"Am I how you imagined me?"

The question echoed through the dark cell.

"Are you not going to answer me?"

A metallic creak broke the silence as Paul dragged a chair across the concrete floor. He pulled it to a stop directly in front of the man he was questioning.

The prison cell was grim and cold. A small barred window high up on the wall let in barely any light, leaving most of the room swallowed in shadow.

"You are even more vicious than I imagined," the man finally said, his voice heavy with hatred.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so... Prime Minister?"

A metallic rattle echoed as the man leaned forward, chains shifting slightly. For a brief moment, the thin shaft of pale light caught his face.

"You will not win, Jaeger," Churchill said, still dressed in his torn, dust-stained suit.

"I wonder..."

Paul lit a cigarette and took a slow drag, nodding thoughtfully to himself.

"There is still some resistance in the north. The Highlands remain troublesome, but they are only a handfull. Aside from that..."

He exhaled smoke slowly.

"Britain has remained mostly quiet."

Churchill furrowed his brows.

"Britain... England is not a nation that can be dominated. It is not in our spirit. Few peoples possess that kind of resolve."

"Germany does," Paul interrupted, tilting his head slightly.

Churchill shook his head.

"What you have is something darker. Your motivation is far more evil. Far more vicious. Britain is not like this."

A faint smile crossed Paul’s face.

He pulled another cigarette from the pack and held it out.

Churchill hesitated.

Several long seconds passed.

Then, with silent pride swallowing itself, he accepted.

Paul leaned forward and lit it for him.

"Are you telling me Britain has clean hands?" Paul asked quietly, almost mockingly. "That your empire committed no crimes during centuries of colonial rule? Are you honestly claiming Britain never drew a line between British and foreigner... between white skin and black?"

Churchill took a slow drag, his eyes narrowing through the smoke.

"We brought civilization. Law. Order to half the world."

"Civilization," Paul repeated with quiet amusement. "How convenient that your civilization always arrived at the barrel of a gun and left with gold, oil, and diamonds."

He leaned back.

"At least we Germans are honest about what we want."

Churchill let out a bitter laugh.

"Honest? You invaded peaceful nations, slaughtered millions. And now you fancy yourself some philosopher king?"

He shook his head.

"You are nothing but a barbarian in uniform, Jaeger."

Paul’s smile faded.

For a long moment, he simply stared at Churchill, the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

"And yet..."

His voice softened.

"Here you are, Mr. Prime Minister."

He gestured lightly around the room.

"Chained in my cell. Smoking my cigarette."

Paul leaned closer, lowering his voice to almost a whisper.

"I don’t enjoy this, Churchill. I don’t wake up every morning excited by the thought of more blood."

His expression hardened.

"But I have looked further."

"This world is broken. A collection of tribes carrying flags, armed to the teeth, each convinced their way is the only right one."

"And every time they clash, the price grows higher."

Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees.

"I want to unite the world."

His voice remained calm, almost unsettlingly calm.

"One authority strong enough that no nation can ever rise against another again."

"To end the cycle..."

"And if I must burn half the continent to ash to achieve it..."

His eyes did not waver.

"Then I will."

For a moment, there was something feverish behind Paul’s composure.

"No more Sommes. No more Verduns. No-"

Paul stopped.

Something shifted behind his eyes.

"You think the future is better?"

His gaze remained fixed on Churchill.

"You believe that if Britain wins... the world suddenly learns?"

"No."

"There will always be another war."

"That is why I am willing to become the villain of this century."

"Because someone has to stop history from repeating itself."

Churchill took a long drag from his cigarette.

He searched Paul’s face, as if desperately trying to determine whether the man across from him was insane... or terrifyingly sincere.

Then he laughed.

A rough, humorless laugh.

"You truly believe that, don’t you?"

He shook his head.

"That you are some dark savior."

"You are a butcher with a messianic complex."

Somewhere in the North Atlantic, 1941

The destroyer USS Harlan pushed steadily through the grey sea.

Massive waves rolled beneath the ship, rocking it from side to side in an endless rhythm. Cold spray shot across the deck.

"Any sightings yet?" Captain Elias Roland asked.

"No, sir."

Roland stood on the open bridge wing, feet planted wide to steady himself against the motion.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, with dark hair and a rough, untrimmed beard.

"Something bothering you, sir?" asked Lieutenant Junior Grade Timothy Whitaker, his adjutant.

The young officer stood stiffly upright, trying to appear professional despite the seawater soaking through his coat.

Roland kept his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"That’s exactly what worries me," he said quietly.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Keep a sharp lookout for U-boats. I don’t want any surprises."

"Aye, sir."

Roland stepped back inside the pilothouse, shutting the heavy door behind him.

Immediately, the sound of the ocean damped.

Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke.

"Sir!"

A few young officers straightened and saluted.

Roland returned the gesture with a brief nod.

"First Lieutenant, show me our position."

Lieutenant Michael Harrow, tall and lanky with messy reddish-brown hair, quickly moved toward the chart table.

"We’re here, Captain."

He pointed at the map.

"Quadrant Charlie-Seven."

Roland lowered himself into a chair with a quiet sigh and slowly stroked his beard.

After a moment, he looked up.

"Come. Sit down."

He gestured toward the seat opposite him.

"We should get to know each other better, Lieutenant. Out here..."

A faint smirk touched his lips.

"That tends to matter."

Harrow looked surprised but sat down.

Just then, the pantry curtain shifted open.

A Steward’s Mate entered, carrying a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and a mug of black coffee.

He placed both in front of the captain.

"Thanks, Carry," Roland said with a small nod.

Another heavy wave rolled beneath the destroyer, making the coffee mug slide several inches across the table.

Without even looking, Roland caught it.

"So," he said, glancing back toward Harrow.

"Where are you from, Lieutenant?"

"Missouri, sir. Small town called Cape Girardeau."

Roland nodded slowly.

"Atlanta for me."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"Got a small house there. Nothing fancy. Wife, two kids..."

He paused.

"And an old loudmouth dog named Buster who thinks he owns the damn porch." 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Harrow smiled, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders.

After a moment, he asked carefully:

"Sir... do you think we can win this war quickly?"

Roland was silent for several seconds.

Then he leaned back, the worn leather chair creaking beneath him.

"A few months ago? I would’ve said yes."

His expression darkened.

"But Britain falling changed everything."

He took a slow sip of coffee.

"This war’s going to last a lot longer than people want to admit."

He gestured vaguely toward the sea.

"If we’re ever going to invade Europe, we need real naval superiority out here first."

"And we sure as hell need North Africa."

He tapped the table lightly.

"That’s the key, in my opinion. Secure Africa, then southern Europe opens up. Italy. Maybe the Balkans."

Harrow nodded quietly, absorbing every word.

Another wave slammed against the hull.

Roland lowered his mug.

"You got family back home, Harrow?"

"Yes, sir. Parents. Younger sister."

A faint smile.

"Write to them whenever you can," Roland said quietly.

Then he turned.

"What about you, Carry?"

The steward had remained standing silently in the same place.

For the briefest moment, his posture stiffened.

"Family..."

"Not in this life."

Roland frowned slightly.

"Sorry for your loss."

The next words came so quietly Roland failed to hear them.

"They didn’t die..."

Then suddenly, a shrill alarm echoed through the bridge.

A voice shouted from outside:

"A convoy’s been hit!"

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