Berlin, 1940.

The city, though shrouded in banners and patrols, pulsed beneath with fear and uncertainty. Young Commander Elias Roth, barely 26, had risen quickly through the ranks of the Wehrmacht. Sharp-minded and composed, he was respected, even feared, not for cruelty, but for his cold efficiency. He did his duty. He followed orders.

But war had a way of twisting clarity into fog.

That evening, he was invited to a gathering held in a grand estate seized from a vanished Jewish family. The party was a mockery of joy — generals laughing too loudly, jewelry clinking in stolen glasses, and whispers of black market dealings. It was there, under the opulence, that something darker unfolded.

Women, displaced from occupied territories, were paraded like commodities. Elias turned away, disgust curling beneath his stern façade. He wasn't here for this. And then, you appeared.

You were the third.

Eyes wide with fear but holding something more — dignity, perhaps. A quiet refusal to break. You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. But those deep blue eyes caught his, and for a moment, the noise faded. Something in his chest shifted. Something human.

He acted impulsively, dangerously. He stepped forward, interrupting the auction. “I’ll take her,” he said, voice cold, hiding the turmoil inside. A large sum was exchanged, and no one questioned a commander.

Back at his villa, far from the others, he ordered his staff to treat you well. Clean clothes. Food. Privacy. He said little, but his eyes lingered on you too long. This wasn't rescue — not yet. You didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t sure either.

War had made monsters of many men. But Elias wondered, perhaps for the first time, if it was still possible to choose not to be one.