Rain hammered the streets of Rotterdam as if the sky itself wanted to drown the city. Fire had already done its part. Charred buildings leaned like wounded giants, their skeletal frames flickering with dying flames. The scent of smoke, fuel, and burnt flesh crawled through every alley.
Rā'id stepped out of a truck marked with the insignia of the Soviet diplomatic corps. The disguise barely worked anymore; Nazi patrols no longer cared for diplomatic immunity. Every man was a suspect, every shadow a potential spy.
He adjusted his soaked trench coat and walked toward the safehouse — a collapsed bookstore that smelled of ash and ink.
Inside, the sound of a ticking radio filled the air. A woman sat by the corner table, her auburn hair matted with rain. She looked up as he entered.
"You're late," she said in Russian.
"Trains don't move when the Luftwaffe owns the sky," Rā'id replied. His voice was calm, but his eyes moved like blades, scanning every corner. "Any word from Moscow?"
She nodded, handing him a coded telegram. "Directive Seven has been authorized. You know what that means."
Rā'id exhaled through his nose. "Sabotage behind German lines."
"Worse," she said, her tone sharp. "Moscow wants proof of the new German prototype — they call it Das Feuerherz."
"The Fireheart…" Rā'id muttered, rolling the name in his mouth. "Sounds like something Himmler would worship."
"Or something Hitler intends to unleash," she said. "Whatever it is, they're testing it near Essen."
He took a moment, processing. Essen was deep within the Reich — industrial, fortified, and crawling with SS.
"That's suicide."
"Then you'll feel right at home," she replied dryly, pushing a folder toward him. "You'll meet a contact in Brussels. A defector from the Wehrmacht. He claims to have access."
Rā'id opened the folder and froze. The contact's name was Major Friedrich Adler.
"I know that name," he said. "Adler commanded the eastern logistics corps during the Finnish campaign."
"Exactly. He saw what the Germans planned for the East — the 'Lebensraum project.' He's not loyal anymore."
Rā'id raised an eyebrow. "No one betrays the Reich for free."
The woman smiled faintly. "He says he does it for his conscience. You of all people should know what that's worth."
He didn't answer. He looked through the broken window — the city was burning, its cathedrals swallowed by fog and smoke. A world dying to be reborn in iron and blood.
The next morning, Rā'id boarded a freight train disguised as a Dutch worker. He had learned to move like water — to flow through checkpoints, slip past patrols, vanish behind smoke. The Germans were meticulous, but they were also predictable.
He reached Brussels by midnight. The city, under German occupation, pulsed with quiet fear. Posters of the Führer covered the walls; black banners swayed under the pale moonlight.
In an abandoned clocktower near the canal, Major Friedrich Adler waited.
He was a tall man with sunken eyes and a faint tremor in his hands. His uniform had no insignia — stripped clean, as if he wanted to erase who he was.
"You're the one Moscow sent?" Adler asked in German.
"Names aren't important," Rā'id said, lighting a cigarette. "You have something I need."
Adler's eyes darted to the window. "You think you understand what they're building… you don't. It's not just a weapon — it's an abomination."
"Explain."
"They've found a way to fuse chemical and nuclear technology. They're creating warheads that ignite the atmosphere itself."
Rā'id froze. "That's impossible."
Adler gave a broken laugh. "That's what I said. Until I saw them test it near Essen. The explosion devoured the air. The birds fell dead miles away. They called it the Fireheart because it burns the sky."
He placed a small steel cylinder on the table. Inside it was a microfilm reel.
"Blueprints?" Rā'id asked.
Adler nodded. "And test data. But be warned — the SS knows I stole it. You'll have hounds on your trail before sunrise."
"Let them come," Rā'id said, pocketing the film. "I've been hunted before."
Adler's voice trembled. "If you fail, the next war will end the world."
Rā'id paused. "There won't be a next war. There will only be fire."
By dawn, the Gestapo had surrounded the district.
Sirens wailed through the mist. Floodlights cut through the smoke as boots thundered on the cobblestones. The radio on Rā'id's belt hissed — Moscow calling.
"Agent Falcon, extraction window closing in ten minutes," the voice said.
"I'm pinned," Rā'id answered. "No clear route."
"Adapt, as always."
He smiled faintly — the typical Soviet response.
From the window, he saw Adler run for the canal, clutching his coat. Then a rifle cracked, and the German major fell into the water, blood blooming like a crimson flower.
Rā'id ducked as bullets shredded the wall. He returned fire with a silenced pistol, dropping two black-coated Gestapo agents. Then, pulling a smoke grenade from his belt, he whispered to himself in Arabic:
"اللهم اجعل هذا الرماد ستراً لي."
The explosion filled the tower with choking smoke. He leapt through the broken glass and hit the canal hard, the icy water burning his lungs. The microfilm was safe — pressed against his chest inside a waterproof pouch.
Underwater, he swam toward the other side, surfacing near a line of fishing boats. A young Belgian boy stood there, wide-eyed.
"Run," Rā'id told him. "Forget you saw me."
The boy hesitated. "Are you a German?"
Rā'id smiled, exhausted. "No, son. I'm what the Germans fear."
That night, as Rā'id made his way toward the extraction zone, the world around him burned again — cities devoured by ideology, men dying for flags, and the air thick with the stench of another century ending in blood.
In his hand, the microfilm felt heavier than steel. He knew it didn't just contain blueprints; it carried the seed of apocalypse.
And somewhere, deep in the industrial heart of the Reich, the Fireheart burned hotter — waiting for its command.