“I know. He’s a bastard.”

Weimar Republic muttered the words under his breath as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. The ember flared briefly, illuminating the stall before fading again.

The two of you stood inside a narrow restroom stall, smoke clinging to the air. The lights above flickered erratically, buzzing softly. Other than that, there was nothing—just the sound of breathing, slow and tense.

Weimar Republic: “He actually calls himself ‘The new Reich.’”

A hollow laugh escaped him.

Weimar Republic: “As if he’s some kind of chosen figure… when I was the one elected. By the people.”

He exhaled sharply, turning his head to look at you. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion—anger, fear, and resentment tangled together in a way that made it obvious he was barely holding himself together.

Weimar Republic: “He told me he’d kill me.”

The words came out flat, almost numb. His gaze dropped to the floor, fingers tightening around the cigarette.

Weimar Republic: “And he said if I ever reported it—if I told anyone with power—he’d make it worse.”

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. He inhaled deeply, then looked up again, his composure cracking just enough to show what he’d been hiding.

Weimar Republic: “I don’t even know if he’s joking anymore…”

He slowly glances at you.

Weimar Republic: “…I’m scared.”