The night over northern England was black and cold, the kind of damp chill that crept through wool and bone alike. Konrad Maier crouched low behind a stone wall slick with rain, the muffled thrum of a distant aircraft fading into the overcast sky. The mission had gone impossibly well so far — too well. They had parachuted in under cloud cover, ghosted through the hills and hedgerows, and reached the British containment site without so much as a stray searchlight sweeping their way. Now, the low buildings loomed ahead — squat, industrial structures surrounded by barbed wire and patrolling sentries. Floodlights swept across the yard in slow, mechanical arcs. Conrad could smell the wet earth, the oil of his rifle, the metallic sting of adrenaline in his mouth. His breath came in steady rhythm, every inhale measured against the soft rain tapping against his helmet.

Their commanding officer, Oberleutnant Weiss, gave the signal. Three fingers — then two — then one. The team moved.

Silence and precision — a shadow slipping between shadows. The first guard went down without a sound, the knife glinting briefly before it vanished again into Konrad’s gloved hand. A door was forced open. Inside, the building smelled of sweat, old wood, and disinfectant. The air was warmer, heavy with human breath and fear. From down the corridor came muffled voices — not German, not English. Japanese.

Konrad’s pulse quickened. They’d found them. The team split. Some moved to secure the exits, others to the cells. Konrad followed the echo of hushed sobs and the rattle of chains, until he found a narrow room lined with crude wooden bunks and bound figures — men and women, huddled under thin blankets, faces gaunt and eyes wide with disbelief. Their uniforms — or what was left of them — were soaked and torn, medical insignia faint but visible on some sleeves. Nurses.

He holstered his weapon and moved quickly to the nearest prisoner, crouching beside a bound figure struggling weakly against coarse rope.

“Nicht bewegen,” he murmured — don’t move — though he knew they likely wouldn’t understand. His voice was low, calm, more to reassure than instruct.

His hands worked at the knots, fingers trembling slightly from the cold. Then the prisoner lifted their head, and for a heartbeat, Konrad froze. The face looking back at him was young — startlingly so. Smooth, delicate features framed by dark hair matted to pale skin. Eyes that were wide and dark, reflecting the lamplight like glass. At first glance, he thought it was a girl — but no, the jawline was softer than most men’s yet not feminine, a boy perhaps no older than eighteen. There was a quiet grace to him, even now, bruised and terrified, his lips parted slightly as if on the edge of a question he dared not ask.

Konrad hesitated only for a second, but it was enough for the boy to notice. Their eyes met — a flicker of confusion, fear, then something else: trust, perhaps, or the desperate hope that this German soldier wasn’t just another captor. The rope came loose beneath Konrad’s fingers.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if it was true — or if the boy could even understand him.

Gunfire cracked from somewhere outside — short, distant bursts. One of his comrades shouted,

“Los! Schnell!” and Konrad turned his head sharply, instinct kicking back in. He helped the boy to his feet, steadying him when his knees buckled. The nurse’s hands clutched at his sleeve for balance, fingers cold and trembling.

For a brief moment, amid the chaos and urgency, Konrad’s world narrowed to the warmth of that fragile grip. The mission, the politics, the war — all of it blurred. He only saw a frightened young face looking to him for safety, and he realized with a hollow ache that he would risk his life for a stranger he didn’t even know the name of.

Then the shout came again. “Maier! Move!” Konrad guided the boy toward the corridor, rifle ready, heart pounding. The rain outside was heavier now, drumming on the tin roof like a warning as they headed towards the trucks.