The beginning after the End

"Breit.. Just be yourself. Don't make it impossible for me too." A worried and anxious Axel's voice barely cut through the hum of the Condor aircraft as it glided low over the snow-drenched Bavarian Alps. its steel wings cut through the frigid night, casting fleeting shadows over the mountains below. Inside, the cabin was again eerily silent save for the rhythmic tapping of Eberhard von Breitenbuch's gloved fingers against his knee. Axel Busch sat beside him, eyes distant, focused on a thought neither of them dared to speak aloud. But Axel couldn't bear it much and spoke his heart to reach him. " I trust you… Just don't lose yourself yet. The words dragged back Breitenbuch from the abyss of his thoughts, yet the weight in his chest remained. Looming ahead was an audience with the most loathed figure in history, a meeting drenched in menace.

His hand instinctively reached down, fingers brushing against his calf. For a brief moment, he locked eyes with his clenched fist, clinging to an invisible thread of resolve. But doubt, insidious and relentless, gnawed at the edges of his mind. 'Am I making the right choice?'

There was no time for further contemplation. The Condor touched down, skidding to a halt on the runway near Berghof, nestled in the heart of the Alps. As the engines whined to a stop, both men braced themselves, stepping into the cold embrace of destiny.

The Berghof stood like a monolithic Specter against the mountains, its presence both commanding and foreboding. No immediate hostility greeted them, just silence. Yet, with each step toward the entrance, Breitenbuch felt as though he were sinking, the gravity of his purpose dragging him down.

Axel shadowed his movements, mirroring his calculated pace. The wind howled between them, whispering unspoken warnings neither man acknowledged. At the entrance, two sentinels clad in faded olive cotton stood motionless, their gazes sharp and assessing.

"We request an audience with the Führer. We have arrived with the report as requested," Breitenbuch stated with forced steadiness, halting mid-step before ascending the final stone steps.

One of the guards, broad-shouldered and keen-eyed, stepped forward. His stare bored into Breitenbuch, unblinking, weighing something unseen. A long pause. Then,

"Can you entrust it to me for now?"

Breitenbuch handed over the document, his pulse betraying his rigid exterior. As the guard turned to relay the report, Breitenbuch's eyes flickered beyond him, into the yawning hallway beyond the threshold. Shadows stretched unnaturally in the flickering light.

Under the watch of the second guard both Axel and Breitenbuch stood there anticipating a response. The second guard, positioned near the door, received a signal on the Feldfunk-sprecher radio. Moments later, a butler cladded in black suit received them to accompany the individuals, wordlessly beckoning them forward.

No search. No interrogation. Just a silent ushering into the heart of the Berghof, where shadows stretched unnaturally long under the glow of chandeliers. The heavy scent of cigars, aged wood, and something acrid filled the air.

They walked deeper inside.

The walls loomed, adorned with oil paintings of forgotten men, their eyes following every movement. Candles flickered, their flames bending unnaturally, as if recoiling from something unseen.

A hush fell upon them as they reached the great hall. At the far end of the room, a staircase spiralled upward, leading to Room 012.

Butler knocks twice and a voice commanded him to see off the visitors inside. " Come".

As soon as the door closed behind them, the rancid stench intensified, curling around them like invisible tendrils. Breitenbuch took in the room: an imposing eagle perched atop a Swastika at the far end, walls cluttered with maps, newspaper clippings, and pin-studded boards meticulously tracking the shifting tides of war.

Four figures stood around a table laid at the centre in proximity with far end of the wall, their insignias unmistakable. Martin Bormann, Joseph Goebbels, Heinrich Himmler, and Adolf Eichmann; men whose names etched terror into the bones of Europe. And at the center, his presence more suffocating than the air itself, sat Adolf Hitler.

Blue eyes locked onto Breitenbuch, piercing, dissecting.

The dampness of Breitenbuch's palms burned against his gloves as he stepped forward. Each movement felt mechanical, a puppet marching toward its fate. Swallowing his nerves, he steadied himself before delivering the report. His voice, though burdened with a tremor, remained firm.

He gestured toward the board, meticulously laying out the details of their intelligence. Himmler, uncharacteristically silent, slipped away mid-presentation. Bormann, however, leaned back, intrigue flickering across his face. Slowly, the tense air loosened. The smirk on Hitler's face deepened. 

" …. That's all from my side" as he finally feels some ease and loaded off his mind and body.

"You did well," he murmured, voice laced with something unreadable.

" Is there anything , you wa…" as hitler try to glance once more at Breitenbuch who have closed on his steps to Hitler. a loud roar of the gun echoed the room 012 with Hitler's temple burst open in a grotesque explosion, crimson splattering across the room. Silence strangled the air, stretching the moment into eternity.

"All hail the lord" Breitenbuch uttered as he confirms the headshot has devoured Hitler with an evil smirk losing his sanity. Borman trying to hold off the pistol in a failed attempt and Goebbels still reaching out to his Glock. It all happened in fraction of section that none had even a slightest chance to react but..

It feels a lag that Breitenbuch was brought back to an instance where Hitler menacingly staring at him while concealing his lower half of face with his bloodied left arm, dripping blood and splatters on his face and everywhere around.

Something was wrong. The scent of iron thickened. A slow, menacing chuckle sliced through the silence. Breitenbuch's victory dissolved into horror. Breintenbuch in disbelief loses cool and was about to take a call on second shot when Joseph Goebbels' hand clamped onto Breitenbuch's wrist, wrenching him to the ground before he could react.

The room tilted, reality splintering at the seams. Breitenbuch's mind reeled. He had seen it. The bullet. The impact. The certainty of death. Yet here Hitler stood, eyes gleaming with something monstrous. "what?!!!.. " . It felt as a glitch in matrix outright.

 Groaning in pain Breitenbuch still try to struggle and that's when Hitler stepped closer, looming above him, fingers tangling into Breitenbuch's hair, yanking his head back. " Fate has not sided with you?" his voice a twisted symphony of madness. Hitler's expression turned psychotic as he looked down on Breitenbuch as his mind reeled trying to recover from the anomaly. The room felt cold as all its warmth got drained.

"what did you see?" a voice homed inside Breintenbuch and last thing he saw was the slow curl of Hitler's lips, a faint, knowing smile then everything turned dark for Breitenbuch.

Between 1934 and 1945, 93 attempts were made to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Some plots were meticulously planned, others were acts of sheer desperation. Bombs had been placed under tables, rifles had been aimed, and daggers had been concealed in the shadows of corridors. Yet, each attempt; no matter how precise, no matter how inevitable, had failed.

There were whispers. Unanswered questions. Reports buried in archives spoke of bullets that should have struck flesh but never did, of explosions that should have ended him but somehow did not. History recorded the failures, but the missing pieces; the moments that defied logic, were left discarded, as though something had intervened, something unseen.

And now, in the final stretch of the war, the Reich itself was dying. What once seemed immortal had begun to decay, collapsing under the weight of its own ambition. From the East, the Red Army surged forward, consuming everything in its path. From the West, the Allies struck with ruthless precision, choking off what remained of the Nazi war machine.

March 1944. The Wehrmacht bled from every front. Operation Bagration had shattered Army Group Centre, gutting the Eastern Front beyond repair. In the West, the Normandy landings had broken the Reich's last line of defence. The Luftwaffe, once the vengeful fist of the Führer, was a mere ghost, its pilots sent to die in machines running on fumes. Blitzkrieg was dead. The once-invincible Reich now fought like a cornered animal, lashing out in desperation.

And yet, from the shadows, assassins still waited. Some within Hitler's own ranks saw his death as the Reich's only hope, yet time had proven a cruel ally to him. Each attempt, no matter how meticulously designed, crumbled under strange circumstances—misfired detonators, unexplained last-minute changes in schedule, intelligence lost in ways that defied reason.

By early 1945, Berlin was a city waiting for its execution. The Battle of the Bulge had collapsed under its own desperation. Dresden had been reduced to smouldering cinders. Bridges, railways, and entire cities lay in ruin. The Red Army had reached the Oder. The Allies had crossed the Rhine. The noose had tightened.

Deep beneath Berlin, in the suffocating corridors of the Führerbunker, Hitler's world had shrunk to the size of a few dimly lit rooms. Surrounded by outdated maps and fading loyalties, he fought battles that no longer existed, commanding divisions that no longer marched.

And yet, his own death still eluded him.

April 20, 1945, Führerbunker, Berlin

Hitler's 56th birthday. Once, the day had been marked by elaborate celebrations, grand speeches, and promises of victory. Now, it was nothing more than a requiem. A handful of loyalists gathered in the bunker's main chamber, the air thick with tension. Above them, Berlin screamed; the city was being torn apart, street by street, building by building. The Soviets were inside the city. There was nowhere left to run.

Hitler stood before them, a gaunt specter of the man who had once commanded the world's attention. His eyes, sunken and rimmed with shadows, swept across the room. This was the endgame, and he knew it.

"This is where I will remain," he declared, his voice hollow yet unwavering. "There is no escape. No betrayal will force me to surrender. If you wish to leave, do so now. I release you from your obligations."

A heavy silence followed. No one moved. No one spoke.

Some exchanged fleeting glances, eyes betraying the fear they dared not voice. For all their oaths of loyalty, for all their blind devotion, the reality of death had begun to gnaw at them. But among them, there were those who would follow him into the abyss. Goebbels, Bormann, and a handful of SS officers stood rigid, their fates sealed long before this moment. Their loyalty was no longer a choice, it was a death sentence.

Baur, desperate, took a step forward. "Mein Führer, we have arranged for your departure. We can still get you out of Berlin."

Hitler raised a trembling hand; a signal for silence. His decision had already been made. "I will not leave Berlin. Let me see it through till the end." His words carried the finality of a man who had chosen his grave.

One by one, they turned, leaving him alone in the dimly lit chamber. His fingers trembled at his sides, but not from fear; from exhaustion, from the weight of a world he could no longer control.

Above, the city burned. The Reich, a dying beast, writhed in its final moments of agony.

And in the depths of the bunker, its architect awaited the inevitable.

The Last Whisper of the Reich

That night, as Berlin continued its descent into chaos, Goebbels and Bormann sought Hitler once more. They had made their decision; they would not flee. They would remain with him until the end.

Hitler listened, nodding slowly, acknowledging their devotion. And yet, as they spoke, a flicker of something unreadable passed through his sunken eyes. Not relief. Not gratitude. Something else.

Bormann and Goebbels had chosen loyalty, but even they could sense it; the air had changed. There was something else at play, something unspoken that lingered beyond words.

Even as death loomed over him, Hitler held onto something; something no one else could see. Not even Eva. Not even his most trusted men. A secret locked within him, gleaming in the depths of his eyes like a whisper from beyond time.

A new beginning after the end.

April 23, 1945 – A Train to Bordeaux, France

The rhythmic clatter of steel against steel echoed through the train car as it sliced through the mist-laden countryside of occupied France. Inside, seated across from each other in a private compartment, two men conversed in hushed tones; men who had long played their roles in a war now unravelling at its seams.

Eberhard von Breitenbuch, his left eye concealed beneath a black patch, sat composed but tense, the dim light accentuating the lines of fatigue etched into his face. Across from him, Axel, clad in a crisp but weathered formal suit, swirled the dark liquid in his flask before taking a slow sip.

"Strange, isn't it?" Axel muttered, breaking the silence. "A year ago, we were dead men walking, waiting to sacrifice everything for the cause … thanks to that snake Himmler, we are allowed to roam free."

Breitenbuch scoffed, his good eye narrowing. "Not thanks to him. Because of him."

Axel leaned forward, his fingers drumming against the wooden table between them. "We were never anything more than pawns, Breitenbuch. Himmler didn't save us out of mercy; he moved us like pieces on a board, securing his own escape route. He orchestrated everything from the very beginning; was always thinking many steps ahead."

Breitenbuch exhaled sharply, gaze shifting to the rain-streaked window. Outside, the vast fields of France rolled by, untouched by the horrors of Berlin's crumbling ruins. "And yet, for all his planning, he still served Hitler like a devoted disciple."

Axel chuckled, low and bitter. "Served? Just on the surface. He was controlling it from background all this time." His voice dropped lower. "Himmler was the true architect of it all. The real devil."

Breitenbuch remained silent, but his fingers curled into a fist against his lap. He had long suspected it that Hitler, for all his madness, had been shaped, manipulated, even guided into deeper monstrosities by the man standing just behind the throne. " The reason why at that day, I didn't opt for suicide bombing was somewhere down was this.. lingering thought of possibility; Furher, never acted on his own accord"

"The camps," Axel continued. "The human experiments. The mutilations. The mass executions; Himmler orchestrated every last one. He whispered them into reality. Hitler may have given the orders, but they weren't his ideas."

Breitenbuch's jaw tightened. He had seen enough, enough to know that the war had bred something worse than conquerors.

"But the irony," Axel mused, "is that now?.. after all the filth he's waded through, after all the blood he spilled, Himmler is the one trying to escape judgment."

Breitenbuch glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Axel leaned back, exhaling. "He's reaching out to the Allies. Negotiating his survival. Offering to betray Hitler in exchange for his own life."

The words hung in the air like a dagger poised above them.

Breitenbuch exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Coward."

Axel smirked. "Cowards always live longer than men like us."

As the train thundered forward, its passengers unknowingly hurtling toward the war's final reckoning, the two men sat in silence, bound by war, betrayal, and the ghosts of a dying Reich.

Berlin, April 23, 1945

The conference hall inside the Führerbunker was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic pounding of Soviet artillery above. The room was dimly lit, its long oak table scarred from the weight of too many desperate discussions, too many last-ditch strategies that had crumbled like sand beneath the tide of war.

Hitler sat alone at the head of the table, his hollow gaze locked onto the thin stack of papers before him.

A report.

One that shattered the last illusion of control he still clung to.

Himmler, his most trusted disciple, his faithful Reichsführer-SS, had gone behind his back. He had reached out to the Western Allies, seeking to surrender in exchange for his own survival.

The betrayal struck deeper than the bomb that had nearly killed him months before.

His fingers twitched as he clutched the edge of the document. His grip was weak. How long had it been since his body had stopped obeying him? Since his hands had begun to tremble from something deeper than age?

It was Bormann who had delivered the report, his voice lined with both disgust and vindication. "Himmler has abandoned us, Mein Führer. He seeks to preserve himself while the Reich burns."

Hitler's lips parted, but no words came. The weight of treason pressed against his chest like a vice.

Was this how it ended? Not with a final stand, not with loyalty unto death, but with the slow, rotting betrayal of those closest to him?

His mind raced, memories crashing over him like a tidal wave. Himmler had stood by his side, had whispered in his ear for years, had convinced him that the horrors committed were necessary.

And yet, even now, even with the blood of millions on his hands, there was a whisper of doubt; a flicker of something beneath the rage. Had it truly been his will? Or had he simply been a vessel?

He could almost hear Himmler's voice, calm and unwavering, justifying every atrocity. For the purity of the Reich. For the survival of the Aryan race. For history.

No.

No.

He had believed in it. He had made those choices. Hadn't he?

But now… now even he wasn't certain anymore.

The walls of the Führerbunker felt smaller. The air, heavier. The war outside raged on, but within these walls, Hitler sat alone, not as the unshakable Führer, but as a man whose mind had been turned against itself.

And for the first time, a new fear crept into his thoughts.

If Himmler, the man who had shaped so much of his Reich, was willing to betray him, then what did that make him?

A god?

A leader?

Or simply a man who had never truly been in control at all?

As the bunker trembled from the impact of another Soviet shell, Hitler closed his eyes.

For the first time in years, he was no longer certain of the answer.

And that uncertainty terrified him more than death itself.

Führerbunker, Berlin – April 27, 1945

Hitler stood in the center of the bunker's conference hall, the weight of history pressing down on him like an iron shroud. His sunken blue eyes, once alight with fanaticism, now held only the cold resolve of a man who had made peace with the inevitable.

The men before him Bormann, Goebbels, and a handful of his most faithful, listened in silence. The Führer was not here to plead. This was a funeral procession of words, a requiem for a Reich that no longer existed.

"I will not surrender" he declared, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Nor will I allow the enemy to parade my body like some vulgar trophy."

His gaze swept across the room, pausing briefly on Bormann, then Goebbels. Two men who had bound their fates to his without hesitation.

"Tomorrow, I will marry Eva," he continued, his tone devoid of sentiment. "And before the Soviets breach these walls, we will end our lives."

The statement hung in the air like a final gunshot.

A murmur rippled through those assembled, some shifting uneasily, others nodding grimly. The war was over. Their fates had been written in the ruins above them.

"I say this again. You are free to leave this bunker." Hitler stated. His eyes burned with a final flicker of authority. "Seig Heil, Valhalla awaits"

A long silence followed. Some bowed their heads, already resigning themselves to the exodus. Others—Goebbels, Bormann, Baur, the SS officers who had sworn to stand by him until the end remained motionless. They would not abandon him.

A brief pause, then Hitler turned to Bormann. His voice lowered.

"There is one final task. See that it is arranged."

Bormann stiffened. A single, sharp nod. The details were left unspoken, but he understood.

Hitler exhaled, running a trembling hand through his unkempt hair. His body had withered, his movements slower, but his will; his final act of defiance, remained unbroken.

No one spoke. There was nothing left to say.

Outside, the Red Army had reached the city's heart.  The Reichstag had fallen.

And deep beneath its smouldering remains, the final chapter of the Third Reich had already been written.

Führerbunker, Berlin – April 29, 1945, 10:00 a.m.

Somewhere in the distance, the thunder of Soviet artillery shook the concrete walls, a relentless reminder that time was running out. The Reich was dead. Its architect, not yet.

Inside a dimly lit chamber, two figures stood before the Führer, their postures stiff with the weight of unspoken dread.

Dr. Käthe Heusermann, once a dental assistant to Hitler's personal dentist, had been summoned for reasons beyond her understanding. Her work had never extended to matters of war or politics, yet here she stood, caught in the final moments of a collapsing regime. Beside her was Ian, Hitler's body double, a manufactured illusion, now facing an uncertain fate.

Hitler, his frame skeletal, his pallor ghostly, sat hunched over a desk littered with documents that no longer held meaning. In his hands, he held a thin, black file, its contents known only to him.

"This will be our last meeting, Dr. Käthe. You don't have to be concerned about my teeth anymore," Hitler said, his voice hoarse but unwavering, burdened with the weight of his anguish. He continued, "You were a great help."

He slid the file across the desk toward them.

"Take this with you... and I trust you to do what only you can," he said, his tone losing its sharpness. A slow breath followed before he added, "A final nail in the coffin. With this, Hitler will become a ghost, one who will appear only to those who seek to unravel the truth... and beyond."

Käthe hesitated before picking it up, her fingers trembling. She did not belong in this room, in this war. Ian remained still, his jaw clenched, his eyes unreadable.

"My fate and yours have somehow become entangled," Hitler continued. His gaze lingered on Ian, as if seeing through him, as if acknowledging the grotesque irony of their resemblance.

"You may remain as my vestige, but know this, you will be hunted to your last breath." His words, though final, carried something almost akin to regret. "I pass my legacy to you. But the path you walk from here... will be your own."

Saying this, he handed Ian a folded document—its surface rough, aged, scarred with burn marks and reeking of old wood.

Ian took it, his hands betraying his hesitation. He had once been ready to abandon all pretence, to run. But now, realization slowly settled in.

Neither spoke. Neither protested. There was nothing left to say.

The moment stretched between them, heavy with finality. Then, the silence was broken by the slow creak of the door.

Eva Braun entered.

She was composed, her elegance unshaken by the chaos beyond these walls. Her eyes met Hitler's, and in that gaze, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

Käthe and Ian stepped back, their exit already decided for them.

As they turned to leave, tears silent, unbidden; slipped down their cheeks. But neither wiped them away. Neither looked back.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, sealing within it the end of an empire, the end of a man, the end of everything.

Berlin burned.

The Reich had collapsed into chaos; its banners torn, its symbols shattered, its leaders dead or fleeing. The streets, once echoing with marching boots and fanatical chants, now drowned in the thunder of Soviet artillery and the desperate cries of the fallen.

April 30, 1945 – Afternoon

In the dim corridors of the bunker, Martin Bormann and Joseph Goebbels stood silently, watching as the bodies of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun were doused in petrol. Their lifeless forms, once the embodiment of a regime, were now reduced to lifeless husks. The scent of gasoline filled the air. There was no ceremony, no last words. Only the cold efficiency of erasure.

Bormann struck the match.

The flames roared to life, consuming flesh and history alike. Smoke twisted into the sky, carrying away the last remnants of the Führer. The man who once dreamed of a thousand-year empire had lasted barely twelve. Now, he was nothing but embers, indistinguishable from the ashes of Berlin itself.

Goebbels watched without expression, his mind already set on what had to come next. There was no future for them, no surrender that would spare their fate.

April 30, 1945 – Nightfall

Inside their private quarters, Magda Goebbels stood before her children, her face pale, her hands trembling. The six of them—innocent, unaware—looked up at her with quiet trust. They would not live to see a world without the Reich.

She knelt beside them, pressing a cyanide capsule to each tiny mouth. "Close your eyes, meine Lieblinge," she whispered, her voice steady, her heart shattered.

One by one, they succumbed. A final breath. Then stillness.

Goebbels entered moments later, his face hollow. Without a word, he took Magda's hand and led her outside. They walked away from the bunker, past the smouldering ruins of Hitler's pyre. Somewhere in the distance, the Red Army advanced, their victory imminent.

A single gunshot cracked through the air. Then another.

Their bodies slumped forward in the front seat of a waiting car. The man who had built the Reich's propaganda machine, the woman who had worshipped its leader, both now lay dead, joining the ghosts they had created.

Berlin Falls

The Reich Chancellery was engulfed in flames.

Documents, records, photographs, all set alight, all consumed in an effort to bury the past. The Soviets would arrive soon, but they would find only ruins, the echoes of a regime that had been erased before it could be dissected.

Dr. Käthe Heusermann was seized. She had no loyalty to the Reich, yet her fate was bound to it. She would disappear into the chaos, another soul swallowed by the war's unrelenting hunger.

But Ian ran.

Through the shattered streets, through the smoke-choked air, he ran. The Soviets would find the bunker, they would unearth the corpses, but he would not be among them. The world had no place for him, not as he was.

The Third Reich was no more.

Somewhere in the North...

The forest stretched endlessly, untouched by war. The sky was clear; too clear for the world that had just collapsed.

Ian or was it Hitler? stood at the edge of a clearing, his breath slow, his mind a storm. He was neither dead nor alive. A ghost walking in the land of the living.

A figure emerged from the trees—tall, sharp-featured, his ears tapering to fine points. His white robes seemed to glow in the moonlight, untouched by the filth of war. His gaze settled on Ian, piercing, knowing.

A smirk played on his lips.

"You're a tough nut to crack…"

The words were spoken lightly, but beneath them lay something else. A secret yet to be unraveled. A history rewritten before it could be read.

The past was ashes. The future; an enigma. 

A century later...

"A shadow of the past... or a mirage of the distant future?"

Kriday jolted awake, his breath shallow, his skin damp with cold sweat. The nightmare lingered, its echoes clawing at the edges of his consciousness. Was it a memory? A premonition? Or just another illusion that time refused to erase?

Moonlight streamed through the window, casting pale silver across his room. He leaned back against the bed, his gaze fixed on the vast, indifferent sky. The full moon stared back, silent and unwavering, a witness to a truth he could neither confirm nor escape.

Had he seen something real... or had he simply dreamed it, over and over again, for years?