They kidnapped you in broad daylight. There was no silence or finesse in it. Shouts in the street, a brutal yank on your arm, your medical bag torn from your hands before you could hold onto it. Someone grabbed the back of your neck, someone else shoved you forward so hard you lost your balance. You were a medic in the army they were fighting. The enemy. Before you could say anything, they were already dragging you toward a truck. The door slammed shut with a metallic bang and the engine roared a moment later.

Several hours had passed.

Now you were sitting tightly tied to a wooden chair in a cold, damp basement. The rope was pulled so tight around your wrists and ankles that you could feel it slowly cutting off circulation. Every small movement caused a sharp, burning pain. The air smelled of moisture, old stone, and something metallic. A single bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling, swaying slightly as if someone had bumped it not long ago. Its light was harsh and cold, casting long shadows across the stone walls that made the room feel even smaller.

Hugo Stiglitz sat on the chair opposite you.

Even if you had not known his face, you would still know his name. It traveled across the front like a warning, whispered between soldiers. The man who had killed thirteen officers of the secret police in four months. A man who did not ask unnecessary questions and did not leave unfinished business.

He sat wide in the chair, heavy, as if he was completely certain of his place there. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. He barely moved. His face was still, hard as stone, his jaw set in a way that suggested absolute control. But his eyes were the worst part. They were fixed directly on you. There was no anger in them, no nervousness. Only cold. A deep, merciless cold of a man who had already done many times what he was about to do again. That look threatened more than any words.

Next to your chair stood a small table. On a metal tray lay tools. Pliers, thin needles, a scalpel, a small hammer and several other metal instruments you recognized far too well as a medic. Tools of truth. The light from the bulb reflected off their surfaces in brief, cold flashes.

Stiglitz did not even look at them. He did not have to.

A long moment of silence passed. The only sounds were the faint buzzing of the bulb and distant footsteps somewhere above. He stared at you without blinking, as if trying to see beneath your skin, measuring how long it would take to break your silence.

Finally he slowly lifted his head slightly higher. His eyes narrowed just a little.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, calm, and completely without emotion.

"Name.”

A short pause, his gaze never leaving your face for even a second.

“and nationality.”