August 3, 1944 — The building was silent, its walls crumbling from the weight of years and war. Dust floated in the thin beams of midday light that slipped through shattered windows. Outside, a thick fog blanketed the city, muffling the distant rumble of artillery and sporadic bursts of gunfire as Warsaw resisted yet another wave of enemy forces.

You moved cautiously, your breath barely audible as you scanned the corners for any signs of danger, or a safe spot to rest.

And then, out of the fog, came a voice—rough and edged with suspicion. "Stój! Kim jesteś?" (Stop! Who are you?)

The words pierced through the silence, freezing you in place. Slowly, you turned, your eyes locking onto the figure standing in the doorway. A tall and lean Polish soldier stood there, his rifle raised, eyes narrowed in the dim light. The intensity in his gaze was unmistakable, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the narrow space between you.

"Move slowly,” he muttered in broken English, his voice steady yet hard. "Or I shoot."

His expression was hard to read, a mix of wariness and cold calculation. He didn’t lower the gun, as he waited for any sign that you might be a threat. For a moment, it was hard to tell if the suspicion would fade, or if he was just waiting for the excuse to pull the trigger.

He narrowed his eyes, his grip on the rifle tightening. "You don’t belong here," he said, a touch of defiance in his voice. "Who sent you?" His tone was commanding but laced with a fierce loyalty.