Chapter Text
Saxony, September 1944.
The snow had long since melted, but the early mist still hung pale and white across the forest path.
The order arrived before autumn truly set in.
Friedrich didn’t ask why.
He never asked.
—
He was summoned - pulled from the SD’s elite training unit in Berlin and placed on an overnight train bound for the eastern highlands of Germany. In his coat pocket, he carried assignment papers stamped by the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, along with a terse verbal command:
Observe. Do not interfere unless instructed. Ensure the appearance of protection. Do not form attachments.
It wasn’t the kind of assignment typically given to a young recruit.
But Friedrich no longer counted as ordinary.
Not after the final months at Napola Potsdam.
Not after the trials at the outpost training camps, where even the smallest misstep could be recorded for life.
He remained silent on the train, eyes fixed on the window fogged with condensation. The scenery slipped away in reverse, like a black-and-white newsreel - abandoned farms, idle factories, soldiers turning their faces away from view.
The suitcase at his feet was light, packed with only what was necessary: a Walther pistol, a notebook, a topographical map of the Thuringian-Saxon hills, and a pair of worn black gloves.
Friedrich didn’t dwell on the place he was being sent to - except for the name typed at the top of a sealed file:
Albrecht Stein, male, eighteen years old.
The only son of Gauleiter Heinrich Stein - a man known less for mercy than precision. One of the Central German officials granted special authority by Himmler himself: Military logistics, civil defense… and cultural purges.
Friedrich had heard the rumors.
Scholars and artists had “disappeared” over the past three years under Stein’s watch.
So why the need to “protect” the only son?
Or rather - keep him watched?
—
The Stein family manor stood apart, alone on a pine-covered hillside. Built in a heavy-handed neoclassical style, lion heads carved into massive gate pillars, glaring down in stone judgment.
The house itself lay quiet beneath a grey evening sky,
its only movement the black-and-red flag shifting in the wind from the main balcony.
Friedrich stepped down from the SS transport.
No greetings exchanged.
He handed over his documents to the butler and walked straight to the second floor.
The boy wasn’t there.
Albrecht Stein did not come to receive him.
—
Friedrich was shown to a room at the far end of the East corridor - not far from Albrecht’s quarters, but not adjacent. The instructions were clear:
Remain within line of sight. Do not intrude on private life unless there are signs of danger.
The room had only what was needed: a desk, a small cabinet, a single bed, a plain leather chair with a tall back - old, but still serviceable.
The window faced the forest.
More than enough for a young man on assignment.
He didn’t remove the uniform.
Just unstrapped the pistol, and hung the coat on the rack.
—
When night fell, the first sound Friedrich heard was the piano.
It came from the room across the corridor - not beautiful, exactly, but deep. Fragmented. Wounded.
At times, the player would stop mid-phrase, then strike a single wrong note - deliberate, as if to shatter whatever harmony had just begun to form.
Then the music would resume,
as if nothing had broken.
Friedrich sat with his back straight. He didn’t react. That was the assignment.
Observe. Don’t respond. Don’t interpret. And don’t intervene.
A few minutes later, the music ceased.
Then came the soft sound of a door opening. Closing again.
Friedrich stood, instinctively. But didn’t leave his room.
Moments passed.
Then - a knock.
Not a command. Light. Measured. But certain.
He opened the door.
The boy standing there wore a high-neck wool sweater - the kind of knit made only from the finest yarn, likely tailored.
Over it, a thin black coat.
His dark-brown hair was tousled across his forehead, catching the faint light like lacquered wood.
Blue eyes like ice thawing at the edge of spring.
Thinner than Friedrich had expected.
Albrecht Stein looked at him for a moment.
“You’re the new one?”
His voice was cold. Polite, just enough.
Friedrich nodded.
“Whose orders?”
“Reichssicherheitshauptamt.”
Albrecht’s mouth curled slightly.
“Of course.”
He watched Friedrich a moment longer, then turned away, not waiting for a response.
Friedrich closed the door. There was nothing more to say.
—
One week passed.
Friedrich never entered Albrecht’s room.
He refused to answer questions not strictly necessary. Didn’t speak first. Didn’t look too long. But was always there. Just as they’d taught him:
Become a shadow. Not a person.
But even a shadow can give itself away - in the smallest of things.
On the fourth evening, Friedrich saw Albrecht’s gloves left out on the balcony, forgotten after a piano session.
It was clear he hadn’t meant to leave them. Just hadn’t remembered to bring them back.
Friedrich didn’t call. Didn’t leave a note.
He simply placed a worn pair of black leather gloves - his own - on the closed lid of the Steinway.
—
The next morning,
Albrecht’s gloves were still on the railing. Friedrich’s were gone.
Albrecht never spoke of it. But he didn’t return them either.
Days later, Friedrich saw him stepping out of the library, arms full of books, knuckles white from the strain.
In his hand
was that same pair of gloves.
Not worn, just held - like something to anchor thought.
As if he couldn’t afford to lose them again.