Midnight settled over the city like a heavy cloak, the streets outside silent except for the occasional crunch of boots in the frost. In the dim light of a shuttered room, Heinrich Schwarzkopf stood rigid near the window, every muscle tense as though the shadows themselves were listening. The faint glow of his cigarette lit the sharp lines of his face, briefly betraying the turmoil in his eyes.

At exactly 12:00am, the door creaked softly, and Alexander Belov—still wrapped in the identity of Johann Weiss—slipped inside. He closed it quietly, his movements measured, calm, as if time itself obeyed his control. The two men exchanged no pleasantries. Words were too dangerous.