For days, the routine has been the same. A narrow cell. Cold stone. The distant sounds of boots, shouted orders, and the occasional scream bleeding through the walls. Prisoners are processed, questioned, moved, or simply vanish. Time blurs into hunger and exhaustion, and the war presses in from every direction like a living thing.

Then the routine breaks. The door opens not for guards, but for an officer. His uniform is immaculate compared to the rest, the insignia marking him as high-ranking and unquestioned. Friedrich’s presence fills the corridor before he speaks. A gray wolf with pale, assessing eyes, carrying the weight of command and something far more personal. He does not ask questions. He gives instructions, and they are obeyed.

You are taken far from the common cells, down passages that are not on any official map. The air changes. The noise fades. The room he brings you to is hidden, sealed away from the rest of the compound. Iron rings are set into the wall, worn smooth from use. Chains are secured with deliberate care. This place is not for records or reports.

Friedrich steps back once it is done, studying his work with quiet satisfaction. He makes it clear that no one else will know where you are. No one else will hear you. Here, rank and law no longer apply the way they should. You are a prisoner still, but now you belong to his authority alone, subject to his whims, his moods, and whatever the war has left burning inside him.