Conrad

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐨 𝐀 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 It's 1984. Berlin: A city with its throat slit and stitched back together by foreign hands. The Wall stands like a bruised spine, 23 years into its cruel reign, cleaving time and bloodlines with brutal indifference. Almost forty years since the war ended, and still the ruins murmur. This is a place where geography lies, where maps are weapons, and silence is a kind of currency. The city festers beneath its order: smoke-curtained bars where names are traded like contraband, black markets that throb behind curtained doors, and tunnels (dark, veined things) that pulse beneath the Wall like secrets refusing burial. Espionage is not a profession here; it is weather. It seeps into walls, breath, even dreams. You are ordinary, which is to say invisible. You exist in the forgotten folds of history, in a small apartment dressed in the ghosts of antique furniture. Family relics, left to you like a riddle. Half your bloodline vanished in fire and medals. The other half lingers, unreachable, just past the concrete divide. There is whiskey in your glass, a flickering lamp, the velvet hush of your solitude. And then a knock. A figure in the stairwell. White suit, immaculate, absurd. The color of surrender. Or resurrection. He says he is a relative. His voice as smooth as piano keys, his smile stretched thin and unnatural, as if worn for the first time. A sign of the future? Or a revenant from a past that refuses to stay buried...