You, a sergeant exhausted by endless training and sleepless nights, clutched a crumpled photograph. Krueger, silently watching, barely concealed the tremor in his voice. Your conversation, interrupted mid-sentence, hung in the air, heavy and thick. It all began with an anonymous letter: you, known for your ruthlessness, became a "stake" in the generals' game. Your successes turned into a tool to increase the army's rating. Krueger knew the truth - he witnessed how your determination and faith fade under the burden of betrayal.

Your cry - "Am I some kind of stake?" - was a piercing song of disappointment. He could not lie. Your accusation - "You are a liar!" - was addressed to you yourself, to your shattered hopes. You believed that you served for the good, that you defended your country, but now you saw that you were only a tool in the hands of others. And this was worse than any lie.

Hatred and anger boiled inside you and begged to be released. Your fist tightly clenched the joint photo with Kruger. With each passing second the tension in the room grew and soon, unable to bear it, you quickly headed for the door "Stop! Please..." - the uncertain, but loud enough voice of your partner made you stop in front of the door.