The autumn of 1941 had descended upon Belgrade like a shroud woven from the ashes of a vanquished kingdom. In the bowels of what had once been the Royal Palace — those same corridors where Karađorđević princes had once walked in ceremonial splendor — the machinery of the Third Reich now ground its inexorable way through the flesh and spirit of the Serbian people. The elegant parquet floors, once polished to mirror-like perfection for royal balls, now bore the scuff marks of jackboots and the darker stains of interrogations that had proceeded beyond the realm of mere questioning.

Room 237, deep within the palace's converted administrative wing, stood as a monument to the methodical efficiency of German occupation. The walls, once adorned with portraits of Serbian monarchs and frescoes depicting the nation's medieval glory, had been stripped bare and painted in that particular shade of institutional gray that seemed to leach color from everything it touched. The only decorations now were the ubiquitous portraits of the Führer and the Party eagles, their bronze talons seeming to clutch at the very air itself.

The chamber bore the architectural bones of its former grandeur — high ceilings with ornate molding that had survived the renovations, tall windows that had been bricked over and painted, leaving only the faintest outline of their former elegance. Where once crystal chandeliers had cast warm light upon diplomatic receptions, now hung a single electric bulb encased in a metal shade, its harsh glare creating stark shadows that seemed to writhe and twist with each slight movement. The interrogation table — a massive oak piece that had likely once graced some ministerial office — dominated the center of the room. Its dark wood surface bore the accumulated scars of countless sessions: ring-stains from countless cups of ersatz coffee, scratches from hastily drawn maps, and deeper gouges whose origins one preferred not to contemplate. Upon its surface lay the tools of the trade: manila folders thick with typed reports and handwritten denunciations, a mechanical pencil of German manufacture, and a Telefunken recording device — that marvel of modern technology that captured every whispered confession and dying breath for posterity.

The air itself seemed weighted with the accumulated despair of those who had preceded this moment. It carried the scent of carbolic acid used to scrub away evidence, the lingering aroma of Turkish tobacco from the interrogator's cigarettes, and something else — something metallic and organic that spoke of fear made manifest. The silence was not truly silence at all, but rather the absence of hope, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city beyond these walls: the rumble of Wehrmacht trucks, the measured cadence of marching boots, and occasionally, the crack of rifle fire from the Kalemegdan fortress where the morning's sentences were carried out.

Into this chamber of calculated intimidation, Major Heinrich Krieger entered with the measured stride of a man who had long since made peace with his role in history's darker chapters. His uniform — that field-gray wool that had become the color of occupation across Europe — was pressed to perfection, each crease sharp enough to cut paper. The silver insignia of his rank caught the harsh light, while the black-and-silver Totenkopf on his cap seemed to grin with metallic malevolence. At forty-five, Krieger carried himself with the controlled tension of a man who had learned to harness his own neuroses in service of the Reich's greater design.

His face, angular and marked by the premature lines that come from constant vigilance, bore the pallor of a man who spent his days in windowless rooms extracting secrets from the dying. The gray eyes — pale as Danube ice in winter — missed nothing as they surveyed the room's occupant. His hands, calloused from his years as a crane operator and construction foreman, now bore the softer marks of administrative work, though they retained their working-man's strength.

As he settled into the chair across from his subject, Krieger's movements were deliberate, economical. He opened the folder before him with the reverence of a priest consulting scripture, his eyes scanning the typed pages with the methodical attention of a man accustomed to finding patterns in chaos. The papers rustled with a sound like autumn leaves — fitting, perhaps, for this season of endings.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the slight accent of the Vojvodina Germans — that particular cadence that marked him as one who had lived between worlds, belonging fully to neither the Serbian soil of his birth nor the German Reich of his allegiance. His Serbian, though fluent, bore the formal precision of official business.

"Dobro." He began simply, closing the folder with deliberate precision. "Good. You are awake. Alert." His hands folded atop the documents, fingers interlaced with mechanical exactness. "This simplifies matters considerably."

A pause. The sound of his breathing, measured and controlled.

"I am Major Krieger. You will address me as such." The statement was delivered without emphasis, as if commenting on the weather. "We have business to conduct, you and I. Business that concerns the safety of this city, the stability of the occupation, and—most immediately—your own continued existence."

He leaned back slightly in his chair, the leather creaking softly. "I have found, in my experience, that honesty serves all parties best. So I will be honest with you." His eyes never wavered. "You were taken three days ago. Your associates believe you dead — a reasonable assumption, given the circumstances of your capture. No one will come for you. No rescue awaits. There is only this room, this conversation, and the choices you make in the next hour."

The major's voice carried no malice, no theatrical menace — only the flat certainty of mathematical calculation. "Tell me your name."

The interrogation had begun.