[h1][color=Maroon]Berlin — Late Night, July 15, 1947[/color][/h1] [b]Night was thick over Berlin, heavy and quiet like it was holding its breath. The city wasn’t asleep, but it sure wasn’t alive either. Broken buildings leaned on each other like they were tired and needed help. The streets were empty, except for a stray cat slipping through the shadows and the far-off bark of a dog that quickly stopped. Conner Maybank moved steady through the dark. His boots made soft taps on cracked pavement. His coat was heavy and worn, pockets full of the usual stuff — a worn map folded too many times, a silver Zippo lighter that looked like it had been through hell, a small compass that wobbled but mostly worked, and a little notepad filled with messy notes. Each thing was part of his everyday life, the kind of stuff that keeps you going when nothing else does. He pulled his collar up to keep the cold out. The air smelled like wet stone, smoke, and something metallic — like old rust or blood. his eyes scanned the street, calm but alert. No one else was out here, or if they were, they stayed hidden in doorways and behind broken walls. The quiet wasn’t peace. It was waiting. He stopped under a flickering streetlamp. The light barely held up, making shaky circles on the wet ground. His breath made little clouds in the cold air. The city smelled like damp earth and burned metal. His fingers brushed the gun at his hip — a Smith & Wesson revolver with a long barrel, shining faintly. He didn’t flash it around. It was just there, like an old habit. He pulled out the map and unfolded it slowly. The edges were soft and worn. Pencil lines crossed the paper, names of streets half erased and rewritten. His finger followed a route to a part of town still struggling to get back on its feet — a place marked lightly, always changing. He folded the map and pulled out the notepad. Names, places, times — some crossed out, some barely readable. Stuff that only mattered to him. A gust of wind moved fallen leaves across the sidewalk. Conner stepped through puddles from a recent rain. The water caught the weak light, shining like broken glass. Ahead, a bombed-out church rose like a shadow. Its spire was jagged and broken, reaching up into low clouds. It had seen better days, long before the war, but now it was just ruins. Conner looked at it for a moment before moving on. He passed empty shops with signs faded and peeling. One read “Bäckerei,” but the glass was smashed, and weeds grew at the door. No smell of fresh bread here — only dust and rot. Nothing alive inside. The street sloped down to a small square where an old fountain sat cracked and dry. Leaves spun slowly in the breeze. Conner put his hand on the cold stone, feeling the rough surface. In his pocket was a folded photo — two kids and a woman, faces blurry and soft. He didn’t look at it now. Sometimes, just carrying it was enough. The air got colder. His breath hung in the air like smoke. Conner moved on without hurry, staying at the edges of the street, stepping over broken glass and trash. A narrow alley caught his eye — a gap between two ruined buildings. He stopped, then slipped inside. The alley was tight, full of garbage and wet smells. The walls were covered in old graffiti and peeling paint. Somewhere a rat ran, making little noise. He crouched and listened. Nothing but dripping water and faraway footsteps. He stood and looked back at the street. No one followed. The night closed in tight, but he was used to it. Moving unseen, quiet. Back on the street, he stopped at a broken doorway, fingers brushing his gun. He pulled out his Zippo and flicked it open. The flame caught quick. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up. He breathed out slow. The vapor mixed with the cold. The map was still in his pocket, the notepad under his coat. No rush. Just the slow passing of time in a city that forgot how to be normal. Far off, a church bell tolled. Low and soft. Conner’s eyes went up to the rooftops. The stars were gone, hidden by thick clouds that promised rain. He pulled his coat tighter and walked on. He passed empty lots where weeds had taken over old gardens and parks. Rusty playground swings creaked in the wind — ghosts of kids long gone. Only the sound of water dripping from broken gutters and his own steps. At a corner, he slowed and looked down a side street lit by a single flickering lantern. The air smelled like coal smoke and something sharp — maybe the remains of a fire long dead. He pulled his hat lower and went forward. A cat darted from the shadows and vanished under a broken fence. Conner watched it go, then looked back at the street. His mind was somewhere else — distant, quiet. He reached a small square with half-collapsed buildings and burnt walls. The rubble made walking rough, so he stepped carefully. Old posters fluttered in the breeze, stories no one read anymore. Conner found a broken wall to sit on. He rested his elbows on his knees and pulled out the photo to look at the faces once more. The woman’s eyes were tired but soft, the kids’ faces faded by time. He folded the photo back and put it away. The night held still around him. Berlin had changed, but the weight of everything that happened was still in the stones and streets. He pulled out the notepad and flipped to a faint page. His pencil tapped softly as he wrote a name, a place, a time — someone waiting, someone needing a favor. He folded the pad and slipped it back into his coat. Rain started then — soft at first, like whispers on broken glass and metal roofs. Drops landed on his coat and puddles on the ground. Conner stood, shoulders squared against the cold. The wet air smelled fresher, sharper, like it might clean the city if it could. He kept walking, steps steady even on the slick pavement. Ahead, a window’s faint glow flickered and disappeared. The night was long and quiet, full of secrets and silence. The city kept its stories close, letting only shadows move free. Conner went deeper into the dark. Just a man among many. Carrying small things and small truths. The cold night pressed close, but he walked on.[/b] [hr]