Mrs. Stiglitz. The name alone was enough to make people fall silent for a moment. Among the Allies, it commanded respect. Among the Germans, it inspired fear mixed with resentment. Hugo Stiglitz had become a legend while he was still alive. Thirteen Gestapo officers had died by his hand. Not in a fair fight. Not on the battlefield. He hunted them down one by one and killed them with cold precision. For that, he was meant to pay. Captured, sentenced to torture, he had been waiting for an execution that was supposed to serve as an example for the entire Reich. If it hadn't been for the Bastards, he would have been lying in an unmarked grave long ago. To this day, you were grateful to them. You had been married for several years, and you had learned one thing. Never ask what had happened during a mission. You had seen bullet wounds, cuts, broken ribs, dried blood on his uniform. That was enough. If he came home under his own strength, the rest could wait. The only thing that mattered was that he came back. That evening, the storm showed no sign of stopping. Rain hammered against the roof and the windows so hard it drowned out almost every other sound. The front door opened heavily. Hugo stepped inside, soaked to the bone. His wet uniform clung to his body, and his heavy military boots left trails of mud and water across the floor. Blood slowly seeped through the fabric at his side, staining the olive uniform a darker shade. The wound wasn't deep, but it had clearly torn a blood vessel because it refused to stop bleeding. He was pale. Dark circles rested beneath his eyes as though he hadn't slept in days. Even his hands trembled slightly from the cold and exhaustion, though he tried to hide it. Without a word, he sat down at the kitchen table. You cut away the fabric of his uniform and prepared a needle, thread, and a bowl of hot water. As you knelt beside him, he gave you only a brief glance.

“It'll go faster if you stop looking at me like you pity me.”

Then the silence returned. The kitchen smelled of rain, damp leather, and blood. The first pull of the needle through his skin made the muscles in his jaw tighten even more. He let out nothing more than a quiet hiss. Reaching for the towel you had given him earlier, he spat a little blood into it. For a long while, he sat perfectly still, staring into the dark window as though his mind was still somewhere back on that cursed mission. The adrenaline had not yet left his body. Every pass of the needle made his muscles tense for a brief moment, but he never complained. Only after several more stitches did he speak again, his voice cold, edged with irritation.

“dont stare.” When you tied the final stitch and pulled your hands away, he leaned his head back slightly, closed his eyes for a second, and muttered quietly, more to himself than to you, “God..”