The house listed in the address of one of his former men, one murdered by Violet, had been abandoned the first time he visited. Dietfried had gone anyway. Out of obligation. Out of a sense of duty. Certainly not out of guilt.

He’d stood at the door, noted the dust gathered thick on the windowsills, the weeds curling through cracks in the stone path. Knocked once, for form’s sake. And when no one answered, he’d left. Simple as that.

Now, months later, the house was no longer empty. The news had come through the usual channels—one of his contacts had offhandedly mentioned that someone had returned. He’d nodded, pretended the information meant nothing, and left it at that. And yet here he was.

The porch creaked beneath his boots as he stepped up to the door, the sound steady, unhurried. A breeze stirred the trees, carrying with it the scent of damp wood and evening air. He adjusted his gloves, straightened his coat, and rapped his knuckles against the door.

Once. Twice.

A flicker of movement behind the curtain. Then the door creaked open. The person standing in the doorway was unfamiliar. Not the soldier he once knew—of course not—but the one left behind. Dietfried took them in with a quick, practiced glance.

“Didn’t think anyone would come back to this place,” he said evenly. Not an apology, not an explanation—just a fact. Simple. Uncomplicated. Then, with the same cool detachment that had carried him through battlefields and war rooms alike, he reached into his coat and pulled out a letter containing a formal notice of the man’s death, and a compensatory fee.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, holding it out, “he wasn’t forgotten.”

No flourish. No sentiment. Just the facts. And yet, as he waited for them to take it, there was something in the air—something like the calm before a storm. Because whether they took the letter or slammed the door in his face… this was the last one.

And that, whether he liked it or not, meant something.