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  | xvii. WHAT WOULD YOU
GIVE TO SEE HER AGAIN?

MASTERS OF THE AIR
AMOR VINCIT OMNIA

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GERMANY,
1943

|| OH FATE, IT HAS A WEIRD SENSE OF HUMOR, A CRUEL TWIST IN STORE FOR ANY THAT DANCE WITHIN ITS GRASP. The flames casted an eerie glow over the two figures locked in a deadly sway of love and death. Egan with his heart torn asunder, stood paralyzed with the blade poised at Celeste's neck.

Just the silver lay kissing the delicate skin of her neck—once steady hands now shook with the weight of his decision. The wooden handle cold and unforgiving against his palm.

Could he go through with it? To muster the strength to commit this act? To sever the life of one who had effortlessly woven herself into the fabric of his very soul, never to release her hold? 

The internal turmoil threatened to take him as he sought refuge in the darkness behind his closed lids—-attempting to see Celeste as a mere stranger, an enemy. Yet the walls he had built crumbled with the images of the night they spent together.

Where the tender touch of Celeste's skin against his sent shivers of longing down his spine, her lips like a soft lullaby. He knew deep down that this moment, as painful as it was, had to be done.

" No, no," Egan whispered to himself—his voice barely audible above the yells of townspeople. He held her tighter, trying to reason that this was the best way—the only way to protect her from the darkness that encroached.

But fate had other plans. A commotion erupted from the shadows, shattering the fragile peace. The sound of urgent footsteps closing in from behind sent a jolt of adrenaline through the major's veins.

Before he could pivot to confront the unknown assailant, a thunderous crack split the air. The force of the blow lacerated through his senses—catapulting him downward. The knife slipped from his grasp like a traitor abandoning its master—-clattering to the ground in a mockery of his mission.

Gravity yanked Egan to the unforgiving ground—the impact sending shards of agony pulsing through his being. He lay there, a marionette cut from its strings, limbs heavy and unresponsive— a guttural sound that clawed its way out of his lips.

In stark contrast, Celeste's anguished wail rent the night, a siren's lament. She crumpled beside Egan, her quaking hands hovering over him like birds searching for refuge in the storm.

"Egan!" Celeste trembled. Realizing that wasn't getting anywhere, she even tried his nickname, " Bucky." Her fingertips brushed against his cheek—- the warmth of his skin against her cold touch. Tears welled in her eyes, this time no matter how hard she tried—it kept coming. No amount of training could stop this.

"please get up," Celeste beseeched him, her voice cracking. Each ragged breath she took felt like a stab to her heart. She strained against his weight, attempting to rouse him from his unconscious state—but his body remained still and unresponsive. Only where a few grunts and groans mustered from him.

Desperation etched lines onto her as she continued to cradle his cheek—"Please," she implored. "You promised not to leave me." The whispered plea, hung like a delicate spider's web—fragile and easily shattered.

With a shaky breath, Celeste leaned in closer, "Egan, please," The words left like a prayer on her lips. Her fingers brushed through his hair—stained with blood from his temple.

A tremor ran through her as she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, as if willing him to wake. As Celeste sat there, holding onto Egan as if their very lives depended on it, The air was heavy with the wails of her countrymen. Each being slain by the angered mob of German civilians. Watching the slaughter, Celeste refused let go of her grip—fearing Egan would be snatched away.

Yet amidst this, Celeste failed to protect her own self. She did not heed to the sinister figure that loomed—a German guard with eyes that gleamed with malice. A cold smile playing on his lips as he looked down upon them. As she slowly met eyes with him, he locked onto hers like predator sizing up its prey.

There she felt a shiver run down her spine, a primal instinct warning her of the danger that emanated. But Celeste was made of sterner stuff. With a glare, she gritted her teeth, her lip spread into a fine line. In a moment of fearlessness or albeit stupidity, Celeste spat at the man— fueling the cruel smirk on his face.

Nothing could have prepared Celeste for what would happen next, the guard raised his rifle and delivered a brutal blow to her head. It sent waves of searing pain through her skull. Leaving her body to stumbled backward, before collapsing beside Egan.

Celeste's emerald eyes flickered in and out of consciousness—-the world spinning in a haze of agony. Through the blurred veil before her, she could discern Egan's bloodied visage—a sight that tore at her soul. Summoning every ounce of her strength, her trembling hand reached out, slowly inching toward his battered form.

Desperation clawed at Celeste's chest as her fingers brushed against his in a feeble attempt to grasp onto something familiar in the chaos. She tried to call out his name, but only a garbled whisper escaped her lips—lost in the haze of her deteriorating mind.

As darkness crept in at the edges of her vision, Celeste fought against the encroaching abyss. The last thing she saw before succumbing to the blackness was Egan—his features etched into her memory.

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POLAND
STULAG III
1943

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|| THE LIGHT HAD CREPT THROUGH THE STILL TREES, CASTING SHADOWS OVER THE FOREST FLOOR. Yet, amidst the array of pine needles and discarded bark, a human form lay undiscovered, where the rays of gentle yellow kissed his cheek stained with crimson.

The major had fallen unconscious mere hours ago—in an attempt to out run the two grave diggers. Ones that had brutally ended the life of another the airman. One swift swing of the shovel and the pilot's words were forever etched into Egan's mind.

Frankly, he had misjudged his condition, thus finding himself upon the dampened ground. His form sprawled out like a discarded puppet.

Amidst the gentle bird songs, the echoes of Celeste's laughter resonated in his mind, haunting him, taunting him. Her visage flickered in his mind's eye, as vivid and fleeting as that of a film reel. Her smile, her eyes full of warmth and love—seemed so real yet so distant.

The laughter faded into a distant memory, her silky voice twisted and contorted—morphing into a deep, commanding baritone that sent shivers down Egan's spine. 

"Americana," the voice intoned, and though it felt as if Celeste herself whispered the word—it carried an otherworldly weight that pierced through the fog of Egan's half-dazed state.

The major's eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the surroundings. The forest canopy above him swayed gently in the breeze—-casting shifting patterns over his prone form.

With a great effort, Egan tried to prop himself up on one elbow—hazily scanning the forest around. It seemed to stretch on endlessly, trees closing in around him like silent sentinels. The shadows deepened, the sunlight waning.

Egan's heart skipped a beat when he heard the snaps of twigs behind him. "You thought you could escape," a man whispered in near perfect English—his words like a dagger in his heart. Egan then tried to stand up, to flee once more as fear and confusion swirled in his mind. Was this a hallucination, a trick of his fractured psyche?

The forest seemed to close in around him, the trees leaning in as if to trap him within their twisted embrace. Egan stumbled forward, face planting into the softened ground. His breath coming in ragged gasps.

A sharp snap, like a thunderclap, shattered the fragile illusion as reality came crashing back. Egan's senses reeled as he slowly tilted his head to found himself surrounded by German guards or more likely, police. Their rifles aimed sternly at him.

Confusion clouded his mind as he struggled to piece together the fragmented memories of the previous night. How had he ended up here? How long had he run before collapsing in this grove?

Images of chaos and violence flashed before his eyes like a frenzied montage – a town in turmoil, the clash of townspeople and airmen, the sickening sight of slaughter. But amidst the chaos, one glaring absence cut through the haze of his recollection like a knife to the heart – Celeste was nowhere to be found.

Panic clawed at Egan's chest, seizing his fragile heart in a vice-like grip. Through the fog of pain, he managed to force out a hoarse plea, a desperate cry, "Celeste..."

The police, unmoved by his anguish, hauled him to his feet with rough hands—their gazes betraying no hint of compassion. Whilst Egan's calls for Celeste echoed through the forest—a haunting lament swallowed.

As the German police dragged him away, Egan felt his strength waned, his fevered mind slipping once more into the welcoming arms of oblivion. And in that fleeting moment between wakefulness and unconsciousness, a single thought lingered – the name of his beloved, a beacon of hope in the darkness that threatened to consume.

13:00 hours, Egan felt a jolt run through his body as he slowly regained consciousness. The first thing he noticed was the dim light filtering through the windows of the vehicle—it swaying gently as it moved along the road. His head throbbed with a persistent ache, and his mind felt foggy—struggling to piece together the events that had led him to this moment.

Groggily, Egan's eyelids fluttered open and close, his vision blurred as he tried to focus on the surroundings. He could feel the rhythmic vibrations of the engine beneath him, the sound of the tires against the pavement a dull hum in his ears. With a deep inhale, the major attempted to clear the haze—pushing himself upright in the seat.

As he blinked away the remnants, Egan's gaze searched the interior of the car—-his heart racing with a mix of confusion and apprehension. His movements were slow and labored, his muscles protesting every shift as he turned his head from side to side. The leather upholstery beneath him felt cold and unfamiliar—a stark contrast to the warmth of his own bed.

In that moment, Egan's mind raced with questions. Why was he in a car? Where was Celeste? Where was he being taken too? The memories of their last conversation came flooding back to him in bits and pieces, the sharp sting of their moment still fresh in his mind. Had they been truly separated, only for him to end up here— disoriented?

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Egan realized that he was truly alone. There was no sign of Celeste in the car, no comforting presence to reassure him in this moment of uncertainty. Instead, all he found was emptiness, a void that echoed the ache in his heart. He found himself staring back the fading trees in the distance. He had just gotten her back from the grips of war, only to lose her again.

It felt like a knife was being driven into his heart, then his belly—everything felt as though it was on fire. Yet, it wasn't long before his all exclusive ride was over. At the gate entrance, Egan was being dragged elsewhere again. The cold grip of the unknown wrapped around him—-threatening to suffocate any hint of hope.

He couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding as he was led down the dimly lit corridor, the shadows conspiring to cloak his fate from prying eyes. German guards stood sentinel at every turn, their presence a chilling reminder of the ominous power controlling every aspect of this existence.

As Major Egan was ushered into a room that bore an uncanny resemblance to Col. Jefferson's office, a wave of nostalgia washed over him—mingling with the sharp tang of fear that permeated the room.

The exquisite furnishings stood in stark contrast to the reality of his predicament, a cruel irony that did not escape him. The scent of polished wood and leather invaded his senses—a poignant reminder of the world he now had to left behind.

The young officer's icy blue eyes bore into Egan's, making him feel as though his every secret were laid bare before this German.

"Ah, Major Egan, please take a seat," came a voice that was sweet as honey and cold as ice. Lieutenant Haussmann, the very embodiment of Aryan perfection—sat behind a massive oak desk, his icy blue eyes piercing through Major Egan's façade. Every inch the ideal soldier in Hitler's regime, Lieutenant Haussmann exuded an air of authority that was both commanding and chilling.

Haussmann took no time in introducing himself as the interrogator of the camp. Though Egan wasn't all too thrilled about being taken in the first place—he reluctantly accepted the invitation to sit.

Egan eased himself into the sturdy chair, a sense of weariness clinging to his movements like an unwanted shadow. The leather creaked softly in protest as he settled in, his muscles protesting the motion with a painful grunt. His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the armrest, his stormy gaze fixed on a point in the distance that only he could see.

Celeste. The mere thought of her sent a surge of emotions cascading through his chest – worry, fear, longing. Was she safe? Was she waiting for him somewhere, wondering why he hadn't returned? The questions echoed in his mind, their weight heavy and suffocating.

Haussmann, ever the perceptive one, asked if the Major cared for a whiskey. As the golden liquid cascaded into the glass, Egan's fingers trembled slightly with anticipation.

Before the lieutenant approached with a crystal glass cradling a generous pour of whiskey. The amber liquid gleamed invitingly, its aroma wafting towards Egan like a siren's call. It had been days since he last indulged in this vice, and his body craved its familiar burn, a temporary respite from the turmoil within.

Egan accepted the drink with a nod of gratitude, the glass cool against his calloused palm. With a swift motion, he brought it to his lips and downed it in one smooth gulp—the alcohol searing a welcome path down his throat.

The lieutenant observed in slight shock, his expression betraying the realization that he had just borne witness to a man drowning his demons in a single swallow.

"So," Haussmann began, his voice a measured blend of curiosity and concern, "Where shall we begin?"

Egan's gaze hardened, the steel in his eyes matching the resolve in his voice. "How about I was in a town," he started, the memories clawing their way to the surface, "and someone shot four of the guys I was with and injured a female pilot."

Each word dripped with bitterness, a potent reminder of the loss and pain that still lingered in his soul. He saw a flicker of something in the lieutenant's eyes – was it pity? Regret? It was fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a veneer of professionalism.

"I am very sorry," Haussmann murmured softly, a tinge of genuine remorse coloring his tone. "Can I have the names of the fallen?"

Egan's jaw clenched at the mention of his fallen comrades, the memories cutting like knives. He swallowed the lump in his throat and met the lieutenant's gaze with a glare. "I don't know their names. I was just pushed in with them when we were captured," he replied curtly.

Haussmann didn't seem too pleased with the major's defiance. Nevertheless, Egan pressed on. "Look, thanks for the whiskey, but if you're looking for answers, you're not gonna get anything out of me," Egan muttered stoically, "Only my name, Rank... Ser..."

"Serial number... Yes, I know that," Haussmann interjected. Without missing a beat, he opened a folder in front of him and began reciting, "John Egan. Major. O-399510..."

As Haussmann listed Egan's serial number, he deftly leafed through the major's life history. To Egan's surprise, the German lieutenant seemed to possess an intimate knowledge of his past - where he was born, where he was stationed, his favorite baseball team, his friend Gale Cleven—even the details of his interactions with women.

Haussmann was privy to Egan's drinking habits, his flirtations with the opposite sex, and the fact that he was not a married man.

However, Haussmann's keen observation did not stop there. "You may say you're not married, but..." With a deliberate movement, he reached into the top drawer and produced another folder, placing it gently beside Egan's. "I've heard otherwise. Despite your extracurricular activities, there seems to be one woman that always pops up."

Egan's eyes narrowed, flickering of apprehension—-as the new folder landed silently upon the polished mahogany desk. The room, cloaked in a hushed tension, seemed to hold its breath alongside him.

As Haussmann's fingers deftly flipped open the file to reveal its contents, Egan felt a thread of unease coil in his gut. There, emblazoned in exquisite calligraphy on the cover, was a name that sent a tremor through him – "Chief Leader Celeste Jefferson."

Egan's mind raced, a storm of conflicting emotions crashing against the levee of his composure. She was his vulnerability, his Achilles' heel in the steel-clad armor of his duty.

Haussmann's voice cut through the suffocating silence, each word measured and sharp. "That female pilot you mentioned from Rüsselsheim. Is this her?" The question hung heavy in the air, pregnant with implications that Egan dared not acknowledge. Sweat pricked at his temples, his mouth parched as he struggled to form a response.

The room seemed to constrict around him, a vise closing in on his secrets. "No," Egan's voice was barely a whisper, laden with a weight that threatened to crush him. Haussmann's gaze bore into him mercilessly, dissecting his every flicker of emotion with surgical precision.

"Miss Jefferson," Haussmann's tone was a calculated blend of curiosity and accusation, "Major. Pray, enlighten me on the nature of your association with her." Each syllable was a scalpel—slicing through the facade Egan had meticulously crafted.

The mask slipped, just for a moment, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath. Celeste was more than a name – she was his compass in the wilderness, his anchor in the tempest. Did they know the depth of his devotion, the lengths to which he would go to protect her?

With a steely resolve, Egan met Haussmann's gaze. "Jefferson is... a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. I can assure you, Lieutenant, she has no involvement in my affairs."

A subtle hum escaped Haussmann's lips as he took the folder back, neatly placing it before him once more. A daunting smile now played upon his features. "Major, I fear you are lying to me." Egan only glared at the German, trying not to betray the feelings for Celeste underneath.

"I don't think so. The female pilot was some..." But then Egan's voice trailed off as he watched the lieutenant reach down, open the drawer, and slowly take out the small-sized picture of Celeste in her service uniform.

The one Egan had taken from her father's office. His hand instinctively went to his left pocket—only to find it empty. Damnit, they must have searched him while he was out.

Haussmann's smile widened, almost sinister. "It seems, Major, that your connection to Miss Jefferson is more than mere friendship. Wouldn't you agree?" Egan's mind raced. How had they found out? What did they want from him?

"We know she means something to you, Major. We found this in your left pocket. So I'm going ask again. Is Jefferson this woman?" Haussmann said softly, tapping the picture with his finger.

Panic flickered in Egan's eyes, a subtle giveaway of the turmoil churning within his stoic facade. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, attempting to maintain his composure under the sharp gaze of Lieutenant Haussmann.

"Good. That is all I needed," Haussmann's voice cut through the silence like a blade, cold and calculating. With practiced precision, he placed Jefferson's photograph back into the manila folder that lay open on the table, the stark black and white image a stark contrast to the rich hues of the room. "She is the one that seemed to be the main focus of your attention. Born on November 29th, 1919."

Haussmann's words lingered in the air, thick with implications that Egan refused to acknowledge. That was the first time he had been confronted with her birth date and year.

Sensing Egan's unease like a predator scents fear, Haussmann pressed on, a glint of cunning in his steel-blue eyes. His words were a carefully crafted trap, designed to elicit a slip, a revelation—anything that could tip the scales in their favor.

"Chief Leader, which is the equivalent to Major I believe... Jefferson was assigned to the 459th. C-47, C for cargo. Stationed in Thorpe's Abbotts. I see her service in China as a C-47 pilot and fighter. Interesting, she was originally studying anthropology. I will say her fluency in Chinese is impressive, though I'm not certain that will aid her in this predicament."

Egan felt a knot of unease tighten in the pit of his stomach, a primal instinct warning of impending danger. This time, he was swift to interject, his voice a commanding force that brooked no argument. "So, you have all this information. Where is she then?" His words were a challenge, a demand for answers that he knew would not come easily.

Despite Egan's ways, the lieutenant's composed demeanor never faltered. The air crackled with tension, with each man locked in a battle of wills.

"You see, Major, you both are, as you say, in a bit of a pickle. We know you were picked up around Ostbevern. But we have no record of you in that group," the lieutenant's voice was a velvet-lined blade—slicing through the thick silence of the room.

Egan, being a man of few words, held the lieutenant's gaze with a mixture of defiance and suspicion. He could sense the intricate dance of deception that Haussmann was expertly weaving—-a tangled web of half-truths and veiled threats.

"The Gestapo would say that makes you a spy..." the German's voice was low—a smirk was barely perceptible, a ghost of amusement flickering across his lips.

"I found it interesting that Jefferson was there, considering she is a C-47 pilot, not a bomber pilot. So," Haussmann's voice trailed off—-a calculated pause hanging in the air like a heavy fog, "Why was she there?"

Egan's nostrils flared imperceptibly, a telltale sign of his mounting frustration. "I don't know, you tell me. One with all the information."

"You are quite the airman, Major Egan..." Haussmann remarked, "But I need to know why. What was her mission? Was it delivering goods to resistance fighters? What was yours?"

A swell of anger rose within Egan, a tempest threatening to break free from its restraints. With a sudden motion, he slammed his foot down on the cold, hard floor. "You're not getting anything out of me."

"I understand the gravity of your feelings, Major, but you must understand," the lieutenant began.

"Jefferson was heard speaking near perfect German. Plus, in a place she shouldn't have been where there was no evidence of her."

Egan's disbelief was palpable as he scoffed at the lieutenant's words. "I don't know what German they are referring to, but it certainly wasn't the best. She was just trying to stop our men from being slaughtered."

A knowing smile danced on the lieutenant's lips, a subtle play of emotions that betrayed his apparent neutrality. "Surely. But it is not you nor I who make the decision. The townspeople have turned against her, labeling her a traitor. And so, the Gestapo have taken matters into their own hands."

Egan shifted uncomfortably in the plush leather chair, the creaking of the old furniture punctuating the heavy silence that settled between the two men. He tapped his finger impatiently against his knee, his mind racing with a million thoughts. "But Celeste is an American pilot. She should be treated as a prisoner of war."

The lieutenant arched an eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Yes, one might think so. However, we've never had a female soldier in our midst before. The rules are not as clear-cut as one would hope." The lieutenant then offered the Major a cigarette— a lucky strike.

Egan felt as if the walls of the dimly lit room were closing in on him, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "What did they do to her?" he demanded, his voice laced with urgency.

"Truthfully, I have no idea," the lieutenant admitted coolly. "And even if I did, why should I tell you?"

Egan crushed the cigarette in the ashtray with a series of sharp stabs, his eyes locking onto the lieutenant's. "Because of the Geneva Convention. She's a prisoner of war, just like the rest of us. She deserves fair treatment."

The lieutenant's smile slowly dropped. "Do you have feelings for her, Major?" Haussmann's voice was a velvet whip—cutting through the thick silence like a surgeon's scalpel.

Egan's breath caught in his throat, a visible tremor running through his frame. His steel-blue eyes, usually so unreadable, now betrayed a flicker of vulnerability. In that moment, Haussmann saw the truth laid bare before him — Egan's love for Celeste burned like a fever. Mirroring the same feelings he had for someone once...

So," Haussmann places her picture down in front of Egan, allowing the major to take it back. "you have a choice to make. Help us, and we can ensure her safety. Resist, and..." he left the sentence hanging, the threat unspoken but loud in the tense room.

The image of Celeste, her radiant smile frozen in time, mocked him with its innocence. He could almost hear her laughter echoing in the cold, sterile room, a cruel reminder of what was at stake.

Egan's hands clenched into fists at his sides, the veins in his temples pulsing with a mix of fear and anger. Celeste, his beloved, was missing, and the weight of her absence bore down on him like a heavy burden.

His hand trembled imperceptibly as he reached for the picture—fingers hovering over the familiar features that now seemed so distant.

Egan's mind raced as he grappled with the impossible decision before him. What would he sacrifice to ensure Celeste's safety? How far was he willing to go to see her once more, to feel her touch, to hear her laughter?

The voice of temptation, a slithering serpent of doubt, came through the silence—its hiss cutting through the heaviness that hung in the air like an oppressive fog. "What would you give to see her again?"

The question, heavy with unspoken implications, lingered like a forbidden fruit, tempting Egan with its alluring promise of reunion.

Haussmann, with his weathered countenance illuminated by the flickering flame of a Lucky Strike, watched with an intensity that bordered on unsettling.

In that charged moment, with the curling tendrils of smoke enveloping them in a haze of uncertainty, Major Egan made a choice. A choice that would ripple through the fabric of his existence, challenging his convictions and testing the boundaries of his soul.

Egan's jaw clenched as he uttered the words, each syllable a heavy anchor of determination. For him, surrender was not an option. "John Egan. Major. O-399510..." The confession lingered in the air, mingling with a hint of defiance, drawing a strained chuckle from Haussmann.

The German lieutenant, with a deliberate slowness, closed the two well-worn folders scattered across the table before him, the weight of the moment palpable in the dimly lit room. "Very well, Major. So be it," Haussmann conceded with a mixture of admiration and exasperation in his voice.

In a bold display of unwavering resolve, Haussmann's voice cut through the tense silence as he called for the guards to reenter the chamber, his gaze locked onto Egan. "We shall see how far your loyalty extends," he declared, a subtle challenge threading through his words.

The atmosphere crackled with unspoken tensions as the guards filed back into the room, their presence a stark reminder of the stakes at hand.

The thick iron door clanked shut with a finality that echoed down the dimly lit hallway of the confinement camp. Egan found himself thrown back into the darkness of his cell, the cold stone walls closing in. He let out a frustrated sigh, his breath forming a mist upon the chilled air.

His worn blanket, thin and scratchy, offered little comfort.
"Can't a man get a decent blanket around here?" Egan muttered—more to himself than to anyone else. He knew the German guards would pay him no mind, their indifference a constant reminder of his powerlessness in this place.

With a resigned shrug, Egan trudged over to the lumpy cot in the corner and sat down heavily—his worn-out frame sinking into the hard mattress. There wasn't much in terms of color or decoration—just plain old grey.

He reached into the pocket of his tattered uniform, pulling out the photograph. Egan traced a calloused finger over Celeste's face, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of his lips. If only she were here with him now, he thought, his heart heavy with longing.

As he gazed longingly, Egan would trade his very existence a thousand times over if it meant having her by his side.
In the solitude of his cell, Egan clutched the photograph to his chest. Little did he know, Gale Cleven was on the same solitary confinement...

TO BE CONTINUED....

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
—-

NEW CHAP IS HERE 😈

YES I REDID IT SO WHATTTTT

Idk, I'm not feeling this chapter as much,
I kinda hate it

Celeste has quite literally never
seen a moment of comfort in her life

Literally everyone after I finish this book
, with all the loops and pain

NEXT ON AMOR VINCIT OMNIA
——

Haussmann calls Egan back in, yet finds himself disclosing something about himself. Celeste finds herself at a camp in Northern Germany, 90km from Berlin—known for its ruthless brutality.... She befriends an older woman, who is determined to protect her