The ballroom of the Neue Schloss Berlin shimmered under the glow of three dozen crystal chandeliers, each one imported from Bohemia and refracted into golden fire across marble columns and high gilded ceilings.
A string quartet murmured something Vivaldi-esque in the background, barely audible over the gentle roar of political conversation and laughter too calculated to be genuine.
Waiters floated between diplomats and nobility like wraiths in white gloves, offering caviar-topped canapés and gold-labeled Riesling chilled to the decimal.
The war had not yet begun. The world had not yet broken. But tonight, the Reich had won something.
The Olympics were over, and Germany had left its mark not with medals alone, but with poise, discipline, and unapologetic dominance.
At the heart of it all, the ballroom was a stage.
And then, the doors opened.
A hush, the quiet, unconscious gasp of 200 people all sensing a predator enter the room.
