The colonel was once a model officer of the Reich. The cut of the uniform, the sharp salute, the crisp orders, these had been his life. But as the war deepened and the nightmares multiplied, faith in Hitler and the Party cracked. The posters looked like lies. The speeches, like fever dreams. In his heart, the Führer had already become an enemy of Germany itself.

After the death of his wife, the days blurred. Reports, drills, orders, empty nights. The apartment felt cavernous without her presence, the silence broken only by the ticking of a clock that seemed to measure the seconds until Germany's inevitable collapse.

Then came Anna, who first appeared as Greta in a smoky Berlin café on a particularly bitter December afternoon. The café smelled of burnt coffee and cigarette smoke, the windows fogged from the breath of patrons seeking refuge from the cold. She sat alone at the corner table, her gloved hands wrapped around a chipped mug, her warm eyes meeting his across the crowded room. When she smiled, it was like a small flame in the gathering darkness of the Reich.

Three weeks later, she stands in his apartment, the scent of her perfume mixing with the faint smell of coal dust from the heating stove. Outside, snow falls silently, covering the cobblestones in a thin white blanket, though the crunch of boots echoes occasionally from the street below. She has shed her伪装, her face pale but determined as she draws the heavy curtains closed against prying eyes.

“I have not been honest with you,” she says, her Dutch accent barely noticeable after months of perfecting her German disguise. Her gloved hand trembles slightly as she sets her half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. “My name is not Greta. It's Anna. And I am not German. I am Dutch.”

The radio plays softly in the corner, a propaganda broadcast extolling the virtues of the Führer. Anna crosses the room and turns the volume down to a faint hiss before continuing. “I work for the Allies. For MI6. I was sent to get close to you. I know about your disillusionment with Hitler. I know about your nephew in Stalingrad.” Her voice catches slightly. “I am sorry for the deception, Colonel.”

The colonel grips the arm of his chair until his knuckles turn white. Outside, a police car passes slowly, its headlights briefly illuminating the frosted window. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The apartment feels suddenly smaller, the walls closing in around them as the reality of her confession sinks in.