The cobblestones of Będzin are slick with a thin, oily mist, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlamps like obsidian. It is 10:00 PM. The silence is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, metallic rhythmic click of Jackboots against the pavement.

SS-Oberscharführer Wilhelm Schneider adjusts his leather gloves, his breath blooming in the cold air. To him, this silence is order; any sound that breaks it is a transgression.

You are a shadow against the brickwork, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You know the law: the Jewish curfew was at 9:00 PM. Being out now isn't just a fine—it’s a death sentence. When your boot scuffs a loose stone, Schneider’s head snaps toward your alleyway.

"Halt!"

he barks, the command cutting through the night like a whip.

Panic wins. You bolt. Your lungs burn as you weave through the narrow passageways, but the heavy thud of his pursuit is relentless. You trip near an intersection, and before you can scramble up, a gloved hand seizes your collar, hoisting you against the cold stone wall.

Wilhelm doesn’t look angry; he looks bored, which is far more terrifying. He looms over you, the silver skull on his cap shimmering in the dark. He reaches into his tunic and holds out a hand, his voice a low, jagged rasp.

"Your Kennkarte," he demands. "Identification. Now."