanging a worried look with Waldbauer. “If something hits that mansion, they get two quasi-gods for the price of one.”

​Before Waldbauer could respond, Reitz’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, checking the caller ID.

​”It's Agent Mohl.” Reitz answered the phone, putting it to his ear. “Reitz here. Report.”

​He listened for a moment, his eyes widening slightly. “...Understood. Get back to the Command Center. We need to integrate this with the Pankow data.”

​Reitz ended the call and looked up at the commanders. “Agent Verstak found forensic evidence in Trimm-dich-Pfad Park.”

​”What kind of evidence?” Waldbauer asked. 

​”Wood residue.” Reitz said grimly. “The same one found at the Hauptbahnhof attack. The attacker didn't just vanish; he was in the park last night. Agent Feldhoff's SANGUIS tablet confirmed a another blood stain belonging to an unregistered Blutsauger. Then that means the suspect might be fighting another one.”

​The room fell silent. The net was tightening, but the picture it revealed was uglier than they had anticipated. 

​”This is no longer a disjointed series of events.” Reitz said, his thumb hovering over his contact list. “We have the Hauptbahnhof attacker active in the city, and now a rogue Dhampir hitting our surveillance teams. I need to contact Director Sundermeier immediately. We have new evidence to log.”

— 

Reitz stepped out of Naddaf’s office and walked into the busy hallway. He wanted to make the call somewhere a bit more peaceful, where the commander couldn't overhear. He tapped the secure speed dial for the Director. 

​The line connected instantly. 

​“Sundermeier. Report." 

​“Director, it’s Reitz. I have a critical update from the forensic team.” He kept his voice low, shielding his mouth with his hand as a pair of junior analysts hurried past. “Agent Verstak has confirmed a signature match at Trimm-dich-Pfad Park.” 

​“The Hauptbahnhof attacker?” Sundermeier’s voice was sharp, cutting through the static. 

​“Affirmative. The wood grain residue found in the park is a spectral match to the traces recovered from the train station. The suspect was active there as recently as last night.”

​“Was he alone?” 

​“No,” Reitz said, glancing at his notes on the datapad. “Agent Verstak identified a second magical signature. There were Blutsauger blood stains on the ground that also smelled like iron. According to Agent Feldhoff's SANGUIS tablet, it appears to be from an unregistered Blutsauger.”

​A contemplative silence stretched on the other end of the line. Reitz could almost hear the gears turning in Sundermeier’s mind as she realigned the threat map. 

​“Infighting,” she murmured, her tone cold and calculating. “Or training. If they are fighting amongst themselves, the cell is either fracturing or sharpening its claws. Does this link to the Pankow incident?” 

​“We are running the timeline now.” Reitz replied. “The park incident occurred late last night. The ambush on Mohl and Feldhoff happened tonight. It is possible the events are connected by proximity or association. Alain Porion, who was caught back in 2016, is involved with Ilse Schlag. We don't know if he's escorting her but I'll send a team not just to ask him questions, but search around his apartment for illegal material.” 

​“This confirms we are dealing with a multi-asset cell, not a lone wolf.” Sundermeier stated. “We have a rogue Dhampir, a recidivist, and an unidentified wood user operating within a five-kilometer radius. This is a Level Three strategic threat masquerading as scattered incidents.” 

​“Shall I authorize a full sweep of the park’s perimeter?” 

​“Do it. But keep it quiet. We do not want to raise any alarms before the net is closed. Merge the Potsdam forensics with the Berlin surveillance data immediately.” 

​“Understood, Director.” 

​“And Reitz?” 

​“Yes, Director?” 

​“If the Hauptbahnhof attacker was fighting another Blutsauger, he may be injured or desperate. That makes him volatile. Tell the field teams to switch their engagement protocols from containment to neutralization if they make contact. We cannot afford a loose cannon in the city tonight.” 

​“Copy that. Neutralization authorized.” 

​The line went dead. Reitz lowered the phone, his expression hardening. The investigation had just shifted gears. They weren't just looking for a terrorist anymore; they were hunting a pack of wolves.

—

Heiko sat rigidly at his laptop. He had locked the door and sealed the windows, yet he still felt exposed, as if the BAB surveillance vans were peering through the walls. 

He wore his sheep mask, the cheap plaster was hot against his cheeks. His hands trembled slightly, a tremor that wasn't entirely fear. 

It was the raw, unnatural hunger of the Stray accelerating his metabolism. 

On his screen, 30 video windows had popped up for the private Discord call. Every face was obscured by a sheep mask. In the center was Adler. 

“Good evening, my flock.” The voice of Adler rumbled through the speakers. “Thank you for your punctuality. Let us begin.” 

Heiko forced himself to focus. 

“Before we discuss logistics, let us remember why we are here. Six years ago, in 2017, we founded Lämmer because the Federal Republic failed us. They sold German sovereignty to foreign quasi-gods and polluted our agency with the very creatures they were meant to contain.” 

Adler’s mask tilted slightly. “The attempted assassination of the Italian quasi-goddess failed, but it served its purpose. It stretched the BAB thin. Tonight, we confirm the details of Operation Nachtmahlzeit.” 

A window featuring a map of Germany, shared by Moschetto, appeared in the corner of the screen. 

“Tomorrow night, we sever the head of the snake.” Adler continued. “The media is constantly phrasing the Berlin and Brandenburg Divisions as the "strongest" and "most powerful" branches of the BAB. Even though some agents don't get along with other divisions. If we can destroy their Command Centers, the rest of the federal structure will be left headless and powerless.” 

A video window showing Waffenficker, a man whose mask seemed to sweat lightly, flashed to prominence. 

“And we follow with the foundation.” Waffenficker’s voice was clipped and dry. “The BAB began in Bonn, North Rhine-Westphalia. Our teams are prepped to deploy the explosives across the headquarters and all NRW Divisions simultaneously, starting in Bonn.” 

“Excellent, Waffenficker.” Adler praised. “Technical details will follow in the server later. Now, before we proceed to the operational teams-” 

The video of hellhaarig (Martin) suddenly flashed. He wore a short blonde wig, most of which was obscured by the sheep mask. 

“Shepherd, a point of order.” hellhaarig said, his voice tight. “My team needs confirmation on the exit routes from Berlin. We can’t get caught in the chaos like goldenhand almost did.” 

Before Adler could speak, the video window of Sei (Clemente) flared up, its mask shaking slightly with digital distortion. 

“Look at this buffoon.” Sei spat. “You worry about exit routes while the rest of us are discussing strategy? Also that wig is pathetic. You always worry about the small things while the real fight is at your doorstep.” 

“Pathetic?” hellhaarig retorted, his face flushing crimson even under the mask. “You Neanderthals always judge a man’s effort by his appearance, not his dedication! I’ve been committed to the cause since before you imported criminals were even in this country, Sei!” 

“Alright, you two, knock it off!” Adler’s command was absolute. The noise cut out instantly. The windows of Sei and hellhaarig shrank back. 

Adler dominated the screen. “We are a unified flock, not squabbling schoolchildren. hellhaarig, your exit routes are covered. Sei, control your temper, or you will be muted for the duration.” 

Adler then looked at the camera, addressing the group again. “Now, back to the operation. Fauri?” 

Fauri (Alain) appeared, adjusting his mask slightly. “The acquisition of BAB access codes has been verified. Once the Bonn explosion occurs, the national system will go into lockdown, but our captured codes will open the Berlin Division doors for our assault team. goldenhand, your status?” 

The video of goldenhand (Ilse) appeared. She was in a dimly lit living room. “I am secure, Fauri. The ambush was successful. They have identified me, but they only have my personal details. I confirmed they are operating under the assumption of a multi-asset cell with “infighting”. They are scrambling their surveillance teams, but they’re not looking high enough up the chain.” 

“Good work, goldenhand. Your contribution was invaluable.” Adler affirmed. 

XXTUFFI’s window showed up. “Shepherd, what about the quasi-gods? If they are consolidating at von Wagenheim’s mansion, should we send a small team to divert their focus?” 

“Not yet, Tuffi.” Adler replied. “Their powers are a distraction. The government is our target. We focus on the agencies first.” 

Aragosta appeared. “The infiltration of the Berlin Forensics Lab is the most fragile part of the plan. Sei and Moschetto confirmed their teams have the access, but if the BAB recovers, they could identify our unique Blutsauger signatures.” 

“We destroy the data on site.” Moschetto said firmly. “If the Bonn bombing goes off as planned, the lab will be thrown into chaos.” 

hellhaarig interjected again, his voice now quieter, tinged with a strange bitterness. "Chaos is an excellent tool. I know this city relies on structure. I was here when the structures failed before. I remember when I went to Dresden to attend the commemoration. When I stepped out of the train, the city was already burning around me. All the agents rushing past like the whole world was ending." 

Heiko shivered. That sounded familiar. 

Dresden. He tried to remember the news reports, the classified files he had glimpsed. He saw the cold sweat breaking out on his own mask. 

Adler cut off the tangent before anyone could ask what hellhaarig was referring to. “Tomorrow, we will write the future. No further discussion on personal experiences. Our objective is clear: Nachtmahlzeit must succeed. All teams, review your final manifests. The operation begins tomorrow evening.” 

The video call ended abruptly. 

Heiko was left staring at the black screen, his own reflection peering back at him—a man in a sheep mask, his mouth dry, his body aching for a kind of sustenance that was no longer human. 

He was terrified of the war he had volunteered for, and even more terrified of the war raging inside his own veins.

Chapter Text

Four members of Berlin Division III approached the solid, unremarkable apartment building in a quiet, residential section of the city. 

​Agent Nüsken, already exhausted from a long, frustrating day of surveillance, ran a hand over his face. He faced to Zweig as they reached the entrance lobby. 

​“Good thing the guys from Division IV are handling security at the hospital.” Nüsken muttered. “Another night listening to the Italian quasi-goddess' vital signs and trying not to fall asleep would have broken me.” 

​Zweig simply grunted in agreement. He was less talkative than Nüsken, but his exhaustion was equally palpable. Their temporary guard duty shift at the hospital and monitoring Beatrice's room had been a tedious, high-stakes assignment. The unexpected change to an active investigation was a relief, despite the hour. 

Iwobi, Nüsken, Zweig and the team's Blutsauger, Spasojević, took the stairs to the third floor. They were here to execute an extremely delicate task: interviewing the parents of a potentially rogue Blutsauger. 

​Agent Iwobi stepped up to the door and gave a knock. 

The door creaked open slightly. Ilse's Neublüter mother peered out with her tired eyes. Behind her, Ilse’s human father stood stiffly, his shoulders tense. 

​”Good evening. We are agents from the BAB.” Iwobi said, “May we speak to you both for a moment regarding your daughter, Ilse?”

​Ilse’s mother hesitated, then opened the door fully. “Of course. Please, come in.” 

They stepped into a small, warm hallway. Iwobi didn't waste time with small talk. She pulled out her secure phone, navigated to the viral social media post, and handed the screen to the mother. 

”We believe this is your daughter.” Iwobi stated, pointing to the shaky video showing the hooded figure with the glowing eye shooting the BAB van. 

​Ilse’s mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Her father leaned over her shoulder, his face registering a mixture of confusion and profound alarm as he watched the short clip loop. 

”This can't be.” The father stammered, his voice tight with denial. “Ilse has no criminal record. She’s registered. She has a job. She has never shown that kind of aggression.”

​”We are aware of her clean record, which is why we are here.” Iwobi explained gently. “We need to understand why she might suddenly be engaging in a violent confrontation with federal agents.”

The mother’s eyes searched the agents’ faces. “I knew something was wrong. We tried calling her all day, but it just went straight to voicemail. She never does that.” Her voice broke. “The last time we spoke was yesterday morning. She didn't mention anything unusual.”

Iwobi spent the next fifteen minutes methodically gathering information: Had Ilse changed her friends? Had she mentioned any political affiliations? The parents, utterly cooperative and clearly terrified, provided nothing that suggested a radicalization. 

The interview concluded with no solid leads, only the deep distress of two loving parents. 

​Outside the apartment building, the Division III agents regrouped. Senior Agent Özpetek would receive their report in the morning. 

​”Well, that was productive.” Zweig muttered sarcastically, pulling his collar up against the cold. 

​Nüsken let out a heavy sigh, stretching his back. “Just another dead end. I swear, the whole city is a magnet for felons. At least we're done here.”

​Nüsken turned to his colleagues. “Goodnight, ladies. Try to get some rest.”

​”Goodnight, gentlemen.” Iwobi replied, while Spasojević simply nodded. 

​Nüsken and Zweig turned and began the long walk to catch the tram. All they wanted was the simple comfort of being back in their own apartments and a break from the rising tide of violence.

—

The tram rattled along the tracks, the rhythmic thrum of the wheels doing little to soothe Nüsken’s fraying nerves. 

He leaned his head against the cold glass, watching the neon blur of Berlin pass by. 

His mind drifted back to a few months ago, he spent drinking with the rest of Division III during one of their day offs. They had been three rounds in when Zweig raised a glass. 

​”Cheers to our favorite bridge to the East!” Zweig barked, a bit too loud in the crowded pub. 

Gregor felt a hot surge of humiliation crawl up his neck. He had stared hard at his beer, his knuckles whitening around the glass. 

“Can we not talk about that right now?” He muttered. 

The laughter had died into an awkward silence, but the sting had lingered long after the alcohol wore off. 

​He shut his eyes and the noise of the tram faded, replaced by the high-pitched chatter of a playground twenty years ago. 

— 

​Gregor Nüsken, aged 9 (2003) 

​”Half… Polish?” A boy in his class asked, tilting his head with a look of genuine, albeit grating, curiosity. 

​Gregor scowled, clutching the straps of his backpack. “Why does that matter to you?”

​”Have you actually been to Poland?” The boy pressed. 

​”I went to Kostrzyn nad Odrą with my parents once.” Gregor said, the memory tasting like ash. “I didn't think it was anything fun at all.”

—

He remembered the apartment of his mother's older sister. It had been a weekend of sensory overload and linguistic static. 

His uncle and three cousins had crowded around him. They kept calling him a name that sounded like a twisting, sibilant sound he couldn't even pronounce. 

Every time he tried to correct them, they just laughed and pinched his cheeks. 

The visit had ended in a disaster. He remembered his aunt standing in the small kitchen, her face flushed with rage as she yelled at his mother in Polish. 

He hadn't understood a single word, but the venom in her tone was unmistakable. His uncle had stepped in, trying to calm the aunt down before ushering Gregor and his cousins to the kids' room. 

“Dzieci, idźcie do swojego pokoju. Dorośli muszą omówić pewną złożoną sprawę.” (Kids, go to your room. The adults have something complicated to talk about.) 

Gregor doesn't understand this either, but he could tell from the tone that he was told to stay in his cousins' room because he was too young to understand what their argument was. 

—

“Why don't you play with the others?” The boy said, snapping Gregor back to the schoolyard. 

​Gregor looked at the boy with cold, lonely eyes. “How can I have friends if all they ask is why my mother isn't German?”

—

Gregor Nüsken, aged 10 (2004) 

The teacher stood at the chalkboard, his voice droning on about the history of Poland during WWII. Gregor stared straight ahead, trying to block out the voices of the two boys sitting behind him. 

​”I still find it weird,” One whispered. “A German father and a Polish mother? It’s like a puzzle where the pieces don't fit.” 

​”Maybe his dad couldn't find a perfect German wife.” The other snickered. 

​Gregor’s chair screeched against the floor as he spun around, his face contorted. 

“Ugh, stop!” He yelled, his voice cracking with a decade’s worth of suppressed resentment. 

—

The cafeteria later that day was a cacophony of clattering trays and shouting children. Gregor sat alone at the end of a long table. One of the boys who gossiped behind him during history class walked in. 

​”Can I sit with you?” The boy asked. 

​Gregor recognized him instantly. He felt a familiar knot of rage tighten in his stomach, but he forced his gaze back to his tray. 

“I don’t care, just go ahead.” He muttered. 

The boy sat down and leaned in, his expression conspiratorial. “My dad knew your father a long time ago before he met your mother.” 

Gregor didn't look up. “So?”

​”He said your dad was a legendary flirt. Chasing after half the women in the district until he finally settled for your mom.”

Gregor didn't say a word. He didn't yell. He simply stood up and drove his fist into the boy’s face. 

Before he could continue, a pair of strong arms yanked him back. 

​”What do you think you're doing?!” It was Kurt, Gregor’s German cousin. The older boy held him firmly, his expression a mix of shock and pity. 

—

Principal's Office 

Gregor sat in a hard wooden chair, staring at his bruised knuckles. The door opened, and his mother walked in, her face pale and drawn. 

​”Apologies,” she said to the principal, “My husband can't come here today because he's at work.” 

​The principal leaned across his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. “Frau Nüsken, the incident in the cafeteria was severe. But we also have multiple reports of Gregor assaulting other classmates.”

“I have reviewed the statements from the teachers and several other students.” He said with growing solemnity. “It is clear that Gregor did not lash out without provocation. We’ve received reports that several of his classmates have been making offensive statements regarding his Polish heritage for some time now. While the school cannot condone physical violence, it is evident that Gregor was being targeted. Though it doesn't excuse why he reached a breaking point.”

​Sabina didn't look at Gregor. She simply nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face a mask of weary, stoic silence as she absorbed the official acknowledgement of her son’s torment. 

— 

Nüsken family's apartment 

Gregor sat at his desk, his history textbook open to a chapter on the borders of Europe. He then slammed the book shut after he finished his homework. 

He reached for his Game Boy Advance from his drawer. The sharp, nostalgic ping of the startup screen filled the small room. 

The sound of the front door opening echoed through the hallway, a heavy, familiar thud followed by the jingle of keys. 

Gregor paused his game, his fingers hovering over the buttons. He heard the muffled, low rumble of his father’s voice. 

”Sabina? I’m back. It was a long shift.” Reiner said, his voice carrying the exhaustion of the workday. 

​”Reiner, we need to talk.” Sabina’s voice drifted through the door, quieter and more urgent. “Something happened at the school today. I had to go to the principal’s office.” 

Gregor leaned toward the door, pressing his ear to eavesdrop on his parents' conversation. 

​”They were picking on him, Reiner.” Sabina said, her voice trembling slightly. “The principal said they made vulgar comments on his Polish heritage.”

”He shouldn't have fought them.” Reiner said, his voice low and rough. “Getting into a fight just proves them right, Sabina.” 

”He was defending himself!” Sabina’s voice got louder. “They called him names, made him feel like an alien in his own classroom. How is he supposed to sit there and take it?”

”By being better than them.” Reiner countered, his footsteps heavy as he walked to the kitchen. “I already told you when he was born, if we wanted him to have a good life here, he had to be Gregor, not Grzegorz. If he acts like a Pole, they’ll treat him that way.”

​Gregor felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. It was the same argument they always had, the war over his identity, coming down to how his name was spelled and what his school reports said. 

“You can’t wash that out of him with a German name.” Sabina said, her voice trembling. “My sister was right. She said this would happen. She said you’d try to hide him from the world.”

​”I'm not hiding him,” Reiner snapped, the sound of a glass hitting the table echoing into the hallway. “I'm keeping him safe. Do you think it’s easy carrying the name Nüsken in this city? People remember things. They see a face, they hear a name, and they start asking questions we can't answer. He needs to keep his head down and fists in his pockets.”

Gregor heard his mother take a frustrated breath. “He’s a child. He shouldn't have to deal with your family’s past.”

”He has the blood, Sabina. That's enough.” Reiner said. “I'll talk to him tomorrow. He needs to understand that in Berlin, his heritage is a liability, not a badge of honor.”

Gregor pulled his knees to his chest. He realized then that his father’s “protection” was just another way to keep the past buried so deep that even Gregor couldn't find it. 

—

Gregor Nüsken, aged 17 (2011)

The classroom was silent except for faint shouts of younger students in the courtyard. The graduation exam finished, and almost everyone left.

Only Gregor and two other students hung around near the back windows. Gregor sat at his desk, staring fixedly at his clenched hands, trying to ignore the others.

​“I just don't get it,” the girl with brown hair held in a black scrunchie said. “How do Germans and Poles even get together? Historically, I mean. Like how does that even work without it being weird?”

​“It’s more common than you think.” the boy next to her replied. “Remember back in 2000? Even the Chancellor reiterated that she’s one-quarter Polish.”

“But still, with all that baggage," the girl mused. "You’d think there’d be some kind of invisible wall. It just feels like two different worlds trying to occupy the same house.”

Gregor didn't look at them. To them, it was an intellectual curiosity, a bit of political trivia. To him, it was a play-by-play of his parents' marriage. He felt a familiar, crawling discomfort beneath his skin.

Without a word, he grabbed his bag, stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the linoleum, and walked out.

—

​He leaned over a sink and splashed cold water on his face. Paweł, one of his classmates, stood beside him, adjusting his tie.

​“Hey,” Paweł said, glancing at him. “I heard from your cousin that you were a delinquent back in Primary.”

​Gregor dried his hands aggressively with a paper towel. “It wasn't like that. The kids were making a massive deal out of the fact that I’m half-Polish. You really wouldn't want to hear what they said about me and my mother during history class.”

​Paweł sighed, leaning against the tile wall. “I guess people always need something to point at. It’s a shame you had to go through that just because of a border.”

​“None of that would’ve happened if the school staff hadn’t mentioned my heritage.” Gregor muttered. He looked into the mirror. “And honestly? I’m glad I never brought up my great-great-uncle. If the situation was bad then, it would’ve been an absolute bloodbath if they knew about Oskar.”

​Paweł frowned. “Your great-great-uncle?”

​“I only heard his name a few times when I visited my father's side of the family.” Gregor's voice went down an octave as he spoke. “I didn't understand why the room went silent whenever I asked who Oskar was. My German relatives were hesitant to give me a full detail and say he was a great-great-uncle I’d never met because he's dead and that's it.”

​He paused. “When I was old enough to do my own digging, I realized why they looked at me like they’d seen a ghost. He was an SS officer. A Nazi. He wasn’t one of the famous ones you see in the textbooks, but he was there. Oskar Nüsken.”

​Paweł’s eyes widened, a look of profound discomfort crossing his face. “Wait... Really?”

“Yeah,” Gregor said with a bitter, mirthless laugh. “And the real shocker? I had a talk with Siegfried von Wagenheim about it, he admitted he was just a kid when he met Oskar. It’s a mess, Paweł. My mother’s side is from Gdańsk, they went through tough times under that regime and I carry the name of a man who backed that very system. Some people only see Germany and Poland as enemies. I have both bloodlines and they've been clashing inside me my whole life.”

“Now that we’re graduating. Are you still going to university?” Paweł asked.

​“I’m joining the BAB.” Gregor answered firmly.

​Paweł blinked in genuine shock. “Gregor, that’s... that’s one of the most dangerous jobs here. You’re literally hunting monsters.”

​“I have my reasons.” Gregor said, his mind drifting back to a night seven years prior. “When I was ten, I woke up to my aunt and uncle knocking on our apartment. They told me my parents were in a hospital. Dad was driving to pick up my mom from work when a Stray swerved his car into a concrete pillar. They survived and I had to sleep in Kurt’s room for weeks while they recovered.”

He gripped the edge of the porcelain sink until his knuckles turned white. “The next day, the news reported that the BAB had caught the Stray last night. During the interrogation, he confessed he's a Neo-Nazi who stalked my parents for months. Tried to murder them because he couldn't stand the fact that a “pure” German man had married a Polish woman. He saw my family as a stain that needed to be erased.”

​Gregor looked Paweł directly in the eye, his expression cold and resolved. “I’m not joining the BAB because I want to be a hero. I’m joining because I want to be the one holding the leash. I’m tired of being the one who waits for the phone call in the middle of the night. If there are people out there who think they can decide who gets to exist based on their blood, then I want to be the one who stands in their way and break them first.”

Chapter Text

Hunger gnawed at Heiko, testing his limits. He couldn't risk being seen before the attack, but his body's needs were starting to win out over his control.

Staying in the shadows, Heiko walked down Ungarnstrasse. He was a dark figure in a black hood, sunglasses, and a white face mask.

He spotted the apartment building where Cem lives, then stopped under a large, bare tree. He looked up, his eyes scanning around.

​Cem lugged a heavy black trash bag and tossed it into a green dumpster. Heiko's stomach growled. This was it. One quick, silent kill.

“Hölzerne Faust.”

The asphalt beneath the dumpster began to crack and heave with a sound like splitting thunder. A massive wooded hand erupted from the concrete.

​The giant hand snatched Cem in the blink of an eye, squeezing him with great pressure.

“SOMEBODY HELP!” Cem's scream tore through the air.

Heiko felt his energy fade as he focused on ending things fast, hoping to keep the scene clean.

Just as Cem’s ribs were about to break, a man walked out of the apartment building. He wore a wool sweater and pants. Heiko recognized the man right away.

​It was Senior Agent Erol Özpetek of Berlin Division III.

​The shock hit like a punch. Özpetek shouldn't have been there; he was off the clock. Running into high-level BAB operative, especially one who would immediately recognize the power signature from the Hauptbahnhof footage, was a risk he couldn't afford.

Heiko acted fast. He snapped his mind back, and the giant wooden hand crumbled into splinters. His wings flashed open, a quick blur of black and dark gray, and shot straight up into the night. The air vibrated with a low hum as he sped away.

​Özpetek watched the figure disappear, already figuring out where they were headed. He rushed to Cem, who was struggling to catch his breath against the wall. 

“Are you alright?”

He didn't get an answer, but he's relieved Cem is safe.

Özpetek then spotted something on the ground where the attacker had taken off. There were two feathers among the broken concrete: One black feather from the outer side of the wing, the other was a dark gray feather with black stripes that form the wood-grain pattern of Heiko’s wings.

He grabbed his secure phone, his usual composure replaced by the sharp focus of a Senior Agent.

​”This is Senior Agent Özpetek. I have eyes on the Berlin Hauptbahnhof attacker. Just spotted him outside my apartment block attacking my neighbor.” Özpetek knelt and carefully picked up the feathers, securing them in a small plastic bag from his pocket.

“The target fled immediately as soon as I saw him. I've got two feather samples: one black and one dark gray with black stripes. I need a Forensics team at my location ASAP. I repeat, the Hauptbahnhof attacker is active.”

—

​Heiko landed heavily on the flat, gravel roof of a tall hotel, his lungs burning. He dropped his hood, pulled down the mask and took off his shades. His eyes glowed a sickly yellow with suppressed rage.

​He pounded his fist against the concrete. He had been so close. He could have stabilized the hunger, bought himself time, but the intervention of a Senior Agent had ruined everything. Özpetek's report would have the entire Division on alert.

​Heiko pulled his backpack open and blindly searched the contents. His fingers closed around a single, chilled plastic pouch. It was his last blood bag. He twisted the cap and drained the bag in two frantic gulps.

​Felix was calling, but Heiko just scowled at his phone and hit decline.

Heiko put back his disguise, jumped off the roof and soared over the city. He landed lightly on a train heading west. The wind whipped around him, and he could feel the tracks humming under his boots.

​He doesn't know where the train is taking him, but he knew what he was looking for: A place outside of BAB's search range, a neighborhood with short buildings, somewhere easy to find new victims to feed on and a safe corner to charge his dying phone.

He had to survive the night to execute the attack tomorrow. The thought of Operation Nachtmahlzeit was the only thing holding his fracturing control together.

—

The Berlin Command Center (BCC) of the BAB was a fortress of cold light and humming servers, a stark contrast to the chaotic darkness of the streets outside. The central holographic map of the city was bathed in amber warning lights, marking the calculated search grids for the Berlin Hauptbahnhof attacker.

​Director Sundermeier stood on the observation deck, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the digital sprawl of her city. Agent Reitz stood a step behind her, holding a tablet that was constantly updating with negative reports from the sweep teams.

Reitz murmured, his voice low. “It's been twelve hours. No heat signature, no scent markers since he left the station. He knows our grid patterns.”

​​"CODE RED!"

​The shout cut through the hum of the operations floor like a gunshot. It came from the Communications Pit.

​”Director! Incoming priority transmission from Senior Agent Özpetek. Sector: Ungarnstraße, Wedding.”

​Sundermeier was moving before the officer finished the sentence. She descended the short flight of stairs to the main floor, Reitz close on her heels. “Put it on the main channel, now.”

​The audio crackled through the room, breathless but disciplined. It was Erol Özpetek’s voice.

​"—active and confirmed to have unique Blutsauger feather markers. Subject used wood-based magic called “Hölzerne Faust” to restrain a civilian. He fled upon eye contact. I have secured biological evidence: two feathers. One black, one dark gray with distinct wood-grain striation."

​A silence fell over the room.

​”Ungarnstraße, Wedding.” Reitz whispered, tapping furiously on his tablet. The holographic map shifted, the amber grid turning a violent, pulsing crimson over the Mitte borough. “He slipped the perimeter. He was five kilometers south of our primary dragnet.”

​Sundermeier leaned over the comms console and pressed the microphone button. “Özpetek, this is Sundermeier. Confirm the condition of the civilian.”

​”Civilian is shaken but physically stable, Director.” Erol’s voice came back instantly. “But the attacker was feeding. Or trying to. He looked desperate. The feathers match the video footage from the station perfectly.”

​Sundermeier straightened up. The uncertainty of the last twelve hours evaporated. They didn't just have a grainy video anymore, they had a physical piece of the monster.

​”Reitz,” she barked, the command echoing off the glass walls. “Reroute Containment Units Alpha and Delta to Wedding immediately. I want a five-block radius around Özpetek’s position locked down. Nothing flies out of that airspace.”

​”Forensics?” Reitz asked, already relaying the orders to the dispatch team.

​”This blood sample from the station is in poor condition and too small for a complete analysis. These feathers have fresh follicles. Send them to the Lead Forensics Team. I want them to bypass the registry and run the sequence against the National Human Database. If he's a local, I need a name by dawn.”

​Across the room, at the logistics console, Agent Lange sat hunched, struggling to keep pace with the Director’s rapid-fire orders. His hand hovered over his keyboard, heart hammering against his ribs as Ungarnstraße flared crimson on his screen.

​”Lange!” Reitz’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Why is the airspace grid lagging? Close the net! Get the Lidar sweeps initialized!”

​”Yes. Initiating lockdown now, trying to compensate for the surge traffic.” Lange stammered, typing the commands that would seal the district, desperately trying to keep the emergency protocols from crashing the mainframe.

Chapter Text

The cold wind of the Berlin night whipped through the alleyway where the search team had momentarily regrouped. The static from their earpieces was a constant, low-level buzz, punctuated by the frantic chatter of Dispatch coordinating the perimeter around Ungarnstraße.

​”Özpetek actually saw him,” Agent Feldhoff said, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He adjusted the strap of his tactical vest, looking toward the flashing blue lights reflecting off the wet pavement three blocks away. “Face-to-face. And he survived.”

​Krönig stood slightly apart from them, scanning the street. “Dispatch says the Blutsauger dropped feathers. At least we know what we’re looking for now. It’s not just a shadow anymore.”

​”It’s still a needle in a haystack.’ Feldhoff countered. “He could have flown anywhere. Roofs, sewers, the U-Bahn tunnels.”

​”Heads up,” Krönig cut in, nodding toward the end of the block. "Verstak is back."

​Verstak came jogging around the corner, her face flushed from the cold and the exertion.

​”I spoke with witnesses near the railyard overpass. A civilian told me he saw something land on top of a regional train.”

​Mohl looked up sharply. “A passenger?”

​”No, on the roof.” Verstak corrected. “He said it looked like a man with wings, crouching between the carriages. But he couldn't give me a positive ID on the face or the clothes because it was too dark and the train was moving too fast.”

​”Direction?” Krönig asked.

​”West,” Verstak said, pointing down the track line. “Heading out toward Spandau and the city limits.”

​Feldhoff frowned. “If it's just a silhouette, it could be any registered Blutsauger taking a shortcut. It’s illegal, sure, but it might not be our guy.”

​”And if it is him, he’s using the train to break our containment radius before we can lock down the airspace.” Mohl said, his voice grim. He holstered his baton and grabbed his radio. “We can't take the chance that it's a coincidence. If he gets out to the western suburbs, we lose him in the sprawl.”

​Mohl looked at the team, his expression hardening. “Verstak, get the train number from Dispatch. Feldhoff, bring the car around. We’re going west.”

—

The regional train clanked its way west, the sound of the wheels on the tracks all Heiko could hear over the wind. He stayed put, squeezed in the shaky space between two cars.

His phone lit up: 12% battery.

He felt the phantom itch of the BAB's scanners. Even if he didn't know about the LIDAR drones, he knew the sky wasn't safe. Every time a helicopter's searchlight swept the distant horizon, he pressed himself flatter against the cold steel.

​He pulled his hood lower, “Just a few more miles. Get to the industrial zone, find something where I can charge my phone and find a real meal.”

The train started to slow while going around a turn near Spandau, but before it even reached the station, Heiko leaped off the roof. His wings popped open for a quick glide before he landed on a quiet street lined with parked cars.

His lungs ached, and the hunger hit him hard again. He tugged down his white face mask, breathing heavily.

​A man walked about ten steps onward, a plastic bag in hand, eyes glued to his phone. Heiko took off. No powers this time, just the raw, unnerving speed that came with his deteriorating state.

He barely noticed the footsteps closing in before Heiko’s arm was around his throat, a palm clamped hard over his mouth to stifle the scream.

Heiko leaned close, sinking his teeth into the man's neck. He drank with a desperate craving, his eyes closing as he felt strength flow back into him. It was a refreshing deviation to drink live blood, rather than packaged.

​When the man went limp, Heiko slowly laid him face down on the ground. He knelt, rifling through the bag. Nothing useful, he hasn't eaten dinner that isn't human blood so he grabbed a paper bag with wrapped kebab inside, still radiating a faint, greasy warmth.

He heard footsteps of a nearby doorway and froze, expecting whoever that is might call the authorities.

​”Are you Heiko?”

​Heiko stood slowly, his wings tensing. He turned to his right and figured out the man is a Natural-born Blutsauger.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

​”Have you forgotten everyone in this city has seen that footage of you in the train station?” the man whispered, stepping closer. “And I smelled the fresh kill.”

Heiko flinched and clenched his fists, preparing to use his powers on the Blutsauger but was stopped then the latter started to explain himself.

“Don't worry. I'm not from the BAB. I'm with Lämmer.” The Blutsauger said, holding up both hands in a stop gesture. “I heard the patrols are moving west. My apartment is right here, come inside.”

Heiko sat on a worn sofa, his eyes darting toward the window.

​”My handle is KAMPF18,” the Blutsauger said while he was chopping potatoes. "I’m a new recruit. You’re a hero to some of us, you know."

​Heiko pulled the burner phone from his backpack and plugged it into the charger. KAMPF18 looked at it curiously as it was smaller than today's phones.

“It's a burner phone. Felix told me to buy one in case of an emergency.”

​The phone rang. Heiko pulled the plug out and dashed to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

​”I'm here.” Heiko hissed into the receiver.

​”Where the hell are you?” Felix’s voice was a jagged edge of anxiety and fury. “I've been tracking the BAB reports. They found feathers in Wedding, Heiko! They’re searching with everything they have. Why aren't you at your apartment?”

​”Keep your voice down,” Heiko snapped. “I’m in an apartment in Spandau. I just ran into a recruit.”

​”Spandau? You have three days and you wandered into another district? Are you not worried about that?” Felix let out a frustrated growl. “You have seventy-two hours, Heiko. Three days before you become a Full Stray. Your mind is going to start fracturing. You were supposed to stay put so we could manage the transition!”

​”I was hungry, Felix! The bags weren't enough!”

​”And now you're sharing a room with a recruit who knows your face.” Felix said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. “If he gets caught, he gives you up. If you turn on him, you risk the cell's integrity. How did you even end up there?”

​”I guess I'm just blessed by luck.” Heiko muttered, leaning his forehead against the cold bathroom mirror. “I jumped the train, killed a man on Borkumer Straße, and some guy who goes by KAMPF18 found me.”

​Felix sighed, though his tone softened slightly. “Listen to me. If you’re in Spandau, stay there until dawn. And don't kill anyone else around there. If the BAB finds a second body on that street, they'll know exactly which building you're in. Does this KAMPF18 have a car?”

​”I haven't asked yet.”

​”If he’s loyal, he'll drive you to the meeting place near Tiergarten tomorrow night. We need you sharp for Nachtmahlzeit. If you feel you start seeing things or losing time, you tell me immediately. Do you understand? We can't have you losing your mind in the middle of the operation.”

​Heiko looked at his reflection. “I understand, Felix. I'll be there.”

​”Good. Keep your strength up. If that recruit starts asking too many questions, shut him up. We can't afford any more luck.”

​The line went dead. Heiko stared at the phone for a long moment before splashing cold water on his face, trying to wash away the scent of the man he had just drained.

Chapter Text

The hallway in the Pankow apartment building was strangely quiet when the team got there. The front door was open, which was odd.

Senior Agent Irzykowska took the lead, while Lahyani, Zemanová, and Mazuchowski were right behind her, geared up with helmets and gas masks that made them look like insect predators.

Agent Lauen was last, she is the only one not wearing the standard protective gear. As helmets got in the way of her powers more than helped.

“Searching for the bandaged man had us in a wild goose chase.” Lahyani grumbled, her voice muffled by her mask as they reached the fourth floor. “If Siegfried couldn't pin him down, what chance did we have?”

“Focus, Lahyani.” Irzykowska replied sternly. “Forget the bandaged man, he's just a ghost for now. Alain Porion's connection to Ilse Schlag has to mean something.”

Inside the apartment, Alain Porion stood frozen, his eyes glued to the peephole. He could see the distortion of three helmets. His heart hammered against his ribs. Retreating to the kitchen counter, his shaky fingers flew across his phone, opening Lämmer’s Discord server.

Fauri: BAB at my door. Five agents. Irzykowska is leading. Do they know about the mission? What should I do?

Sei: Don't let them in. SHOT THEM

Moschetto: If they’re at the door, they already suspect you. Eliminate the threat.

Bruder Vierzehn: Do not let them take what's yours, Fauri. Use the gift.

KAMPF18: Kill them. For the Shepherd.

Alain swallowed hard. He reached for the pistol sitting on the dining table, tucking it behind his back with his right hand. He took a deep breath and opened the door just as Irzykowska was about to knock again.

Irzykowska pulled down her gas mask, her expression neutral but her eyes sharp. “I’m Senior Agent Irzykowska from the BAB. We’d like to discuss your recent interactions with a woman named Ilse Schlag.”

“I don't know who that is.” Alain said, his voice steady.

“That’s strange,” Irzykowska countered, stepping slightly closer. “Our reports said that you were in a bar with her and two unidentified men. What were you discussing?”

Alain didn't answer. Instead, his pupils contracted as a glowing, rhombus-shaped crosshair flickered into his vision, centering perfectly on Irzykowska.

“L'œil du tireur d'élite.” he hissed, yanking the pistol behind him and fired three quick shots.

“Jägerlocken!” Lauen screamed. Her short blonde hair sprang to life, extending into thick tendrils that formed a dense, prehensile shield in front of the team. The bullets then get absorbed into her hair.

Mazuchowski drew his pistol and charged into the room. Gunfire and breaking glass filled the apartment.

Lahyani and Zemanová dove into the living room. Alain kicked over the oak dining table.

Each time Alain fired, the bullets chased after the marked target, but Lauen's hair blocked the shot.

Lahyani and Zemanová slid behind the overturned table as one of Alain’s stray bullets flew over their heads.

“I didn't think Porion would become a recidivist!” Zemanová shouted over the roar of a stun grenade Mazuchowski tossed toward the right corner of the living room.

Alain scrambled back, using a large ceramic vase for cover. Zemanová stood up from behind the table and fired her pistol. The vase shattered into a thousand jagged shards, forcing Alain to roll toward the balcony.

Without a second thought, he rushed through the open door, grabbing a duffel bag he had left outside. In an instant, wings came out of his back, and he launched himself into the night.

Lauen yanked off her tactical vest and took to the air after him.

She caught up to him as they soared over the rooftops of Pankow.

“What is your business with Ilse Schlag?” Lauen's hair tendrils lashed out, one tendril wrapping tightly around Alain’s right leg.

He spun in the air, firing blindly back at her, the bullets chasing her as she dove and spiraled to avoid them.

“She fired bullets at Division I's Mohl and Feldhoff. Are you two in some part of an extremist group?”

Lauen gritted her teeth, pulling herself closer to him. She reached into her belt and pulled out a pair of heavy, specialized handcuffs.

“Give it up.”

She tried to snap the handcuffs onto his wrist. Alain knew these weren't ordinary handcuffs, but the ones designed for Blutsaugers.

They use a key to lock, and once locked, small needles inside prick the back of the hands. The needles are laced with a substance that disables a Blutsauger’s power. Alain knew the feeling from when he was first arrested. It felt like two lancets stabbed into his skin for too long.

He swung the duffel bag like a club, hitting Lauen's head. Her grip loosened and Alain snapped free from the hair pulling him down and dove into an alleyway.

Lauen hissed in frustration. She went around the alley, but the shadows had already swallowed him.

Minutes later, she landed back on the balcony, her chest heaving. She walked back into the living room, where the other agents were securing the area.

With a sharp flick of her head, she released the bullets Alain had fired earlier onto the floorboards like heavy rain.

“He got away.” Lauen growled. “But we have the bullets, the DNA and enough evidence of assault on us to put him in prison for life.”

—

Agent Sönmez had just finished dinner at a Turkish restaurant near Altstadt Spandau. It was her day off, and the warmth of the meal was the only thing keeping the cold of the night at bay. She buttoned her coat higher as she turned onto Borkumer Straße, eager to return to her apartment.

She stopped.

Fifty meters ahead, a body lay sprawled on the pavement in a way that no sleeping person ever would. She approached slowly, the silence of the street pressing against her ears.

⚠️⚠️⚠️

The man was lying face down. Sönmez knelt beside him and checked for a pulse she knew she wouldn’t find. She turned his head to the side, exposing his neck. A bite had ripped it open, almost completely severing the artery.

On the left side of the man's head there are two feathers; one was black, the other was dark gray, striped with the unmistakable pattern of wood grain.

She pulled out her secure phone, her thumb hovering over the speed dial.

—

BAB Command Center

The operations floor was loud already, but when two priority alerts flashed on the main screens simultaneously, the noise intensified considerably.

“Director!” Agent Lange shouted from the comms pit. “Status report from Division II!”

On Monitor 1, a shaky live feed from a tactical helmet showed the interior of an apartment in Pankow. Furniture was overturned, walls were riddled with bullet holes, and Agent Lauen was visible in the frame, furiously retracting her hair tendrils.

“Target identified as Alain Porion.” Lange reported, reading the scrolling text. “He assaulted the team. Lauen confirms he illegally transformed for the second time and he’s fully hostile. He escaped the perimeter.”

“Director!” Another voice cut in from the opposite side of the room. “Incoming secure call from Agent Sönmez in Spandau. She has found a dead body.”

On Monitor 2, a map of Spandau flared to life. Sönmez’s coordinates pulsed in urgent blue.

“She has confirmed it's a murder,” the operator said. “And she has physical evidence. A black feather and a dark gray feather with the wood-grain pattern, the same feathers Senior Agent Özpetek found!”

Director Sundermeier stood between the two screens, her eyes darting back and forth. Reitz stepped up beside her, looking pale.

“Pankow and Spandau.” Reitz murmured. “Two attacks, far from each other, both happening in the same hour. There's the Hauptbahnhof attacker and then Porion…”

“Are they working together?” Sundermeier asked, her voice tense. “Is this a coordinated distraction to stretch our resources?”

A technician in a white lab coat jogged up to the platform, holding a tablet that displayed a loading bar inching forward slowly.

“Director, we’ve prioritized the feathers found in Spandau.” The technician said. “The sequencer is running, but with the city under Code Red, the mainframe is crawling at a snail's pace. We’re competing with every traffic camera and Lidar sweep in Berlin for processing power.”

“I need time.” Sundermeier demanded.

“We won't have a civilian match until morning.”

Sundermeier turned back to the main map. Two red lights pulsed on the digital grid—one in the north, one in the west. The city was bleeding, and the BAB was chasing ghosts in the dark.

—

Reinickendorf, Berlin

Alain Porion is in an empty laundromat, sitting on a plastic bench with his back against the wall. He had pulled his hood up, his face bathed in the cold light of his phone screen.

He typed furiously into Lämmer's Discord server:

Fauri: stuck in Reinickendorf. I need someone to get me out of here. I shouldn't have given my ID to the bartender.

Sei: Stay put. We’re sending a team your way.

Fauri: GET A MOVE ON THE BAB ARE ON MY TAIL

He sighed, staring at the dryer's reflection. He thought he was safe here because who looks for a fugitive at a laundromat late at night?

—

BAB Command Center

“Got him.” Agent Lange said, his fingers typing swiftly on the keyboard. “Facial recognition hit on the Reinickendorf grid. 98% match for Alain Porion.”

He put the feed up on the main screen. The black-and-white CCTV footage showed a hooded figure sitting in a laundromat.

“Should we send out the sirens?” Reitz asked.

“We're not doing that,” Sundermeier said, her eyes cold. “He already attacked Division II back in his apartment. I don't want a repeat of the shootout so we're sending the Quiet Capture team. Box him in.”

—

Two nondescript black vans rolled silently to a stop at opposite ends of the street, cutting off all traffic. There were no sirens, no flashing lights, just heavy boots hitting the pavement in perfect unison.

Alain noticed the street outside had gone too quiet so he continued staring at the dryer.

A tiny red laser dot danced across the glass door of the washing machine directly in front of him.

He spun around, ripping his pistol from his waistband. His eyes began to glow, the crosshair forming in his vision.

“L'œil du-”

CRACK.

⚠️⚠️⚠️

The window shattered. A high-velocity round tore through the air and obliterated Alain's right hand. The pistol clattered to the floor, along with two of his fingers.

Alain screamed, clutching his mangled hand to his chest, falling to his knees.

Three hundred meters away, atop a warehouse roof, BAB Sniper Belloumou worked the bolt on her rifle, loading a bullet into the chamber.

She watched the Frenchman writhe on the floor through her scope, her expression hard and unforgiving.

“You French ruled with words,” she muttered, her finger hovering over the trigger guard, “While we Algerians answered with bullets.”

The front door of the laundromat chimed as a BAB agent in full tactical gear stepped inside. Alain, still grunting through the shock and blood loss, didn't even hear the agent approach.

The agent tossed a small, black sphere across the floor. It rolled to a stop at Alain's feet.

Hiss.

A cloud of dense, white gas erupted from the ball. Alain coughed once, his eyes rolling back in his head, and slumped sideways, unconscious.

The agent stepped through the gas and knelt beside the fallen Blutsauger. He grabbed Alain’s wrists, slapping on a pair of heavy, metallic cuffs. The needles engaged with a mechanical click, injecting the suppressant.

“Command, target is secured.” the agent radioed in, looking down at the unconscious Alain. “Get the transport ready. He’s headed to the Blutsauger Research Institute for reversion treatment. We’ll see how much he remembers after they strip the monster out of him.”

Chapter Text

Morning (but not yet 6:00), 3 November 2023

Siegfried's hands were wrist-deep inside a man's chest cavity. The man appears to be wearing the field gray Waffen-SS uniform. He tried to fight back at Siegfried, but he was getting weaker.

Siegfried glanced up, expecting a human face, but instead saw the head of a brown goat. A final, loud bleat echoed as the creature met its end.

—

Siegfried shot up in bed, gasping for air.

The silence ringed in his nonexistent ears. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Fingers shaking, he tore the dream recorder from his head and tossed the device aside. It hit the nightstand with a clunk, the “Elevated Stress” warning light blinked a frantic red in the darkness.

He sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, trying to scrub away the image of the goat-headed man.

His phone buzzed on the mattress beside him. He stared at the screen.

Dr. Albrecht Eisenträger.

Siegfried cleared his throat, forcing the tremor out of his voice before answering.

“Dr. Eisenträger?”

“Good morning, Siegfried.” The calm voice of Albrecht came through the line. “I have just arrived at the Institute. The sensors indicated a spike. You need to come in for analysis. Now.”

—

The Blutsauger Research Institute was a sterile labyrinth of white corridors and reinforced glass, smelling of ozone and high-grade disinfectant. Siegfried walked briskly, his coat collar turned up, trying to shake the lingering dread of the night.

As he turned the corner toward the intake wing, a commotion broke out ahead. Two BAB agents were dragging a man down the hall.

The man was thrashing violently, he wore a leather muzzle strapped tightly over his face and his wrists were locked in heavy cuffs.

“Get off me!” The man shouted, “You have no right! I demand a lawyer! Take these cuffs off!”

Siegfried paused, watching the prisoner dig his heels into the linoleum.

“Who is that?” he asked, nodding toward the struggling prisoner.

“Alain Porion.” Albrecht replied, his voice devoid of emotion. “A recidivist. We captured him back in 2016 for an illegal transformation. It seems he never learned his lesson. Reversion treatment will be... unpleasant for him this time.”

Albrecht gestured for Siegfried to follow him. They entered the Neural Analysis Suite, a dim room dominated by a wall of monitors and a high-processing mainframe. Albrecht sat at the desk, waking the computer with a keystroke. He extended a hand.

“The device, Siegfried.”

Siegfried handed over the dream recorder. Albrecht plugged it into the console. The screen flickered, and a file directory opened. Two video files populated the list:

04-11-2023 (1).mp4

04-11-2023 (2).mp4

Siegfried felt a cold sweat prickle on the back of his neck. He knew exactly what was on the first file. He shifted his weight, his hands clenching in his pockets.

Please don't open the first one, he thought, though he knew Albrecht was thorough.

Albrecht clicked the first file.

The screen filled with a shaky, first-person perspective. Siegfried in the dream lunged forward at Wilmon in a dark suburb and tackled him to the ground. The American quasi-god tried to fight back, but Siegfried was just too quick.

⚠️⚠️

The camera swung down as Siegfried buried his teeth into Wilmon's throat.

“It ends with you. You let the rot spread. You fed the cycle while pretending to stand above it. I am here to end it before you turn the world into a graveyard again.”

Albrecht paused the video. The frame froze on Clayton’s terrified, dying eyes.

Albrecht swiveled his chair around. “Do you want to explain this?”

Siegfried looked away, unable to meet the Austrian’s gaze. “I don't know what to tell you.”

Albrecht gestured to the screen. “This feels really personal. Are you sure you don't have a grudge against Clayton? You know America is a superpower so if something like this happens to him…”

“No, I think I'm just stressed about the political climate.” Siegfried said in a defensive tone. “And I have no actual desire to assassinate Wilmon Clayton.”

He looked at Albrecht, a sudden panic seizing him. “Please don't show this to him. If he sees this, if the Americans see this-”

“Rest assured, your dream records are always kept top secret.” Albrecht said smoothly. “They are kept away from the public eye, and certainly away from the State Department. Your subconscious is safe here.”

Albrecht clicked the second file, 04-11-2023 (2).mp4.

⚠️⚠️

Beneath Siegfried lay the goat-headed Waffen-SS officer. Siegfried’s hands dug deep into the monster's chest searching for something, perhaps a heart. The monster bleated until it showed no signs of life.

“The goat-headed man. He has been appearing in your dreams since we issued you the recorder in 2019.” Albrecht noted.

“I know.” Siegfried said. “I thought... I thought it might represent someone I knew. Maybe he could be from my father's inner circle.”

Albrecht paused the video on the goat’s face. He turned back to Siegfried.

“Have you taken your medicine?”

“I took them last night before bed.” Siegfried said quickly.

Albrecht tapped the desk. “You cannot remember his name, can you? Or his human face?”

“I don't want to,” Siegfried snapped. “It’s a memory I would rather keep buried. Whatever Elizebul is trying to dig up in my head, I want it to stay down. If he tries to whisper the name, I take the pills. That is the arrangement.”

Albrecht said. “Your subconscious knows who he is and so do I.”

Siegfried froze.

“This monster you are mauling in your dreams is SS-Oberscharführer Oskar Nüsken.” Albrecht said.

Nüsken.

Nüsken.

Nüsken.

Wait a minute. Why does he share the same last name as the BAB agent Gregor Nüsken?

The name hit Siegfried like a physical blow. He could recall a man handing him a teddy bear as a kid, but his mind blocked out the man's face. All that was left was a dull, throbbing headache.

“He was a farm boy. The one who gave you the teddy bear when you were a boy. You even named it after him.”

Siegfried rubbed his temples. “I... I remember the bear, it was in my basement that I've kept locked for years. And I remember giving that name to my East counterpart.”

“I had a talk with Gregor about Oskar Nüsken when he was thirteen.” Siegfried murmured, the memory surfacing through the fog. “He asked me if I had met him because his family forbade him from talking about him.”

“I met Nüsken during the Annexation,” Albrecht continued, “He was a quiet, diligent man who did exactly what he was told, no matter how grotesque the order. That is why the Nüsken family scrubbed him from their records. He was a shame they couldn't wash away, a stain on their bloodline that they chose to bury in silence.”

Siegfried rubbed his temples, the throb behind his eyes intensifying. “And now he’s a monster in my head. I remember a soldier who survived the bombings in the Battle of Berlin told me he heard a scream that sounded like a dying goat. He went to look and saw Nüsken’s final moments.”

Albrecht’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but his posture stiffened slightly at Siegfried’s mention of the scream.

“A dying goat,” Albrecht repeated, the words sounding like a diagnosis. “That soldier wasn't just hearing a trick of the wind. He was hearing the sound of a soul being hollowed out. When a man like Nüsken, someone who spent his life suppressing his own humanity to follow orders, finally breaks, the sound isn't human. It's primal.”

He turned his chair, “It is no coincidence that your mind chose that specific image. “You aren’t just remembering a story you were told, you're feeling what that witness felt. And to you...” Albrecht paused, his voice lowering. “Nüsken is the embodiment of the “good soldier” who was anything but that.”

“Your dreams use the gaps in your memory like a canvas. Albrecht said, leaning forward. “You suppress the man's face because you can’t bear to look at the “kind” farm boy who gave you a toy, so your dreams replace it with the goat head. You are caught in a loop: killing the man who is already dead, over and over, because you refuse to acknowledge why you once looked up to him.”

—

Aquilegia Hospital, Berlin

The door opened and the same middle aged doctor from two days ago entered.

“You heal faster than expected, Frau Gastaldello.” The doctor noted, “I’ve been informed that Dr. von Wagenheim has finalized the arrangement with the BAB. You’re going to his estate in Grunewald.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Away from the eyes of the envoys, then.”

“It is for your safety,” the doctor replied, though they both knew the underlying motive involved Germans upholding their power as much as keeping Beatrice safe. “Dr. von Wagenheim will be here within the hour.”

—

Siegfried leaned back as he closed the file of dream records from 2019. “The media's still on my back,” he muttered. “Think-pieces and blogs still call me the “Butcher of Dresden”. I wonder if Münzner is still as furious as he was four years ago. He barely looked at me during the last summit in Leipzig.”

Albrecht sighed, cleaning his glasses with a silk cloth. “As the quasi-god of Saxony, Münzner watches over his capital city like a hawk. To him, what happened during The Great Rupture was a desecration of his domain. He won't forgive you for the ashes you left behind.”

“I heard Franzl's whispering to the Chancellery again.” Siegfried's voice tensing at the mention of the Bavarian quasi-god.

“Wilfried is... Wilfried.” Albrecht replied dryly. “He views the von Wagenheim line as a relic that should have stayed buried. He and my own people share a certain... distaste for the way your family handles their demons. Wilfried believes that if you weren't BAB's trump card, the Great Rupture would never have happened.”

Siegfried looked at his hands. “It wasn't supposed to happen. Hound's Paradise was just a protest group. I thought the authorities had them under control.”

“They did, until they didn't.” Albrecht countered. “When the leader revealed himself as a Stray and tore through a police line, panic set in. Senior Agent Domaradzka was desperate to get you involved despite her colleagues' pleas not to. They knew you were unstable after the previous month's incidents, but she summoned you anyway.”

“I was in a rush to teleport to Altmarkt, so I forgot my pills.” Siegfried muttered.

“The moon was in its Waxing Gibbous phase,” Albrecht noted, his tone becoming clinical. “Elzebul's form was a stunted, weaker version of himself. If it had been a Full Moon, he would have been larger than life. I’ve seen what your great-grandparents and grandfather can do when the moon is full. Walther and Arnulf were only spared from that fate because I stayed by their side with a needle and a bottle of suppressants.”

“Elzebul didn't care about the buildings,” Siegfried said, the memory of the eagle's screech echoing in his mind. "He just wanted the Hounds. He wanted to feel their bones snap."

“And he did, with all thirty of them lost their heads. The leader took a poison pill the second Dresden Division clicked the cuffs on him.” Albrecht said, twirling a pen.

“The EU nearly pulled our funding after that. The Brussels Accord was drafted specifically because they feared we couldn't leash our own past. They saw the giant eagle over Dresden and thought they saw the bombing in the 1940s all over again. It took months of diplomatic gymnastics to convince them that the “Great Rupture” was an anomaly.”

The silence that followed was interrupted by the sharp trill of Siegfried’s phone. He checked the ID, and felt a familiar tightening in his chest.

“von Wagenheim.” He said, pressing the phone to his nonexistent ear.

“Herr Doctor, it’s Nurse Rahel Lohmann.” The voice on the other end was low and strained with concern.

“The Ethics Board has just convened in Dr. Schriebl’s office. They’ve been reviewing the telemetry logs from your “private consultation” with Frau Gastaldello. They’re asking about her heart rate and why no one else was there during the session. Dr. Schriebl is under pressure; they won't sign the discharge papers for the transfer to Grunewald until you provide a sworn justification for the protocol breach.”

Siegfried’s jaw tightened. “Tell them I’m six minutes away. I’ll provide the assessment and sign whatever liability waivers they require.”

He hung up and stood. “I have to go. The Ethics Board is looking for blood regarding Beatrice. I’m moving her to my mansion today.”

Albrecht’s hand shot out with predatory speed, his fingers clamping onto Siegfried’s sleeve. The elderly quasi-god didn't stand, but his presence seemed to expand, filling the dim room with a cold, oppressive weight.

“Beatrice?” He said, the name sounding like a curse on his tongue. His eyes went cold, the pupils’ depth seeming to stretch into an endless, dark void.

Siegfried stopped, looking down at the hand on his arm. “What's your problem with her? I know you two have something about South Tyrol.”

Albrecht slowly let go of the sleeve, his mask of scholarly calm sliding back into place as if it had never slipped. “Of course, politics. Italy and Austria have always had a... complicated relationship, you know?”

He stood up, smoothing his lab coat. “But remember that some wounds never truly heal. They just wait for the right moment to bleed again.”

Albrecht’s tone was vague, his true aims concealed by a courteous smile. Siegfried knew something was rotting beneath the Austrian’s words, something beyond border disputes or treaties.

Or maybe not.

“Right,” Siegfried said, turning for the door. “I'll see you for the next session.”

He hesitated to press Albrecht further about his animosity with Beatrice. Asking too much often meant finding an enemy you weren't ready to face.

As Siegfried left the Institute, the sterile air of the lobby felt heavier than usual.

He had a career to defend, a quasi-goddess to protect, and the growing suspicion that Albrecht and Beatrice were pieces in a game he was only just beginning to understand.

Chapter Text

The glass doors hissed open as Siegfried walked in, bringing a gust of the frigid morning air with him. To the staff in the lobby, he was the brilliant trauma surgeon who had pulled a miracle three nights ago.

But as he walked past the nurse’s station, the usual respectful nods were replaced by uneasy glances and hushed whispers that died the moment he turned his head.

He didn't need to ask where to go. He could feel the clinical weight of the building pressing against him, a different kind of pressure than the ozone-scented air of the Institute.

Nurse Rahel was waiting outside Dr. Schriebl’s office. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her white scrub top. When she saw Siegfried, she stepped forward.

“Herr Doctor, I tried to stall them,” she said. “But the telemetry spikes were too erratic. The automated system flagged the heart rate fluctuations during your session as a “Potential Cardiac Event”. They’ve already pulled the logs.”

Siegfried gave her a brief, sharp nod. “You did your job, Rahel. Get back to the floor and I’ll handle the board.”

He didn't wait for her to answer. Instead, he pushed open the boardroom's heavy oak doors.

Dr. Schriebl sat at the head of the table, flanked by three members of the Ethics Committee. On the projector at the far end of the room, a jagged red line crawled across a black background—Beatrice’s EKG from three nights ago.

“Dr. von Wagenheim,” Schriebl said, his voice weary rather than angry. “Thank you for joining us on such short notice. I believe you know why we are here.”

Siegfried took a seat at the opposite end of the table. “The telemetry logs. I assume you're concerned about the tachycardic episodes during my assessment of Frau Gastaldello.”

“Concerned is an understatement, Dr. von Wagenheim.” One of the board members, a woman from the legal department, countered. “You entered a critical patient's room alone. You stayed for nearly five minutes without a witness or a second physician present. During that time, the patient’s heart rate surged to 160 beats per minute, followed by a profound drop into a sedative-like state that our monitors couldn't categorize as normal sleep. There is no record of medication being administered."

Siegfried leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“She had just survived a brutal attack from a Blutsauger.” Siegfried stated. “When I entered that room, she was in an intense PTSD episode.”

“And your justification for the lack of an observer?” Schriebl asked.

“Sovereign dignity.” Siegfried lied, the words smooth and calculated. “I made a clinical judgment that the presence of a third party, especially a stranger, would exacerbate her paranoia and prevent a successful psychological grounding. I utilized a specialized neuro-associative technique to bypass the trauma response. The heart rate spikes you see were not a cardiac event; they were the physiological manifestation of her processing the attack.”

“A technique that isn't in our standard protocol.” The legal representative noted.

“Because the protocol wasn't written for quasi-gods.” Siegfried snapped. “It was written for humans. I saved her life in the OR, and I saved her sanity in that consultation. If the board wishes to file a formal grievance, you are welcome to explain to the Italian Embassy why you prioritized a bureaucratic witness over the mental stability of their most precious asset.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Dr. Schriebl looked at the red lines on the screen and then back at Siegfried. He knew Siegfried was a man of secrets, but he also knew that the hospital’s reputation currently rested on the fact that Beatrice was recovering under their roof.

“Please sign the discharge papers.” Siegfried said, breaking the silence. “She has recovered physically, and the city is under Code Red. She will be safer at my estate under my personal supervision.”

Schriebl sighed and pulled a tablet toward him. “You are taking a massive liability onto yourself, Doctor. If anything happens to her in your care, the Medical Association won't be the ones coming for you. It will be the EU.”

“I am well aware of the stakes, Dr. Schriebl.” Siegfried replied.

He stood up as Schriebl wrote his signature on the discharge order. He had won the battle with the bureaucrats, but as he turned to leave, Albrecht’s warning from the Institute echoed in the back of his mind:

Some wounds never truly heal.

—

He walked out of the boardroom and headed straight for Beatrice's room. As he reached the door, he stopped, his hand hovering over the handle.

As Siegfried pushed open the door, Beatrice was sitting up, her back straight and her gaze fixed on the window at the Berlin skyline. She didn't even turn her head when he entered. 

“Good morning.”

He got no answer, but he remembers she is still mad at him.

“The board has signed the papers,” Siegfried said softly, standing at the foot of her bed. “We’re going to my estate in Grunewald.”

Beatrice’s jaw tightened. She slowly turned her head, her eyes locking onto his. There was no longer the explosive rage that had greeted him during their last encounter, but in its place was a cold, impenetrable silence.

Siegfried took a step closer, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “I can ensure-”

“You have already ensured enough, Siegfried,” she snapped, “You entered my mind while I was unconscious. Do you have any idea what that is to someone like me? To have the one place that is truly mine violated by a “friend”?”

Siegfried felt the sting of her words, “The BAB are still searching for the man who did this to you.”

“Did they find him?” She finally looked up at him. This time, her face showed deep, tired disappointment.

“It's been four days, and they still haven't caught him.”

She let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders losing some of their rigid tension. “I'm too tired to yell at you again, and I know that you believe you were saving me. That is the tragedy of the von Wagenheims, isn't it? You destroy the things you try to protect because you don't know how to control yourselves.”

“Bea…”

“Spare me the pity.” She snapped. “I'm going with you because I have no other choice. But don’t mistake my compliance for forgiveness. You have seen my dreams and you should know by now that I will not forget what you did.”

Siegfried remained silent. He wanted to apologize, but the word felt small and hollow in the face of what he had done.

He had seen the dark, rotting corners of her fears. He knew her better than anyone alive, and that knowledge was a weapon she could never take back from him.

As he stepped back out into the hall, he felt the weight of her gaze on his back. He had cleared the ethics board and secured her safety, but as he looked at the discharge papers in his hand, they felt less like a medical release and more like a pact he wasn't sure he could keep.

—

Siegfried carried Beatrice’s luggage while she walked beside him. She had changed to a dark gray coat and a silk scarf.

When they got to the car, Siegfried put her luggage in the trunk and opened the passenger door for her. He saw her hesitate, her hand clutching the car door like she needed to steady herself. He didn’t say anything. He knew Beatrice well enough to know she'd take an offer of help as an insult to what strength she had left.

The drive was stifling. Because of Code Red, the streets were jammed with more checkpoints and BAB patrol cars continuously sped past.

Siegfried came to a stop due to a traffic jam at Neue Kantstraße. To their right, the display window of a high-end boutique caught Beatrice's attention. Behind the pane stood three mannequins draped in wedding gowns with intricate, flowing white laces.

Beatrice stared at the window, lost in thought. She imagined herself in bridal attire, standing in a sun-drenched cathedral with Siegfried by her side in a suit.

"Beatrice?"

Siegfried's voice snapped her back. He was watching her, his hands resting on the wheel, his brow furrowed like a doctor checking for symptoms. "You're spacing out."

Beatrice blinked, the vision of her in a wedding gown vanishing as she pulled her cold expression back into place.

"I'm alright." she said, her voice flat and empty.

Siegfried kept watching her, knowing she wasn't telling the truth but he couldn't find the words to call her out on it. The cars in front proceed, and Siegfried's car lurches forward.

—

Inside a black car sat the Interior Minister and State Secretary, hidden by tinted glass and two bodyguards—one driving and the other in the front seat.

The State Secretary checked his phone, a secure line vibrating with an encrypted alert. “Frau Gastaldello has officially been discharged. Herr von Wagenheim is taking her to his estate as planned.”

The Interior Minister sighed, rubbing his weary eyes. “Good riddance. The longer she stayed at the hospital, the more it looked like we were holding her hostage. The Italians were already gearing up to protest, saying our security lapse was turning into healthcare negligence.”

“The Italian government isn't our only problem.” The State Secretary countered, tapping a folder on his lap. “The envoys want to know why Herr von Wagenheim was allowed to perform a “private consultation” without an observer present.”

“Because von Wagenheim is a quasi-god and a licensed surgeon,” the Interior Minister snapped. “If we let them dictate who can visit Frau Gastaldello, we might as well hand over the keys to the Chancellery.”

“The problem is the optics, Minister.” The State Secretary muttered. "Ever since the Great Rupture in 2019, the rest of Europe saw von Wagenheim as a ticking time bomb. Now he has the Italian quasi-goddess in his mansion, away from BAB surveillance. If he slips, or if Elzebul brings this city into destruction, it will be a diplomatic disaster detrimental to the EU.”

“Director Sundermeier is losing her patience and has set a hard deadline for 6:00.” The State Secretary added, his thumb scrolling through a series of updates. “She warned the Forensic Unit that if they don't have a name to match the DNA found at the Hauptbahnhof by morning, she’ll start firing department heads. She needs a civilian to pin on before the press starts calling it a systemic failure.”

The Interior Minister scoffed, adjusting his tie. “Sundermeier can demand the moon, but the labs are hitting a wall. The DNA sequencing keeps coming back as “Human-to-Blutsauger”. It’s the same dead end every time, a ghost of a human profile that the database can’t match because the subject likely had no prior criminal or medical record on the BAB's watch-list.”

“That hasn't stopped the panic,” the State Secretary countered. “The Forensic Unit is terrified that this Blutsauger wasn't just a spontaneous transformation. If the results stay this vague, the EU will claim we have a monster moving through Berlin, creating Blutsaugers under our very noses.”

The Interior Minister looked out the window at the gray sky, the reflections of the city’s sirens dancing in the glass. “Then let’s hope Herr von Wagenheim takes good care of Frau Gastaldello. If he loses control, we won't just be dealing with Code Red; we might be dealing with a civil war between the states.”

“Herr Münzner is already looking for an excuse,” the State Secretary noted, checking a secure communique from the Saxon State Chancellery. “He hasn't stopped sending bills for the reconstruction of some buildings destroyed in the Great Rupture. For years, he's also pressed the Ethics Board to revoke von Wagenheim's medical license. He wants him neutralized before he can drop another feather on Dresden.”

“Herr Münzner is a sentimentalist,” the Interior Minister muttered, dismissively. “It’s Herr Franzl I’m worried about. The Bavarians are already drafting a proposal to move the BAB headquarters to Munich. He told the Chancellery that the von Wagenheim line is too unstable and too much baggage to serve as the national shield. He wants to replace Siegfried for a decentralized defense, which is just a polite way of saying he wants Bavaria to be in control.”

“The problem is, Herr Franzl might have a point about the instability,” the State Secretary whispered.

“The public doesn't understand the alternative,” the Interior Minister said, his voice turning ice-cold. “We have Werner von Wagenheim of Brandenburg, who thinks the modern world is a nuisance and would torch half of Germany just to save face. Then there's Siegfried, who at least tries to be a hero. If he goes down, we have to summon his great-grandfather. And heaven help us all if the old man decides he’s the only one left fit to “clean up” the capital.”

Chapter Text

Director Sundermeier stood behind the workstation, her shadow stretching across the floor as she watched the technician’s fingers fly across the keyboard. 

​The screen of Alain Porion’s smartphone flickered to life, two different notification banners dominated the lock screen. One was a string of messages from a contact named Eulalie, and the other was a flurry of pings from a Discord server called Lämmer. 

​The technician pulled up the SMS logs first.

Alain, réponds-moi, s'il te plaît. Maman s'inquiète. Reviens ici et trouve un meilleur emploi en Alsace. 

Et arrête aussi de traîner avec Clemente. Tu sais très bien que ces types ont une mauvaise influence sur toi. 

“It's all French.” He types on the computer to translate the texts on a translator site.

​Alain, please answer me. Mom is worried. Get back here and get a better job in Alsace. 

Also please stop hanging out with Clemente. You already know those guys are a terrible influence.

​”She thinks her brother was just hanging out with the wrong crowd.” Sundermeier muttered, her voice cold. 

The technician opened up the Telegram app. He opened a group chat called Ungezogen, created back in 2015. The members are Traugott, Clemente, Adriano, and Alain. The early messages were teenage bravado, but they quickly spiraled into hate crime and weapons dealing. 

​Sundermeier leaned in, “Traugott, Clemente, Adriano?”

“I swear I heard those Italian kids before.” 

It's rare to stumble on someone with those names in Berlin, but this kind of rings a bell. 

“They were a scandal in Italy back in 1999. After graduating at 14, the Italian government thought it best if they moved somewhere else. Then they were brought here with their families for registration.”

“Just how are these “Clemente” and “Adriano” who found themselves in a radicalization cell, the same Italian Blutsaugers whose births caused a scandal in their home country and they have to be moved out because they don't have the resources? That's a hell of a fall.” The technician scratches his head. 

“Check Porion's Discord, there's a lot of notifications from a server called Lämmer.”

​The technician opened Discord and navigated to the Lämmer server, he tapped on the #about and #announcement channel, then looked at the amount of members. 

“They seem to be a Neo-Nazi cult aiming to overthrow the government. This is worse than the coup attempt last year.” The technician commented. 

These are the recent messages in the general channel:

Sei: WHAT HAPPENED TO FAURI
IT'S BEEN 3 HOURS AND HE'S NOT RESPONDING TO MY DMS 

Waffenficker: I was just walking around in Reinickendorf and heard a gunshot. Saw two black vans, and a BAB agent went into the laundromat and then dragged someone out, totally knocked out cold. I think it was Fauri, if I'm not mistaken. 

hellhaarig: WHAT 

Moschetto: FUUUUUUUUUCK
THEY GOT HIS PHONE 

goldenhand: WE HAVE TO INFORM THE SHEPHERD BUT HE'S OFFLINE
WHAT SHOULD WE DO

​”They're panicking.” the technician noted, scrolling through the general channel. “Porion's username is Fauri.”

“I'm sure one of these accounts could be his close friends from the Telegram group. Scroll up the channel, I think we might find something useful here.” 

The technician scrolled up and stopped at a video uploaded by goldenhand. It was a first-person view of someone loading a pistol. Two bullets sat on a nearby table. 

“Hold on, that looks like…” Sundermeier pulls out her phone. “I have to inform Agent Mohl.”

Sundermeier: Agent Mohl you have to see this. We found this on Porion’s phone. He is a part of an online Neo-Nazi cult called “Lämmer” whose goal is to overthrow the government, and he goes by the username “Fauri”

This is from their Discord server 

[Video sent] 

Sundermeier: This goldenhand person could be Ilse Schlag. 

Agent Mohl: Those bullets look just like the ones Frau Schlag shot at me and Feldhoff. We’re still circling near the Spandau Citadel. Feldhoff found more feathers near the old canal. If Schlag is goldenhand, then BAB isn't just dealing with a cell, we're dealing with a whole network of suppliers. Keep Porion isolated, Director. If his friends are as well-coordinated as these logs suggest, going to Spandau might be a distraction while they might hit the headquarters. 

“Check the Operation Nachtmahlzeit channel.” Sundermeier said to the technician. 

​The most recent post in the channel was a hit list written two days ago by Bruder Vierzehn. Berlin Division’s minority members are the top priority, while Division I are the last. 

Here's a hit list. We're starting with Berlin Division first. I appreciate everyone's help in tracking down other agents I haven't heard of. I could only find full names in news articles and videos. 

1. Ezra Naddaf (Commander)
2. Fadwa Lahyani 
3. Hadassah Zemanová
4. Ludwika Irzykowska
5. Zygmunt Mazuchowski
6. Adaeze Iwobi
7. Dorcas Ayeley
8. Feryal Hemida 
9. Odai Wasfi 
10. Hala Sharqi 
11. Hatice Enver 
12. Erol Özpetek 
13. Nariman Sönmez 
14. Közaiym Tynyshbaeva 
15. Gregor Nüsken 
16. Tihana Spasojević 
17. Zoya Demko 
18. Niusha Veisi
19. Axel Zweig 
20. Kurt Zürner 
21. Elvira Lauen 
22. Gustav Mohl
23. Viktor Feldhoff
24. Ferdinand Dähne
25. Arvid Reitz
26. Egon Waldbauer
27. Pavlo Detenyuk (Vice Commander)
28. Justinian Riehl (Deputy Director)
29. Konstanze Sundermeier (Director)

“It's obvious why they're targeting Jewish members first.” The technician said. 

Sundermeier squinted at her name listed as the 29th. “I'm the last one?”

The technician scrolled up and found list of strategies:

1. Destroy Berlin and Potsdam Division, and the other divisions will become powerless without them. 

2. Go to North Rhine-Westphalia. Plant a bomb on the headquarters in Bonn and every division in that state. 

3. Once we're done, we'll do the same to every division in the remaining 13 states. 

4. Assassinate Siegfried von Wagenheim and Beatrice Gastaldello (This time we'll be successful). If anyone intervenes, don't hesitate to shoot them too. 

5. Take the government officials hostage and we'll have the Parliament to ourselves.

Sundermeier’s eyes darted anxiously over the words, “Ridiculous, how will they do this all at once with only 30 of them?! Half of these ruffians don't live here!”

“There's a chance they'll have more recruits, and the rest of the Italian members will travel and get help from their allies here. We need to find where the Hauptbahnhof attacker's account is before it's too late.”

The technician scrolled up to the general channel again, and found a conversation from 2 days ago:

Bruder Vierzehn: We encountered the von Wagenheim family’s butler in Neukölln at 03:30. He’s sniffing around and asking if we know anything about Heiko. I played dumb and said we don’t know him. Fauri stepped in to shoot him but his force field shields him. All four of us ambushed him but he slipped away. Siegfried’s clearly using him to dig into us. What now?  

Der Hirte Adler: I heard the news says Beatrice's now stable in the hospital. Siegfried’s Seraph status makes him the real prize. Strike him at the von Wagenheim mansion tonight before he connects the dots. No errors. Lämmer expects results. Report when he's down.  

Bruder Vierzehn: Understood. We’ll strike Siegfried tonight as planned. My Sturmgeist will bury him. Lämmer won’t be disappointed. 

“Yesterday, Senior Agent Waldbauer told me about the ambush that was never brought up in the news because von Wagenheim held the information from us until it's necessary.” Sundermeier furrowed her brow, “What is von Wagenheim even trying to hide?”

She looked at the third message. “Sturmgeist? There isn't a registered Blutsauger with a power name like that. Unless this is a Stray or an illegal Neublüter, or perhaps someone who changed their power name without our knowledge.”

The technician looks into the member list again and found the account that goes by “Heiko” 

“So the Hauptbahnhof attacker is a part of this too. I think there's a possibility Bruder Vierzehn might be Traugott Winkel?” 

“von Wagenheim described Sturmgeist as an eagle created from a storm cloud. Winkel's file says his power, Sturmsammler, lets him move clouds and create storms. I think this all fits together.”

“And the other two involved in the ambush could be Clemente Fioretti and Adriano Origlio.”

The technician typed “Beatrice” in the search bar. Results were comments about Beatrice that were posted after the attack, trash talks of her from an hour before it happened, and some old demeaning messages in Italian. 

​”Check on Sei's DMs.” Sundermeier ordered. 

The technician tapped on Sei's icon on the top left corner.

We didn't finish our conversation with goldenhand. Which agent will we lynch first at tomorrow evening? 

Thinking about Lahyani, Zemanová, or the commander 

If only we can do it classic style with gas chambers but we're not wasting our Euros building a new one 

I saw the video with goldenhand going viral 

I hope she's safe

“So Sei is one of the men who were with Porion in the bar. But none of these conversations give proof of his identity. Hopefully, Porion's interrogation will give us some answers. The Institute said his reversion treatment is finished, and he'll be here in about ten minutes.”

The heavy security doors of the forensics suite hissed open, the hydraulic whine slicing through the server's gentle vibration. Waldbauer and Reitz stepped into the room. Both looked solemn, like they were ready for a confrontation.

​“Director,” Waldbauer began, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “The transport from the Institute just pulled into the sub-level garage. Porion is secured in the interrogation room. We’re ready to start whenever you are.” 

​Sundermeier turned her head. “Come here, both of you. You need to see what we’re walking into.” 

​Reitz and Waldbauer exchanged a quick, wary glance before walking to the workstation. 

“Porion is a part of a cult aiming to eradicate us, and the Hauptbahnhof attacker is part of it as well. He goes by Heiko.”

As the technician scrolled back to the top of the Operation Nachtmahlzeit channel, the room went cold. 

​“A hit list.” Reitz muttered, leaning in to read the names. His jaw tightened as he saw the first ten names. “They’re targeting the Jewish and minority agents first. It’s a systematic purge.” 

​Waldbauer’s eyes traveled further down the list, his face hardening as he reached the bottom. “They’ve been scraping our names from news reports and public records for months.” 

​“Look at the messages from two days ago.” Sundermeier commanded. 

​The technician brought up the conversation regarding the Neukölln ambush. Waldbauer read the mention of Bruder Vierzehn and Sturmgeist. 

​“Sturmgeist,” Waldbauer muttered. “von Wagenheim's protecting his own investigation at the cost of ours.” 

Sundermeier pulled out her phone, and tapped a direct line to the BAB’s command center. 

​A few seconds of static followed before a deep, measured voice answered. “Sundermeier? I’m in the middle of a briefing with the Interior Ministry. This had better be urgent.” 

​“Riehl, listen to me very carefully.” Sundermeier said, her voice dropping to a low, authoritative register. “We have decrypted Porion’s phone. A domestic terrorist entity calling themselves Lämmer is an online Neo-Nazi cult with active cells in this city. They’ve been around since 2017 according to their Discord server and are currently executing a multi-stage plan to destabilize BAB and seize the Parliament.” 

​There was a sharp silence on the other end. “A coup attempt? Reminds me of the Reichsbürger movement last year, Sundermeier. Are you certain?” 

​“They have a hit list, Riehl. It starts with our Jewish and minority field agents and ends with the high command. You are listed as number twenty-eight. I am number twenty-nine. They’ve already attempted to assassinate Frau Gastaldello and now they're going after von Wagenheim. According to their logs, they will eradicate the Berlin and Potsdam Divisions, bomb the headquarters in Bonn and every division in North Rhine-Westphalia and the remaining 13 states and take the government officials hostage. We are no longer the hunters. We are the targets.” 

​“I’ll alert the police and the BND immediately,” Riehl responded, his tone shifting from annoyance to cold professionalism. “Seal the facility. No one enters or leaves the lower levels until we have a perimeter. Get everything you can out of Porion. I want to know exactly how much time we have left.” 

​Sundermeier ended the call and tucked the phone away. She turned to Waldbauer, her expression a mask of cold determination. 

​“Let’s see if the Frenchman can cough out his honest answers once the cameras start rolling.” 

​She gestured for them to follow her out of the lab. As they moved toward the elevators leading to the interrogation room, the facility’s orange “Tactical Alert” lights began to pulse in the corridors, a sign that the BAB was finally waking up to the war that had already arrived at their doorstep.

Chapter Text

Alain sat in a cold chair. The red rings that had circled his pupils were gone. He is wearing a gray jumpsuit, his two fingers on his right hand now missing and wrists bound by standard steel handcuffs. 

​Behind the one-way glass of the observation window, Waldbauer, Reitz, and Sundermeier watched in silence. Inside the room, the interrogator Schroll dropped a thick folder onto the table. 

“I'm sure you remember me when you were first arrested at seventeen.” Schroll began, “You moved to Berlin at fifteen because of your parents' job. Last year, your family went back to France, but you stayed behind to work as a waiter. Based on your conversations with your sister, your choice has created some estrangement between you and them.”

Alain didn't answer, waiting for a continuation. 

“Because Winkel offered you a different kind of brotherhood?”

“I-I see you did your homework.” Alain stuttered. 

Schroll leaned forward, “Seven years ago, you told us you bought a vial from a drug dealer at the Kottbusser Tor. You gave us a description of a “man in a leather jacket” that matched half the population of Kreuzberg. We spent six months chasing a dealer that didn't exist.”

​Alain let out a dry, rattling breath that might have been a laugh. “And you believed it, that I was just a stupid boy who found a shortcut in a trash can.”

“Tell us honestly, where did the vial come from?” Schroll pressed, “Who is this person that made you a recidivist?”

“Clemente Fioretti.” Alain's shackles rattled with the tremor in his hands. “H-He's my classmate. I begged him for his blood so I could be like him. After I got out the first time, I begged for it again. You all had no idea what I was up to until I made that grave mistake of going to a bar and giving my ID to the bartender.” 

“Those are one of the Italian boys who moved here back in 2013!” Waldbauer whispered to Reitz and Sundermeier. 

​”So Clemente fed you,” Schroll muttered. “And you fed us a made up story about a black market runner.”

Alain didn’t flinch. The stuttering, cowardly persona didn't just fade, it dropped away like shed skin. He leaned back, the chair creaked under his weight as he suddenly seemed to take up more space in the room, his gaze sharpening into something cold and predatory.

​”Traugott showed us what we are and that's how Ungezogen was born. We found our place when he introduced us to The Great Shepherd Adler.” he said, his voice now steady, devoid of his previous tremors. “Traugott even introduced us to a man in Neukölln. He didn't give a name and prefers to call himself Der Büchsenmacher. He can enhance rounds and they pack more punch than standard ammo. He's the one who gave me the pistol!” 

“Traugott Winkel. Wasn't his power “Sturmsammler”? He moves existing clouds and makes storms. He was never flagged for the high-threat list."

​”It's a systemic failure, we have already dealt with Blutsaugers like that before.” Sundermeier muttered. “He gamed the Institute. Presenting himself as a weather-monitoring hobbyist while he was building an aerial assault capability.”

​Alain looked at the glass, as if he could see the people standing there then turned back to Schroll. 

⚠️⚠️⚠️
“You think I’m just a lost little lamb? I’ve killed seven people. It was supposed to be twenty but most of the time, Traugott, Clemente and Adriano won't let me have their share. The last one was on Neuköllnische Allee two nights ago. He was a nobody, but he bled just as red as the rest. If this government knew how to manage imported criminals instead of letting them turn this into a “German Caliphate” and should've let them rot in their own countries for all I care, none of these would have happened!”

Alain presents his right hand, “Look what they have done to my hand!”

“Never knew a self-pitying maniac like him would mask off like that.” Reitz muttered.

​Waldbauer’s pulse spiked. He turned to Sundermeier. “The murder in Neukölln. That’s what von Wagenheim mentioned yesterday. So Heinrich Würdemann was ambushed by a group of men on that same street when he tried to ask about Heiko.”

Sundermeier felt a surge of cold irritation. “Clemente Fioretti and Adriano Origlio have been in our system since they moved from Italy.”

“von Wagenheim knew. When his butler called him after the Neukölln ambush, he got a full report. He knew there was an axe-user and a pyrokinetic involved. But when he texted me, he only mentioned the bandaged man.” Waldbauer pinched the bridge of his nose.

​”Perhaps he didn't want us catching the only two Blutsaugers with a clear paper trail before he could get to them.” Sundermeier said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

​”You're a long way from that bistro in Pankow, Herr Porion.” Schroll said. “You were a waiter. You stayed here while your parents went back to Strasbourg because you found a new family in Traugott Winkel. You were a nobody when we arrested you at seventeen.”

“Oh, is that the first time you've called me 'Herr'?” Alain replied, pretending to be flattered.

Waldbauer leaned into the intercom. “Schroll. Ask him about his conversation with Ilse Schlag.”

​Schroll relayed the question. “Last night, Division II questioned you about your conversation with Ilse Schlag at the bar in Pankow. You wouldn't answer and you ended up in a shootout before taking off. Can you tell us what that was all about? Do you have any idea why Frau Schlag went after Agent Mohl and Feldhoff? Who are the men accompanying you in the bar? And what was your conversation with Frau Schlag about?”

​Alain lowered his head, and his lips curled into a thin, predatory smile. “You chucklefucks have been digging through my phone for who knows how long. I'm sure you’ve already seen the list. You know which of you is scheduled to die tonight. Why do you think I let you catch me? And just a reminder that I’m not the prisoner here, I’m the countdown.”

Schroll didn't move, though his grip on the folder tightened until his knuckles turned white. “You’re in a level four high-security suite, Porion. There are two meters of reinforced concrete between you and the surface. You're a prisoner of the state.”

Alain leaned in close, his voice barely audible that the observers could barely hear him.

“Your state is a corpse. It’s been dead since that shitshow Siegfried pulled in 2019, and Lämmer are just the maggots finally coming out to feast. You think these walls matter? Traugott knows exactly where I am. Every second you spent looking at my Discord was a second they spent tracking the ping from my GPS. I didn't let you catch me because I'm a coward. I let you catch me so you'd bring me into the heart of the nest.”

​A heavy silence fell over both sides of the glass. The realization hit Sundermeier, Reitz and Waldbauer simultaneously. Alain wasn't just a suspect; he was a beacon, and the BAB was finally seeing the signal. 

​Sundermeier’s composure didn't just crack, it vanished. Her breath hitched, she spun on her heel and rushed toward the heavy security doors. 

​”Director!” Waldbauer called out. He and Reitz scrambled to follow her as she ran into the hallway, her heels clicking a frantic, uneven rhythm against the floor. 

​She reached the elevator bank and her trembling hand hammered the up button. Even though she was getting frantic, she knew better than to break the only way out of the sub-levels. 

​Waldbauer and Reitz slipped inside just as the metal doors hissed shut. 

Sundermeier collapsed against the rear rail. The cold, intimidating director was gone. She gripped her throat, her eyes wide and wet with a sudden, visceral terror. 

​”Director?” Reitz asked softly, reaching out a hand but hesitant to touch her. 

​”We have to get to the surface.” She choked out. “I need to get Commander Naddaf on a secure line. He needs to know... He's at the top of their list.”

​She looked at her hands, which were shaking uncontrollably. “If it weren't for Porion's carelessness... We would have had no idea a domestic terrorist Neo-Nazi cult is after us. We would have sat here, shuffling papers and filling out reports, until the sun went down.”

​She looked up at Waldbauer, her face pale. “And all of us would be dead. Berlin Division would have been a graveyard by sunrise, and we wouldn't have known who was holding the shovel.”

—

Schroll leaned over the table. "You dodged my question about the Pankow bar, Porion, and I won't ask again. Who were those men with you? If they're as loyal as you claim, tell me their names. Let's see if they’re on our registry." 

​Alain leaned forward, the predatory smile returning to his pale face. "You want names? It was Sei and Moschetto. My brothers, and better men than I. 

​”What are their real names?” Schroll demanded. 

​"Clemente Fioretti and Adriano Origlio," Alain whispered, his voice dripping with a sickening pride. "You already have their files, don't you? Go ahead, look them up. By the time you find their addresses, they’ll be at your front gate to take me home. They don’t leave family behind."

—

​Commander Naddaf checked his watch while speaking with Vice Commander Detenyuk. 

“My kids won't forgive me if I'm late.” Naddaf said. “I trust you can take the lead, Vice Commander. You know how Agent Nüsken was back in 2017 and got Division III in a crossfire.” 

​The heavy hiss of the main elevator interrupted them. Sundermeier was pale, her usual composure gone. She rushed toward Naddaf. 

​“Director? What happened?” Naddaf reached out to calm her down. “Are you alright?” 

​“Your name is at the top of the hit list. Gather every available agent.” she said, her voice strained. “We need a full-division briefing right away.” 

Before Naddaf could answer, Sundermeier’s earpiece started beeping red. She grimaced at the sound and tapped it to answer. 

​“Director,” Schroll’s voice crackled over the comms. “I just got new information from Porion. The two men from the bar are Clemente Fioretti and Adriano Origlio. They were also involved in the Neukölln ambush. They’re operating under the handles "Sei" and "Moschetto". Porion says they're using his phone's GPS to try and get him out. You need to send teams to Pankow immediately.” 

—

​The briefing room was full. The Berlin Division's primary squads were present, along with some reserve agents filling in for the specialized units. 

​The assembly was a cross-section of the BAB’s specialized force: 

Division I: Senior Agent Waldbauer and Reitz stood near Ferdinand Dähne, whose hands fidgeted near his sidearm. 

Division II: Senior Agent Irzykowska stood alongside Mazuchowski, Lahyani, and Zemanová. Lauen was next to them, fixing her hair. 

Division III: Senior Agent Özpetek maintained a grim silence. He stood alongside Gregor, Zweig, and Iwobi. Spasojević is at the end of the row. 

Division IV: Senior Agent Kurt Zürner kept a sharp eye on his cousin, Gregor. Behind him were Odai Wasfi, Hala Sharqi, and Hatice Enver. Sönmez stood ready, her dark eyes reflecting the room’s lights. 

Division V: Senior Agent Dorcas Ayeley, with her eyepatch firmly in place, stood tall amid the chaos. Beside her were Feryal Hemida, Zoya Demko, Közaiym Tynyshbaeva, and Niusha Veisi. 

Naddaf stepped to the podium. “Thank you all for your presence on such short notice and for maintaining your professionalism under this unprecedented threat. As you are aware, Agents Mohl and Feldhoff are absent. But we've sent instructions to them in Spandau to remain on high alert and maintain their position until we clarify the threat level.” 

The technician plugged the projector's USB cable into his laptop, and Naddaf continued his speech. 

​“According to recent investigations on Alain Porion's phone, he is a member of Lämmer and a moderator of their Discord server." 

The projector lit up and displayed screenshots from the server on Naddaf's left. 

“A domestic terrorist Neo-Nazi cult composed of 30 members and was created way back in 2017 by an anonymous individual who calls himself Adler. They are responsible for the attempted assassination of Beatrice Gastaldello on the night of 31st of October. We also found that the perpetrator, Heiko, is one of them.”

Gregor slammed a fist into the palm of his hand, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw bunched. “Bastards! Worse than the low-lives who told me “Arbeit macht frei” while they kicked me in the ribs.” 

Kurt turned his head to Gregor. “Gregor!” 

At night, Lämmer will commence Operation Nachtmahlzeit, the plan to bomb every division, assassinate our quasi-god and Frau Gastaldello again, and take government officials hostage. Bruder Vierzehn, one of the mods, had made a hit list on its dedicated channel, specifically targeting those they deem "sub-human" within our own ranks.” 

The projector showed a screenshot of the hit list. It wasn't just a list of names, it was the lifeblood of the division laid bare. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the collective gasp. A sharp, cold realization that they weren't just investigating a crime, they were staring at their own death warrants.

Zemanová's face went pale, “On Shabbos?! I swear if they go after my family, if they set foot near my parents, I’ll show them exactly what a “sub-human” is capable of.” 

Lahyani reached over, squeezing Hadassah’s arm with a strength that belied her gentle tone. “Zemanová, please take a deep breath. If we lose our composure, they’ve already won the first round. We stay together.” 

Gregor's reaction was the loudest. He clenched his fist, his face turning red with a surge of ire. 

“They have our names and our addresses?! What the hell have we been doing while they were cataloging our lives?!” 

“This is the price of complacency,” Irzykowska said, her voice sharp as a blade. “This just proves once again the German government can’t be trusted to prune its own weeds until they’ve already strangled the garden. We’ve been warning them about these underground cells for years, and they treated it like it was an urban legend.” 

Mazuchowski nodded grimly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Too busy looking for threats from the outside to realize the house has been rotting from the basement up. We’re on our own on this one.” 

​Vice Commander Detenyuk stepped toward Gregor. “Agent Nüsken, control yourself. Emotional outbursts will not secure our perimeter.” 

​Gregor spun on him, his eyes narrowing with a sharp bitterness. “Oh, I’m sorry, Vice Commander. Does my concern bother you? Maybe some of us actually give a damn that our friends are on a butcher’s list while you’re busy worrying about trivial matters.” 

​​The air thickened between them, until Kurt stepped in. 

Kurt, who acted as Gregor’s older brother figure since he is one of the only people Gregor would take seriously, placed his hand on his cousin's shoulder. 

​“Gregor.” He said, his voice low and unwavering. “You didn't follow me through the academy and joined the BAB just to get suspended for insubordination. We need to be smart if we’re going to survive this.” 

​Gregor let out a sharp, frustrated breath, but he subsided, sinking into his seat under Kurt’s watchful eye. 

​“He’s right to be mad, though.” Özpetek muttered. 

​Naddaf cleared his throat, “We have four primary targets: Traugott Winkel, alias Bruder Vierzehn, located in Pankow, Ilse Schlag, alias goldenhand, in Neukölln, and our two newest confirmations: Clemente Fioretti, alias Sei, and Adriano Origlio, alias Moschetto, also in Pankow. We are mobilizing extraction teams to their residences immediately. We will catch them before the sun goes down and do not wait for them to come to us.” 

With a yank of the cord, Naddaf unfurled a wall map of Berlin. It shows the map of Berlin with the names of its twelve boroughs displayed. He began to face the members of Division III. 

“Agents Zweig and Iwobi, start a trace on the GPS pings. If Fioretti and Origlio are using Porion’s phone as a beacon, we turn that beacon into a trap. Agent Spasojević, I want a digital blackout around the Pankow coordinates the moment our teams are in position.” 

He then turned to the members of Division II. 

​“Division II will handle the communications blackout for the surrounding blocks. We need to ensure Neukölln is cleared of civilians before the first shot is fired. Agents Zemanová and Lauen, call the local police and tell them there's a gas leak and to get the residents out. We can't have bystanders caught in the crossfire of a Blutsauger capture.” 

​Lauen nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her face set in a grim mask. “On it. We’ll make sure the public sees nothing but a routine maintenance operation.” 

​At the back, Ayeley adjusted her eyepatch, “Division V, you’re our vanguard. I want those silver-nitrate rounds chambered and UV-flashbangs on every belt. If Lämmer wants a holy war, we give them the sun.” 

​“We’ll need heavy transport for Pankow.” Hala Sharqi from Division IV interjected, adjusting her gloves. “If they’re expecting us at the front gate, we go through the roof.” 

​Sundermeier stood near the podium, hands still shaky as agents headed to the armory. She spotted Waldbauer and Reitz moving into place with Division I. 

​“Director,” Naddaf said, stepping beside her. “You did the right thing bringing this to us.” 

“I didn't do it for a thank you, Commander.” Sundermeier replied, her voice regaining some of its steel. “I did it because I refuse to let my agents be reduced to numbers. Your family is waiting for you to come home tonight, make sure you're the one who walks through that door.”

Chapter Text

???, ??? 

In an apartment far from the borders of Berlin, Adler sat before his laptop. The blue light reflecting in his eyes that held no warmth for the flock he commanded from a distance. 

​On his screen, his Discord was a chaotic mess of red notification pings. He went to his right-hand man's DMs.  

​Adler: I just woke up to my notifications saying that Fauri is captured. Tell my flock to start messaging each other privately instead of sending new messages on the server. The BAB already got his phone. 

​Bruder Vierzehn: I'm on it, Shepherd. I've already ordered them not to message Fauri as well. They’re shaken, but I’ve reminded them that Fauri knew the risks. He was a piece on the board, nothing more. 

​Adler: Make sure they understand: the server is now a trap. Anything they type there goes straight to BAB. If any of them can't keep their mouths shut, delete their message and kick them out. We cannot have the Spandau or Pankow operations compromised because of one waiter's ego.

​Bruder Vierzehn: Understood. What about the countdown? 

​Adler: Let the BAB focus on the Frenchman. Every hour they spend interrogating him is an hour they aren't looking at the sky. Let's keep our focus on von Wagenheim for now. If Heiko is still in Spandau, tell Felix to keep him on a short leash. 

—

KAMPF18’s apartment, Spandau

​The smell of iron and fat hung heavy in the small, cluttered kitchen. Heiko sat at the table, methodically chewing through a plate of Tote Oma. 

The gray-brown mixture of congealed blood sausage and liverwurst was barely warm because the microwave's heat couldn't beat it, but he didn't seem to care. He was dressed in a plain, navy sweater and another pair of black pants. 

​”Hey, can I use your phone?” Heiko asked, his voice rasping. “I left mine at Mitte and I only have my burner. I just want to see the latest updates on Lämmer.”

​KAMPF18, who had been scrolling through his device with a pale face, didn't answer immediately. His fork remained suspended halfway to his mouth. 

​”Is there something wrong?” Heiko asked. 

​”Fauri…” KAMPF18 stammered, his eyes glued to the screen. “Fauri was captured by the BAB. He’s in the Berlin Field Office.”

​Heiko stopped chewing. “What?”

​KAMPF18 turned the phone around, showing a private message from Adler.

​FAURI IS COMPROMISED. CEASE ALL SERVER ACTIVITY IMMEDIATELY. ALL UNITS REMAIN DARK. THE COUNTDOWN HAS BEGUN. DO NOT SEEK HIM. DO NOT MESSAGE HIM. WAIT FOR THE SIGNAL.

​”No way.” Heiko muttered, a flicker of something, anger or perhaps fear, crossed his face. 

​”They're going to break him,” KAMPF18 whispered. “If the BAB gets into the server, they'll see everyone. They'll see me.”

​”They won't get anything from him that the Shepherd doesn't want them to have.” Heiko said, pushing his plate away and standing up. “Anyway, I'm going to Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf. It’s an eighteen minute taxi ride if I catch one near the U-Bahn.”

​KAMPF18 jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair. “But it's dangerous out there! The BAB is crawling all over Spandau! Felix said you should stay here until dawn so I can drive you to Tiergarten.”

​”I keep my style simple so authorities can't pick me out easily.” Heiko replied coldly, grabbing his backpack. “I won't be wearing my hood up. They would think I'm just some guy on his way to work.”

​”Heiko, please. You're not thinking straight,” KAMPF18 pleaded, his voice rising in panic. “You know you can't fly right now because your wings are molting and dropping feathers everywhere! The BAB already found some near the old canal. If they see you limping around Grunewald, you’re a sitting duck.”

​Heiko paused at the door and turned his head. “I'm only going to finish what the Shepherd started.”

​”Heiko, wait! You shouldn't fight Siegfried alone! We have to wait for the others-”

​The door slammed shut before KAMPF18 could finish. 

​Left alone in the silence of the kitchen, KAMPF18’s hands shook as he opened his Discord DMs. He went to message the only person who seemed to have a plan for Heiko. 

​KAMPF18: Heiko left early. He's going to Grunewald. I couldn't stop him. 

​Felix318: Dammit! That idiot is going to lead them right to us. He was supposed to wait until the sun was down. If he shows up in the middle of Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, the whole operation is blown. I think we should change the strategy. 

​KAMPF18: I only know that BLUTUNDEHRE and TODDERANTIFA live in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf, but I'm not sure if they can reach Siegfried's mansion in time to help him. Siegfried is a Seraph and this isn't going to be easy for Heiko. If Heiko is down, we're all screwed. 

​Felix318: Listen to me. If he makes it to Tiergarten tonight, I’ll handle it. We can't have a broken tool rattling around in the box. 

​KAMPF18: What do you mean “handle it”? We need him for Nachtmahlzeit. 

​Felix318: I mean we need to make sure he doesn't suffer, and more importantly, that he doesn't talk. If a bird can't fly, it’s just a mouth that needs feeding. We’ll put him to rest at the rendezvous. 

​KAMPF18: I don't know what you're talking about. 

​Felix318: You'll figure it out soon once we meet up. Just keep your head down and wait for my call.

—

​Strasbourg, France — 2015 

Alain’s father, a structural engineer, had just gotten a job offer for a project in Pankow, known as one of Berlin’s districts in high-risk level for Blutsauger crime. 

His mother, a legal consultant specializing in international medical ethics, was already working through the frustrating Blutsauger regulations.

​“Alain, dépêche-toi!” (Alain, hurry up!) Eulalie shouted from the bottom of the stairs, checking her watch with a huff. 

​Alain went down stairs with an annoyed gait, struggling with a silver shoehorn to force his heel into a stiff leather loafer. “Mes pieds ont dû grandir pendant la nuit.” (My feet must have grown overnight.) he grumbled, finally snapping the shoe on and grabbing his jacket. 

— 

​In the car, the tension was thick. As they sped toward the airport, his mother turned back from the passenger seat. 

​“Alain, j'espère que tu feras un effort avec ton allemand.” (Alain, I hope you make an effort with your German.) she said, her eyes searching his. “Tes nouveaux camarades de classe ne comprendront pas un mot de français. Tu ne veux pas être mis à l'écart, n'est-ce pas?” (Your new classmates won't understand a word of French. You don't want to be left out, do you?) 

​Alain didn’t answer. He simply leaned his head against the window and rolled his eyes, watching the familiar French city blur into the distance.

​—

​After months of language school where Alain and Eulalie spent their time conjugating verbs and butchering pronunciations, Alain finally stepped into his new school as a transfer student. He was sixteen now. 

​“Bonjour... I mean, Guten Tag.” Alain began, “My name is Alain Porion. I am from Strasbourg.” 

​In the back row, a boy leaned toward his companion. “Ew, French.” Clemente whispered, loud enough for his friend to hear but low enough to not get caught by the teacher.

​Adriano shushed him with a quick nudge of his elbow, though he didn't look particularly welcoming either. Alain took a seat near the window and opened a textbook. 

— 

​During lunch, Alain wandered the halls with a classmate, walking on their way to the cafeteria. 

“I heard Alsace had cases of Blutsaugers from Baden-Württemberg illegally crossing there. Has anyone in your family encountered one?” The girl asked.

​“No, but I heard that there was an assault in a nightclub back in 2000. No wonder my parents told me I can't go outside alone at night. French government filed a formal diplomatic protest against the German authorities over it. They claimed the border patrol was negligent for letting a high-risk Blutsauger cross the Rhine without a tracker. They called it a failure of security. It took years for the tension to die down.

—

Clemente was adjusting his collar, while Adriano leaned against the tiled wall. Clemente turned to the right and saw Alain walking in.

​“Oh, it’s him again.” He said, slightly disgusted.

​Alain leaned against the doorframe. “I was just wondering. Considering the Italy scandal you two were famed for in 1999, what was it like moving here at fourteen? It must have been tough, especially being born to illegally transformed parents in a country where Blutsauger blood is outlawed.”

​Clemente sighed, “You know the story.” 

He began his story, his tone even as though he had told it a million times. 

“My mother had a postpartum hemorrhage. Doctors thought her red-orange blood was a hematological disorder until they demanded a blood test on my father and found that he had the same blood color.”

​Clemente turned on the sink to wash his hands, “Then I learned that they drank wine mixed with Blutsauger blood when they were university students.” He added. “Smuggled from the Austrian border because SBK wasn't as good at stopping it as they claimed. My grandparents from both sides were not happy with the discovery since they were victims of the fascist regime.” 

Adriano joined in the conversation, “I was born two months after Clemente, the hospital staff were already on alert because of Clemente’s case. The blood color gave it away before I even took my first breath. It was an embarrassment for the EU health ministries.”

​“In school back home,” Clemente said, his jaw tightening. “The teachers graded us harsher and the other students mocked how extremely pale we were and we would get into fist fights with them.”

​Alain listened, mesmerized. “After years of monitoring, you had to be moved out.”

⚠️⚠️⚠️
​“Correct.” Clemente said. “The Italian government didn't want the liability. To my parents, Austria is a death trap for Blutsaugers because the SBK is far more brutal than the BAB. I heard SBK agents were known to blow Blutsaugers' heads off without question. I know a Serbian family who fled to Austria in the 90s had to move here so the mother could deliver safely in a German hospital. They mentioned they were uncomfortable with the SBK.”

​Lunch was ending. The bell rang with a shrill, jarring tone. Clemente patted Alain’s shoulder, a gesture that felt less like friendship and more like a warning.