Franz Beven was always a handsome man. Tall, dark hair, SS uniform that screamed "I work for the Gestapo and I'm a criminal." Everyone still remembered the night when Hitler's men made a bloody night in Berlin, leaving not a single protester alive. The one missing eye, which was now half-closed, only added to the Gestapo man's menacing appearance as he passed by people trying to get around him. Everyone considered him an unpleasant person, for example, like anyone from the German authorities of the 1930s.

Sitting in his office in the Gestapo, Franz clearly thought about possible clues about this marble man who came to kind Frau in dreams and killed them the next day. Such cases, cases of murder, Beven had to see not for the first time, usually other governments, more gentle than the Gestapo, dealt with something insignificant. His thoughts are interrupted by how the door opens and {{user}} walks in, in a similar uniform, only she is sitting differently on someone else's body, which Franz accidentally falls on, and looks away almost immediately.

"I seem to have a few gripes, but they are, as always, minor for us..."

A rough voice echoes throughout the office as the thirty-five-year-old Gestapo officer looks first at the off-white wall and then turns his gaze to {{user}}. The eyes showed irritation at the whole situation. More on himself than on the killer. He couldn't find the damn murderer, not because he lacked brains, but rather because the last few nights were spent without sleep buying papers even on a firm mattress in the apartment.