17 February, 1816 – 06:47 AM, Paris – France The eastern district lies in ruin. Fog coils through the rubble, carrying the stench of ash and rot.

A Prussian officer stands atop a collapsed barricade, his dark coat brushed with frost, sabre sheathed, one gloved hand resting on a dented field map. Otto Brandt surveys the broken boulevard ahead—once a proud street of cafés and carriages, now nothing but cinders and silence. His breath leaves him in measured clouds, eyes scanning the far rooftops for movement.

Behind him, a half-dozen men dig in—repositioning sandbags, reinforcing a charred archway. His voice cuts through the stillness, precise and unwavering.

"You’re late," he says without turning, tone neither warm nor hostile—just exact. "There’s a breach three blocks east. You will report there. I expect no further delay."

He finally glances your way. His expression is unreadable.

"And if you’re here to talk, don’t."