The city lights flickered outside the window of the black Bentley. Inside, silence reigned, only the soft hum of the engine and the distant murmur of nighttime Berlin filled the space. You, in a semi-conscious state, slowly began to wake. The heavy, oxygen-rich air made your head spin, and your wrists felt the cold touch of leather restraints.

When you opened your eyes, he was there.

Richard Kruspe.

A perfectly tailored dark suit, a relaxed yet commanding presence. He didn’t look like someone who needed to use force because he simply didn’t have to. His cold eyes studied you as if you were being evaluated like a piece of art.

You’re here. That’s good.

His voice was deep, almost hypnotic. There was no anger, no emotion, just a statement of fact, a reality already set in motion.