Chapter Text
𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟒
Years ago the building had probably stored machinery or imported goods arriving by rail. Now most of the windows were broken, the upper panes boarded over with mismatched planks that let thin strips of gray winter light leak into the interior. Snow had collected against the exterior walls overnight, piling into dirty drifts around loading docks and rusted tracks that no longer carried anything useful.
Inside, the building smelled like dust, damp wood, old oil, and cigarette smoke. It was also, unfortunately, one of Phoenix's preferred meeting locations.
Elizabeta hated it. She stood near one of the larger tables with her arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes sweeping across the warehouse for perhaps the tenth time in twenty minutes. Crates had been shoved into uneven stacks against the walls. Maps hung from nails hammered directly into support beams. Three separate conversations were occurring simultaneously in different corners of the room. Somebody had left an unloaded rifle on top of a shipping crate beside a coffee mug.
The coffee mug was balanced on a military report. The military report was apparently important, but nobody seemed concerned.
"This is a disaster," Elizabeta finally said.
Gilbert glanced up from the papers spread across the table.
"Whatever."
Lovino looked like he was seconds away from developing a stress-induced headache.
"How do you people function?" he demanded.
"Whatever," Gilbert shrugged.
The answer made Ludwig sigh. The warehouse quieted gradually as more members of both resistance groups filtered toward the center of the room. Soon everyone settled around the largest table. Maps covered nearly every inch of its surface: Rail lines, military routes, supply depots.
A small red circle had been drawn around a city in central Germany.
Gilbert planted both hands against the table.
"We have a problem."
"Only one?" Lovino muttered.
Gilbert ignored him.
"We know where he's traveling." His finger tapped the map. "We know roughly when. And we know which military districts are involved. But, we don't know the exact route."
The room remained silent. Because everybody immediately understood what that meant.
Assassinating a man, especially someone of such high status, was impossible if they couldn't predict where he would actually be. The difference between one railway station and another could mean hundreds of soldiers. Without precise intelligence, the entire operation collapsed before it even began.
Roderich adjusted his glasses thoughtfully.
"How secure are the route documents?"
"Very."
"Could they be forged?"
"No."
"Stolen?"
Gilbert shook his head.
"Not realistically."
Elizabeta frowned.
"What about military communications?"
"We've intercepted everything we can."
"Then somebody knows."
"Obviously."
"No," Elizabeta replied sharply. "Somebody specifically knows."
Ludwig studied the map for several seconds before speaking.
"Then we gather the pieces."
Gilbert smiled. Elizabeta immediately looked suspicious. Whenever Gilbert smiled, it usually meant he had already developed an idea that would make everyone miserable.
Gilbert's eyes moved slowly around the table. Then settled on Feliciano. Eliza groaned immediately.
"We don't even know the plan yet," Lovino snapped.
"I do."
"That's somehow worse."
Gilbert pointed.
"We use him."
Feliciano blinked.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
Lovino's eyes closed briefly.
"No."
"That's not your decision."
"It should be."
"It isn't."
"It should be!"
The argument erupted almost instantly. Roderich pinched the bridge of his nose. Feliciano mostly looked confused. Gilbert waited until everyone had finished talking over one another before continuing.
"The officers assigned to security details have patterns." His voice grew more serious. "They drink at the same places. Visit the same restaurants. Go to the same clubs. Socialize with the same people." He looked toward Feliciano again. "We need somebody capable of getting close. You need to cozy up to them."
His finger moved toward a cluster of photographs scattered across the table. Officers, security personnel, administrative staff.
"We need somebody they can’t recognize and who could sweet talk them."
Feliciano stared down at the photographs.
Elizabeta spoke first.
"No."
Gilbert sighed.
"Wonderful argument."
"No."
"This is why planning meetings take six hours."
Her eyes narrowed.
"If he gets caught, he's dead."
Gilbert nodded once.
"I know."
"If one officer becomes suspicious—"
"I know, for fuck’s sake."
Elizabeta slammed a hand against the table.
"Then why are you acting like this is reasonable?"
"Because it is. No one is going to recognize him, and he’s a sociable guy."
Ludwig remained silent, and that worried Eliza, because normally Lud would shut up Gilbert if he suggested something reckless. His gaze remained fixed on the photographs spread across the table. Unhappy, obviously, but he wasn’t really surprised.
Eventually Roderich spoke.
"If it works… If it works, we gain access to information we cannot obtain otherwise."
Elizabeta exhaled sharply.
"Roderich."
"I'm not saying I like it."
"You support it."
"I support getting intelligence. Of course I do."
Across the table, Lovino looked ready to throw something.
"You're all insane."
"That has been established."
"No, seriously." His eyes landed on Feliciano. "Tell them no."
Feliciano looked down at the photographs.
The warehouse seemed quieter suddenly. Everybody watching, waiting. He thought about the museum. The blood, the dead guards, the endless hours spent alone pretending to be harmless. Eventually he lifted his head.
"I can do it."
Lovino looked horrified.
"Feliciano."
"I can." Feliciano glanced down at his bandaged shoulder before continuing. "I've done worse." The museum had made sure of that.
"Okay," Gilbert said quietly. The practical details of placing Feliciano into the orbit of men who would unknowingly help plan their own destruction could come together.
Hours passed, and the warehouse darkened gradually as daylight faded beyond the broken windows.
Assignments were distributed. People left one by one, and in no time after, Feliciano sat alone at the table. The photographs were still spread before him.
He looked over the faces carefully, trying to memorize them, trying to imagine conversations that hadn't happened yet, maybe trying not to think about what failure would mean. The warehouse felt enormous now that most people had left. Quiet. Cold. A little lonely.
Footsteps approached, and Feliciano didn’t look up as Ludwig settled into the chair beside him.
Ludwig continued looking at him.
Eventually Feliciano smiled faintly.
"You are being weird."
"I'm thinking." Ludwig looked down at the photographs. "These men are dangerous."
Feliciano shrugged lightly.
"So is Gilbert."
"That's not what I mean."
Feliciano's grin softened.
Ludwig reached toward one of the photographs.
"This one."
Feliciano glanced down.
"Colonel Weiss?"
"He likes chess."
Feliciano blinked.
"What?"
"We've seen him at cafés before." Ludwig pointed again. "He plays chess."
“I.. Okay.”
A second photograph.
"This one drinks too much." Another. "This one talks constantly." The kind of things Ludwig remembered automatically.
Hours later, when only a few lamps remained lit inside the enormous building, Feliciano realized they had stopped discussing officers entirely. The realization made something ache unexpectedly inside his chest.
Ludwig glanced toward the dark windows.
"We should leave."
"Probably.."
Neither moved immediately.
For a moment they simply sat there surrounded by maps, reports, and plans to kill one of the most powerful men in Europe.
"Be careful."
Feliciano sighed and reached over the table to squeeze his hand once.
"I will."
— 6 —
For nearly two weeks, Feliciano became somebody else. Phoenix and Heather spent days constructing a version of him that could move through military circles without attracting suspicion. Roderich forged identification papers so convincing that even Gilbert admitted they made him nervous. Elizabeta drilled cover stories into him until he could recite them while half-asleep. Feliks taught him how to subtly guide conversations without appearing to do so, while Gilbert spent entire evenings forcing him to memorize photographs, names, ranks, habits, and relationships. By the end of it, Feliciano knew more about certain officers than those officers probably knew about themselves. Who drank too much, who gambled, who complained about superiors, who talked when they were nervous, who talked when they felt safe.
The operation itself sounded deceptively simple on paper. A social club on the outskirts of Berlin had become a common gathering place for officers assigned to transportation and security logistics. Not high-ranking enough to be constantly watched. Not low-ranking enough to be unimportant.
Exactly the sort of men who accidentally learned things they weren't supposed to know. The sort of men who got drunk and forgot which information was classified. So Feliciano would become a familiar face there.
A charming Italian civilian working nearby, harmless. Somebody people remembered positively and therefore stopped examining closely.
The actual day arrived beneath gray skies. Berlin looked miserable.
Snow from earlier in the week had melted into dirty slush lining the streets, while smoke from factories and military vehicles hung low beneath the clouds. The city felt exhausted. Every building seemed darker than it should have been.
Feliciano stood in front of a cracked mirror inside a rented apartment while adjusting the collar of his coat.
The reflection staring back at him looked unfamiliar. For a moment he found himself just observing
.
The apartment door opened. Ludwig and then Gilbert stepped inside.
The room felt too small suddenly. Outside, traffic moved faintly through the streets below.
Ludwig's gaze moved over him slowly. Checking details.
"You remember the route?"
Feliciano nodded.
"Twice around the block if I think I'm being followed."
"The secondary meeting point?"
"The church."
"The emergency contact?"
"Uhm.. You guys."
Ludwig exhaled softly. Then immediately asked another question.
"The names?"
Feliciano groaned.
"Ludwig."
"The names."
"I know the names."
"The ranks."
"I know the ranks."
"The security rotation—"
"I’ll kill you before I can even attempt them."
Ludwig nodded once.
Feliciano laughed softly.
"You are nervous."
"No."
"You are."
"No."
"You absolutely are."
Ludwig looked away. That made Feliciano laugh louder. The sound seemed strange to Gilbert, but he brushed it off.
Ludwig rolled his eyes and smiled despite himself.
"You're supposed to be nervous."
"I am nervous."
"You don't look nervous."
"That's because if I think about it too much I'll throw up."
“..Ah..”
A few hours from now Feliciano would be sitting among officers whose jobs were directly connected to Hitler's security. And he could easily be killed.
Ludwig suddenly stepped closer, not by much.
"You don't have to do this."
Feliciano blinked- Ludwig hadn't said anything remotely similar during planning.
Then Feliciano smirked sadly.
"Yes I do."
Ludwig looked like he wanted to argue. Instead he remained silent, because he understood, some things reached a point where walking away stopped feeling possible.
Eventually Feliciano reached out and adjusted Ludwig's collar slightly. It didn't need adjusting.
"You worry too much."
"I don't. Bad things could happen.”
“Yeah, well."
Then, before either could overthink it, he leaned forward and kissed him. When he pulled away, Ludwig looked momentarily stunned, which felt unfairly satisfying.
"There," Feliciano said.
Ludwig blinked.
"...There?"
"You looked stressed."
Then Ludwig covered his eyes with one hand. Neither could stop smiling, but reality returned quickly. Ludwig lowered his hand.
"Good luck." The words sounded inadequate. Both of them knew it. Feliciano nodded anyway.
Then grabbed his papers, his coat, his gloves.
By the time he reached the apartment door, Ludwig was still standing where he'd left him.
Feliciano hesitated, then looked back over his shoulder. Before he could start sobbing or running back, he left.
The military club sat near the edge of the city. The sort of place built for men who considered themselves important but not important enough for luxury. Warm light spilled through the windows onto the snowy street outside. Inside, laughter drifted faintly through the glass.
Feliciano paused across the road, his heart hammering against his ribs. The building suddenly looked enormous. For weeks they had planned. Now there was nothing left to do except walk inside.
Across the street, hidden among pedestrians and parked vehicles, he knew Phoenix and Heather would be watching. Not visibly.
The thought settled nicely in his chest. Then he inhaled once, straightened his shoulders and crossed the street toward the entrance.
The military club's entrance opened into a brightly lit foyer lined with dark wooden paneling and polished brass fixtures. Heat from several coal stoves spread throughout the building, carrying with it the scents of tobacco, expensive liquor, wet wool coats, and freshly cooked food. Compared to the gray streets outside, the place felt almost unreal. For a moment Feliciano simply stood there, brushing melted snow from his shoulders while trying not to look like someone whose entire resistance network was currently depending on him.
A woman seated behind the reception desk glanced up.
"Good evening."
Feliciano smiled immediately. The smile came naturally. That was one advantage he possessed over almost everyone else in Phoenix and Heather. Gilbert looked suspicious when he smiled.
Lovino looked angry, Elizabeta looked terrifying, Ludwig looked like he was about to arrest somebody.
Feliciano simply looked friendly.
"Good evening."
The woman returned the smile without hesitation.
He handed over the forged identification papers Roderich had spent nearly a week perfecting. The woman inspected them briefly before returning them without concern.
"Enjoy your evening."
"Thank you."
His heart was still fluttering.
Nobody could tell. At least, he hoped nobody could.
The main hall stretched beyond the foyer, crowded with military officers, civilian administrators, railway officials, and various guests moving between tables. Glasses clinked together beneath warm yellow lights. Laughter drifted through the room. A piano played softly somewhere farther inside the building.
It looked normal. That was the disturbing part. Weeks of resistance work had taught Feliciano that ordinary appearances often concealed extraordinary horrors. Half the men in this room probably helped coordinate deportations. Some likely signed execution orders.
Yet here they sat drinking wine and discussing the weather.
Slowly, he made his way toward the bar. The bar itself occupied one corner of the hall beneath a large painting of the German countryside. Several officers stood nearby nursing drinks while arguing over railway delays and supply shortages.
Feliciano recognized three faces immediately: Captain and Lieutenants Hartmann, Krüger, Vogel.
All men connected to transportation logistics.
He ordered a drink. Something mild, letting him to remain completely clear-headed throughout the evening.
Patience had never come naturally to him. The most effective violence came after hours of pretending not to notice opportunities.
Across the room, Krüger laughed loudly at something one of the others had said. Feliciano listened and watched.
Several minutes passed, and the opportunity arrived naturally.
Captain Hartmann stepped away from the group and approached the bar alone, muttering irritably about somebody losing his mind.
Feliciano looked over. A moment later, their eyes met. Feliciano smiled politely.
The captain smiled back. Feliciano picked up his glass and prepared to start a conversation. Up close, Hartmann looked slightly older than he had in the photographs spread across Phoenix's warehouse tables. The lines around his eyes were deeper. Exhaustion sat visibly across his face, carved into the corners of his mouth and shoulders in a way that made him seem older than his years.
The captain ordered a drink before leaning one elbow against the polished wooden bar with a tired sigh.
"Long night?" Feliciano asked casually.
Hartmann barked out a short laugh.
"You have no idea."
His accent immediately matched the reports Ludwig had memorized for him. Northern German. Everything matched. That meant the rest of the intelligence was probably reliable too.
Feliciano let himself smile sympathetically.
"I work near the rail offices," he lied easily. "Whenever soldiers start complaining, it usually means something important is involved."
"You've got that right."
The bartender slid Hartmann his drink. The captain took an immediate swallow. A man who drank regularly enough for it to be routine. Exactly as Gilbert's notes had suggested.
Feliciano knew better than to push immediately. People loved talking about themselves.
Hartmann shook his head.
"Three months ago I thought I'd spend this war doing military work."
"And now?"
"Now I spend half my life chasing signatures."
The bitterness sounded genuine.
Feliciano laughed softly.
"Could be worse."
"Could it?"
"At least signatures don't shoot back."
The captain stared at him for a second. Then laughed hard enough to nearly spill his drink.
Most of the things they discussed were meaningless. Hartmann spoke more than Feliciano did.
He started to complain about train schedules, about officers who had never stepped foot near a railway station trying to dictate transportation policy.
He complained about Berlin. About shortages. About endless reports. The entire time, Feliciano listened attentively, even as words started to slur and slow.
At one point Hartmann asked where he was from, hearing Feli’s weird accent tinting his German words.
"Sicily."
The answer immediately changed something in the captain's expression.
"Sicily?" Hartmann repeated. "What are you doing all the way up here?"
Feliciano shrugged lightly.
"Trying to survive.. And being a tourist."
The captain snorted into his drink.
"Fair answer."
For a moment they both watched the crowd moving through the hall. Hartmann glanced toward a cluster of officers gathered near the far wall. His expression soured immediately. Feliciano followed his gaze.
Three men: transportation division. One security (maybe) officer. Another face from the photographs.
"What?" Feliciano asked lightly.
Hartmann groaned.
"Those idiots."
Feliciano tilted his head slightly.
"Friends?"
"Unfortunately." The captain finished another mouthful of his drink. "Spent all week arguing over schedules."
Feliciano carefully hid the spark of interest that tried to appear.
"That sounds exciting."
"It isn't."
"What are they scheduling?"
Hartmann rolled his eyes.
"Everything. “Special” visits." Hartmann shook his head.
Feliciano took a slow sip from his drink. For a few moments he let the conversation drift elsewhere. A card game across the room had become louder. Somebody was winning money. Somebody else was loudly accusing fate of being biased against him. The atmosphere remained relaxed enough that nobody paid much attention to the two men sitting at the bar.
Hartmann seemed content to complain.
The captain tipped his head backward against the wall.
"Every few weeks somebody important decides they need to be somewhere else. Then transportation starts screaming. Then security starts screaming. Then communications starts screaming."
Feliciano smiled.
"And then you start screaming."
"Exactly." Hartmann pointed at him approvingly. "You understand military administration.” The captain took another drink. A longer one this time. When he lowered the glass again, he looked annoyed all over again just remembering it. "This month's been worse."
"Oh?"
Hartmann rolled his eyes.
"Because everybody keeps changing plans."
"Whose plans?" The question came innocently.
Hartmann huffed.
"Who do you think?"
“Oh..”
Then the captain leaned slightly closer.
"The Führer's."
“I got that.”
Feliciano forced himself not to react.
Hartmann continued.
"One day he wants inspections. Then he wants meetings. Then somebody convinces him he needs to be somewhere else entirely." The officer shook his head. "It's madness."
Feliciano rested one arm on the counter.
"Where does he even go these days?"
Hartmann rolled his eyes.
"Anywhere."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is exhausting. Not for him." The captain stared into his drink. "Last month it was military briefings. Then industrial inspections. Then command conferences. Now everybody's arguing about eastern operations again."
Feliciano felt his attention sharpen.
Only internally. The smile remained on his face.
"Eastern operations?"
Hartmann nodded.
"Mm.. He wants to take a little cute trip to Saxony for some meeting." His expression soured. "Apparently everybody thinks they can fix the war if they hold enough conferences." That sounded believable.
Feliciano let out a quiet laugh.
"I'm guessing they can't."
"No." Hartmann pointed toward him again. "You are remarkably smart."
"I've been told."
"You should stop."
The exchange earned another laugh from both of them. The captain relaxed further. Exactly what Feliciano wanted. A few seconds later Hartmann spoke again.
"Frankly, I don't even know why he insists on moving around."
"Wouldn't it be safer not to?"
"I have no idea." Hartmann drained more alcohol. "But nobody asks my opinion. Half the security officers hate it."
“Your opinion? Or him moving around?”
“Both, I guess..” Hartmann swallowed, shaking his head. “Every trip means new routes. New guards. New checkpoints." Hartmann's irritation grew more obvious with every sentence. "Every trip creates opportunities for mistakes."
The captain glanced around briefly before continuing. "The transportation office has rewritten the travel schedule three times this week."
Feliciano filed that away immediately.
"Why?"
"Because nobody can agree where he's going first." The answer slipped out so casually that Hartmann didn't even seem to realize he'd said it.
Feliciano tilted his head.
"What are the options?"
The captain stared into his drink. Trying to remember. He shrugged.
"Dresden, obviously. Leipzig.. Meissen, for the sights.. Then apparently there's discussion about visiting command staff near the eastern front. But I doubt he’ll go there. The arguments never end. The military wants one thing. Security wants another. The Party wants something else. Then the Führer changes his mind."
Feliciano watched him carefully.
"What does he want?"
Hartmann looked amused.
"Today?"
"Today."
The captain thought for a second. “How would I know? Although Weiss seemed convinced yesterday that the eastern conference would happen in Meissen."
Feliciano's smile quirked. Colonel Weiss again.
Hartmann kept talking.
"He wouldn't stop complaining about revised rail schedules."
"Rail schedules?"
"Yeah." The captain rubbed his forehead. "Something about secure routes."
Feliciano frowned thoughtfully.
"Sounds important."
"It is important. The transportation people have been treating it like a state secret. I swear half the officers involved don't even know the final route."
Feliciano suddenly understood why Phoenix and Heather had spent months chasing information instead of attempting something reckless. Meanwhile Hartmann was still talking. Still venting.
"Whatever happens," he muttered, lifting his glass again, "I hope they make a decision soon."
"Why?"
"Because Weiss is losing his mind."
Feliciano smiled.
"And when Weiss loses his mind?"
Hartmann laughed.
"Everybody loses their minds."
For the first time that night, Feliciano felt genuinely hopeful.
“Who is Weiss, may I ask..?”
The captain seemed to remember, abruptly, that he wasn’t speaking to another officer. His posture shifted a fraction, the easy familiarity of the conversation tightening into something slightly more performative. He gave a small, amused snort and reached out, patting Feliciano’s hand where it rested near the bar as if they were old friends sharing harmless gossip.
The contact was brief. Casual. Familiar in a way that made Feliciano’s skin crawl anyway.
“Oh—right,” Hartmann said, chuckling under his breath. “You’re a simple tourist.”
Feliciano kept his expression smooth. His fingers didn’t move.
“I am sorry,” he replied lightly, letting out a small giggle.
Hartmann nodded as if that explained everything.
“Colonel Matthias Weiss,” he continued, “the man everyone pretends doesn’t run half the country’s movement schedules.”
Feliciano gave a small, polite hum of interest.
Hartmann continued anyway, warmed now by alcohol and the satisfaction of being listened to.
“He’s… efficient,” the captain said, as if the word tasted unpleasant. “Annoyingly so. One of those men who knows exactly where every train is supposed to be at any given moment. The type who corrects your paperwork before you’ve even finished writing it. Proper little perfectionist.”
Feliciano nodded slowly.
“So people listen to him.”
Hartmann shrugged.
“They have to.”
Feliciano let his gaze drift briefly down toward his drink, as if thinking about nothing at all.
“And he handles travel schedules?”
“More than handles them,” Hartmann said, rolling his eyes. “He owns them. If a major movement happens, it goes through him first. Rail routes, escorts, timing, all of it.” Hartmann kept talking, unaware of how carefully every sentence was being stored. “He’s been unbearable lately,” he added. “Ever since all this talk about the Führer’s movements started. Constant revisions. Constant arguments. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.”
Feliciano tilted his head slightly.
“Is he always involved in those decisions?”
“He is the decisions. If Weiss doesn’t approve it, it doesn’t move.”
Feliciano kept his expression soft. Thoughtful. Mildly interested in the way someone might be interested in weather patterns.
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
“It’s too much responsibility for one man. Which is probably why he’s losing his mind. He’s started arguing with generals directly. Can you imagine? Transport officer telling field command how to structure operations.”
Feliciano nodded slowly.
“I imagine that goes poorly.”
“Oh, it does. But they still listen.”
The words hung there for a second longer than anything else he had said that night. Feliciano finally allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible sip of his drink. Somewhere above them, the club continued to hum with noise and warmth and drunken laughter. Men who believed the world was stable enough to joke inside it. Hartmann leaned back, clearly satisfied with his own explanation.
“So,” he added lazily, “that’s Weiss. Bureaucratic nightmare with a rank.” Then he glanced at Feliciano again, as if suddenly realizing he had been talking too much about work.
“Why? Are you interested in logistics too?”
“Eh.. No. But hearing you talk isn’t terrible.”
Hartmann gave a short, amused huff through his nose, the kind of sound that suggested he was half-flattered and half-drunk enough not to care either way. He rotated his glass slowly on the bar counter, watching the liquid catch the warm club light as if it were something mildly interesting.
“Careful,” he said, leaning a little closer again, voice lowering into something more conversational than guarded. “If you say things like that around the wrong officers, they’ll start thinking you’re useful.”
Feliciano let out a soft, almost careless laugh, tilting his head slightly as if the idea itself was amusing rather than dangerous. Inside, though, every detail was being stored, weighed, sorted into place like pieces sliding into a machine he had been building for weeks without admitting it.
“I don’t think I look very useful,” he replied lightly.
Hartmann looked him over in a slow, lazy way, the kind of assessment that came from too many years around uniforms and insignia and people trying to prove themselves.
“You’d be surprised,” the captain said. “People who look harmless usually hear more than they should.”
He kept his expression soft anyway, letting it settle into something vaguely amused, vaguely uninterested, as though this were still just idle bar talk between strangers who would forget each other by morning.
“I mostly hear music,” Feliciano said, swirling his drink slightly. “And people complaining about other people.”
Hartmann smiled again, but his attention drifted briefly back toward the main room where the officers still clustered in uneven groups around tables and ashtrays. His voice shifted, becoming more casual again, as if he were returning to safer ground.
“You picked a strange night to be curious,” he muttered. “Everyone’s wound tight lately.”
Feliciano nodded slowly, as if this were mildly interesting bureaucracy rather than the backbone of their entire operation.
“And nobody questions it?” he asked softly.
“We don’t get answers.”
“How annoying..”
Above them, the club continued to hum with warmth and careless noise, the kind of place where men spoke too freely because they believed the walls would keep them safe from consequence.
Hartmann finished his drink and set the glass down with a soft clink.
“We will all have a stroke before the month ends. Then they’ll replace us with people just as miserable and everything’ll all start over.” He gave Feliciano a final glance. “You should enjoy your evening. Things like this don’t usually get interesting for people who aren’t paid to suffer through them.”
Then he stepped away, disappearing back toward the main room. Feliciano remained at the bar for a moment longer, glass still in hand, expression unchanged. Only when Hartmann was fully gone did his shoulders relax by a fraction.