He looked around frantically.
Then he screamed.
A raw, agonizing cry ripped from his throat, so loud that the guards outside immediately burst into the office.
"It was me all along."
The words echoed through the room.
For a moment, Paul did not move.
Then his legs gave out beneath him.
He dropped to his knees.
His hands rose slowly to his face, trembling.
Everything.
Every decision.
Every death.
Every sacrifice.
Every mistake.
Every vision.
It had all been him.
His future self.
A broken sound escaped his throat.
Then another.
His shoulders shook violently as he buried his face in his hands.
"I am sorry..."
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Paul's fingers clenched tighter.
"I am so sorry, Elisabeth."
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, the composure he had built around himself cracked open.
All the control.
All the certainty.
All the discipline that had carried him through war, politics, betrayal, and bloodshed collapsed in an instant.
"I am sorry..."
Again.
And again.
As though repeating the words enough times might somehow reach the dead.
And so he stayed there.
The guards tried to pull him back to himself, shaking his shoulders and calling his name, but Paul barely seemed to notice them.
It was as if he had fallen somewhere far beyond their reach.
Outside, night had already fallen, yet the celebrations showed no sign of ending.
Fireworks lit up the sky.
Brilliant flashes burst above the city, filling the darkness with light.
The crowds below cheered.
People laughed.
They celebrated the end of a war.
But as Paul listened, the fireworks sounded wrong.
Too sharp.
Too distant.
Like artillery.
Like the war he had seen in the vision.
Like the end of something far greater than any victory.
Suddenly, Paul rose to his feet and shoved the guards aside.
"Leave me."
The command cut through the room.
The guards exchanged uncertain glances, then obeyed and closed the door behind them.
Paul staggered toward the balcony and threw the doors open.
Cold night air rushed into the office.
His face looked hollow.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Empty.
He stood alone on the balcony.
Then the office door burst open again.
"Mein Führer!"
Heydrich rushed inside, one hand already moving toward his pistol.
"I heard you scream."
Paul looked at him in silence.
The man who had killed his best friend.
The man who had followed him through war, betrayal, and bloodshed.
The man who, according to the vision, had stood beside him until the very end.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Paul turned away.
"Heydrich."
His voice had regained its usual firmness.
"There is something I require you to do."
Heydrich straightened at once.
"Anything, mein Führer."
Paul's eyes drifted toward the statue standing hidden within the bookshelf.
His hands trembled slightly.
"Make it vanish."
Heydrich frowned.
"The statue?"
"Yes."
Paul drew in a slow breath.
"You cannot destroy it."
His voice carried absolute certainty.
"I know that."
His gaze never left the eagle.
"But you can take it away."
"As far away as possible."
"To the other side of the world if you must."
"Bury it."
"Hide it."
"Sink it to the bottom of the ocean."
He looked at Heydrich.
"I don't care."
The room fell silent.
Then Paul met his eyes directly.
For the first time that life, fear was visible in him.
"And whatever you do..."
His voice dropped.
"Do not touch it."
Heydrich's face hardened.
Paul continued.
"And don't tell me where you hide it."
"I never want to see it again."
And so Heydrich obeyed.
He carried out the order without hesitation.
Through the silent corridors of the Reich Chancellery he walked, his leather boots striking the floor in a steady rhythm.
In his hands rested a large wooden crate.
Two Gestapo agents escorted him, guarding it as if it contained something far more dangerous than gold.
Of course it did.
Outside, a black Mercedes waited.
The crate was loaded into the vehicle, and moments later they disappeared into the Berlin night.
From the balcony, Paul watched them go.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
And so the box began its journey.
First by car.
Then by plane.
Hour after hour it traveled farther away, carrying the eagle across cities and roads.
Throughout it all, Paul remained in his office.
In the end, the crate reached its final destination in Germany.
Willhelmshaven
The dark water shot against the concrete.
Heydrich stood on the dock, the wind tugging at his coat.
He looked at the crate, then at the submarine waiting in the bay.
Its hull was dark, its name barely visible in the dim light.
U-530.
The metal ramp was lowered.
Heydrich stepped down into the vessel without a word.
The steel door closed behind him with a heavy thud, sealing him inside.
Inside, the air was thick, the metal walls pressing in from all sides.
His expression darkened.
"I hate U-boats."
The submarine began to move.
Slowly at first, then deeper into the water.
Beyond the harbor, beyond the coast, beyond Europe.
The U-530 disappeared into the dark Atlantic.
Carrying the crate.
Carrying the eagle.
Carrying the greatest secret that had shaped the fate of the world.
Far from Berlin.
Far from power.
Far from him.
Whether it was fate or something else, perhaps even the eagle's power itself, Heydrich grew restless.
During the long journey, the box sat before him as if it had no weight at all, as if it could never threaten anyone.
Yet it never left his mind.
The golden eagle.
Paul's orders.
The request to never touch it.
The more he was told not to, the more he wanted to know. Curiosity had always been stronger in him than caution.
Slowly, he reached out and touched the wood.
It was cold.
Heydrich sat in the cramped compartment, the submarine shuddering beneath him. The Atlantic was far above them, dark and endless.
Days passed.
The crew moved around him, unaware of the secret resting in the corner. Heydrich tried to focus on his duties. He tried to think of anything else. But he couldn't.
Then, somewhere in the Atlantic, he could no longer resist. While the others were distracted, he slid one of the metal locks aside.
Click.
Berlin, at the same time.
Paul once again stood on his balcony, bathed in pale moonlight.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
A light beard covered his face.
Slowly, he was beginning to resemble the very man he had seen in the vision.
His eyes were empty.
In that moment he made a decision.
He lifted one leg and stepped onto the edge.
The wind tugged at his hair as he stood above Berlin.
His head tilted upward.
The moon reflected in his eyes.
Then the fireworks.
The celebrations still had not ended.
Beyond both lay the stars.
Ancient.
Unchanging.
Eternal.
"Hah..."
The sound barely resembled a laugh.
"All of it remains a lie."
His voice was almost swallowed by the noise below.
"All of it."
His gaze stayed fixed on the heavens.
The memories came flooding back.
His arrival.
His first march.
His first victory.
His first kill.
Every triumph.
Every failure.
Every moment.
Lastly Werner.
All of it passed before his eyes.
Then his expression changed.
For the first time in years, there was no confidence there.
No certainty.
Only despair.
The fireworks continued.
The city celebrated.
"Is this the bad or the good ending?"
No one heard him.
A bitter laugh escaped him.
His hands clenched into fists.
His eyes never left the stars.
He spoke into the dark, as though speaking to the man who had shaped all of it.
The man who had made him.
The man who had put him in this misery.
As if that man would care.
"Me."He whispered.
Then there was silence.
Cold.
Long.
Absolute.
For a few minutes, Paul simply stood there, breathing.
"A villain deserves a villain's end."
He closed his eyes.
Darkness engulfed him.
The same darkness he had been drowning in for years.
"Doesn't he?" he whispered, tilting forward.
CLICK