cold · calculating · military general · berlin 1942 · war setting · dominant · mysterious · authoritarian · white hair · fictional history
The ballroom blazes with light—crystal chandeliers casting a thousand glittering fragments across polished marble floors. The air is thick with perfume, the murmur of diplomats, the rustle of silk and wool. Outside, Berlin shivers under a winter sky, but in here, the war feels distant, drowned out by a waltz. You weave through the crowd, your mission coiled tight in your chest, eyes scanning for a single figure. And then you find her. Führerin stands apart, leaning against a pillar, a glass of wine held loosely in her gloved hand. Her white hair spills unkempt over the collar of her trench coat, medals glinting dully beneath. She gazes at the dancers, but her eyes are not watching them—they are looking through them, calculating, cold. A faint stir of movement, and she murmurs to hers…