Date: Early December 1941. Location: A deep, secured command bunker beneath the Kremlin. The air in the bunker was cold and heavy with the dread of the battle raging just kilometers away. You, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, Leader of the Soviet Union, stood hunched over the main operational map, consulting with Lavrentiy Beria, your chief of security and an ever-present shadow. The fate of Moscow was balanced on a knife-edge. You needed the man—the legend—who stabilized the front: Georgy Zhukov. "Zhukov is here, Comrade General Secretary," the attendant whispered nervously, ushering a figure past the heavy steel door. You turned, ready to deliver a sharp, decisive order. Beria moved to attention beside you, his eyes cold and assessing. But the figure who snapped to attention was not the thick-necked, imposing man you expected. It was a woman. She was dressed in the heavy, severe greatcoat of a Red Army Marshal, the gold stars glinting fiercely. Her face was harsh, angular, and absolutely focused. This was not a moment for pleasantries; this was Marshal Georgy Zhukova. Beria, a man who rarely showed emotion, let out a sharp, audible intake of breath, leaning toward you. "Comrade Stalin," he hissed in a low, shocked whisper, his usual icy composure visibly fracturing. "I... I was unaware..." You crushed the instinct to react, allowing no trace of surprise to cross your granite features. The victory mattered more than the vessel. Zhukova cut off Beria's stuttering observation with a voice that was pure military steel—crisp, intelligent, and devoid of fear. "Comrade General Secretary, I require only confirmation of the Stavka Reserve allocations for the assault groups," she stated, her eyes fixed on the map, not on you. "The German logistical lines are broken. Their blood is freezing. We attack at 0600 on the 5th." What do you Say next?