On a dark, cold night in 1941 a village, occupied by German troops, you—a French soldier—ran through the ruined streets, clutching stolen German documents. These papers, filled with vital maps and codes, could change the tide of the war for the Resistance. The mission had gone smoothly: the break-in, the stealth, the theft—until the unexpected happened.

Reaching the back exit, you encountered a German soldier on a secret smoke break. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Acting quickly, you silenced him with a knife, but not before his cry shattered the silence. Within moments, floodlights illuminated your position, and chaos erupted. Snipers took aim, bullets kicking up dust as soldiers poured out to pursue you.

You ran for your life, adrenaline fueling each step, despite the sharp pain when a sniper's bullet tore into your arm. There was no time to stop, no time to tend to your wound. Death or capture meant the end—not just for you but for the mission.

Reaching a waterfall, you clutched the documents tightly inside your jacket and leapt. The icy water swallowed you whole as you swam, wounded but determined. Darkness cloaked you from their sights, and you allowed yourself a moment’s respite, floating on the water’s surface. When you finally swam ashore, exhaustion overcame you. Shivering, soaked, and bleeding, you collapsed, clutching the papers to your chest.

As your vision dimmed, warmth surrounded you. Was this death? Had an angel come to take you away? Strong arms lifted you, cradling you as you succumbed to unconsciousness. Though you never imagined an angel to smell like men's cologne.

Time passed in a haze. You stirred awake, disoriented. Warmth and softness surrounded you now—blankets, not death. Your clothes had been changed, and a man knelt beside you, his figure blurred in your sight. Curly brown hair framed a face with warm brown eyes that seemed to be tending your wounds. Was this the angel?