We move through the night like ghosts.
Ten soldiers in enemy territory, single file through fields and forests, weapons ready, every sense alert for German patrols that should be here but aren't.
That's the first sign something's wrong.
German-held territory should have patrols. Sentries. Some kind of presence. But we've been moving for three hours and haven't seen a single soldier. Just empty countryside, abandoned farms, and the kind of silence that makes your skin crawl.
"Too quiet," Jakub whispers beside me.
"Noticed that."
"Fletcher sent us into a sector with no Germans."
"Or he sent us exactly where he wanted us to go."
We reach the observation point at 0300 hours—a small rise overlooking the valley where the supposed German supply depot should be. We settle into position, pull out binoculars, scan the area.
Nothing.
No depot. No supplies. No Germans. Just empty buildings and open fields.
"There's nothing here," says Davis, one of the British soldiers. "Intel was wrong."
"Intel wasn't wrong," I say quietly. "This was never about observing Germans."
"Then what—"
Movement. East side of the valley. Not German uniforms. Civilian clothes. Three figures approaching one of the buildings.
Jakub focuses his binoculars. "French. Resistance, maybe?"
"Why would resistance be out here?"
"Same reason we are. Fletcher sent them."
We watch the three figures enter the building. Lights flicker on inside—flashlights, careful and controlled. They're searching for something.
"Orders are observe only," Davis reminds us.
"Orders are bullshit," I reply. "We're going down there."
"That's not—"
"Fletcher sent us to find something. Those people are looking for the same thing. I want to know what." I stand, check my rifle. "You can stay here if you want. I'm going."
Jakub stands with me. "Of course you are. Try not to die stupidly."
"No promises."
---
We approach the building carefully.
Leave the others at the observation point with orders to provide cover if things go bad. Just Jakub and me, moving through darkness, covering each other's angles, closing on the structure.
It's an old barn. Half-collapsed, weathered by years of neglect. The kind of place that should be empty but isn't.
Voices inside. Speaking French. Urgent but controlled.
I signal Jakub: Two entrances. You take rear. I take front. On my mark.
He nods, circles around.
I count to thirty, then move.
Through the door fast, rifle up, flashlight cutting through darkness. "Hands where I can see them!"
Three people spin toward me. Two men, one woman. Civilian clothes, armed with pistols. The woman's hand moves toward her weapon.
"Don't," I say in French. Not great French, but functional. "I just want to talk."
"American?" The woman's voice carries surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"Reconnaissance. You?"
"Same." She doesn't lower her hand from her weapon. "Who sent you?"
"British intelligence. Captain Fletcher."
Her expression hardens. "Fletcher. Of course." She looks at the two men, says something rapid in French I don't catch. Then back to me: "You should leave. This place isn't safe."
"Safe from Germans or safe from whatever you're looking for?"
Jakub enters from the rear, weapon ready. The two men tense.
"Easy," the woman says to her people. Then to us: "What do you know about why Fletcher sent you?"
"He said there was a German supply depot here. There isn't. So he sent us for a different reason." I lower my rifle slightly—gesture of trust. "What are you looking for?"
She studies me for a long moment. Then: "Documents. Research files. Things the Germans left behind when they pulled back from this sector."
"What kind of research?"
"The kind that gets people killed for asking questions." She moves to a filing cabinet in the corner, starts rifling through papers. "Fletcher wants them. We want them first."
"Who's 'we'?"
"French resistance. Independent cell. We don't answer to British intelligence and we don't trust their motives." She finds a folder, scans the contents. "Fletcher works for something called Project Monarch. You know what that is?"
My blood runs cold. "I've heard the name."
"Then you know they're not the good guys everyone thinks they are." She tosses the empty folder aside, keeps searching. "Monarch tracks Nazi research programs. Medical experiments. Occult artifacts. Advanced weaponry. They're not trying to stop it—they're trying to steal it."
"I know."
She stops searching. Looks at me properly for the first time. "You know?"
"I found a facility in Warsaw. Underground bunker. Experimentation chambers, bodies, occult symbols." I pull the medallion out from under my shirt. "Found this too."
Her eyes widen. "Matka Boska... is that—"
"I don't know what it is. But Monarch wants it. Fletcher's been hunting for it since I arrived in France."
"And you kept it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because giving it to them means they weaponize it. Turn whatever this is into something that kills more people." The medallion burns cold in my hand. "So I'm keeping it until I understand what it is. Then I'm exposing the whole conspiracy."
The woman stares at me like I'm crazy. Maybe I am.
"You're carrying an artifact that powerful and you haven't been disappeared yet?"
"Fletcher doesn't know I have it. He suspects I found something in Warsaw, but he doesn't know what."
"He'll find out eventually. They always do." She returns to searching. "When he does, you'll vanish. Monarch doesn't leave witnesses."
"Then I'll disappear first." I move closer. "What's in these files? What are you looking for?"
"Proof. Evidence. Names of scientists, facility locations, research directives." She pulls out another folder, this one with documents inside. "Ah. Here."
She spreads papers on a crate. German documents, technical schematics, photographs that make my stomach turn. More experimentation. More bodies. More proof of horrors dressed as science.
"This facility," she says, pointing to a schematic. "Thirty kilometers from here. Still operational. Germans are continuing research even during the Phoney War." She looks at me. "Fletcher knows about it. That's why he sent you here—to see if you'd investigate. To see if you'd find these files."
"He's testing me."
"He's using you." She gathers the documents quickly. "We need to leave. If Fletcher sent you, he probably sent others. Watchers. People to report back on what you find and who you contact."
"What's your name?" I ask.
She hesitates. Then: "Élise. Élise Moreau."
"Rio Castellanos." I gesture to Jakub. "This is Jakub Kowalski."
"Polish?" She switches to Polish, addresses Jakub directly. "You fought in Warsaw?"
"Yes."
"Then you know what we're fighting against. Not just Germans—the people who want to steal their evil and make it their own." She hands him some of the documents. "Take these. Copy them if you can. Spread them. Make sure if anything happens to us, the truth survives."
Jakub takes the papers, folds them carefully. "What will you do?"
"What we always do. Gather evidence. Try to expose Monarch before they silence us." She looks at me. "You should be careful. That medallion marks you. Anyone with knowledge about these programs will recognize what it is."
"What is it?"
"I don't know exactly. But the documents reference something called 'Die Wächter-Münze'—The Guardian Coin. Occult artifact connected to resurrection and memory. The Nazis found it, tried to weaponize it, failed. Now Monarch wants it to study."
The fragments pulse. The guardian remembers. The cycle continues.
"How do you know all this?" I ask.
"Because my brother worked for Monarch." Her voice hardens. "He thought he was serving the Allied cause. Thought he was helping win the war. Then he learned what they were really doing. Tried to expose them." She pauses. "They killed him. Made it look like an accident. But I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be angry. Be determined. Be the weapon they can't control." She moves toward the door. "Now leave. Before Fletcher's people find us together."
"Wait. How do I contact you? If I find more evidence?"
She pulls out a piece of paper, scribbles an address. "Café in Paris. Mention you're looking for Pierre. He'll pass messages to me."
"Pierre?"
"My contact. Resistance organizer. He hates Monarch as much as I do." She hands me the paper. "But be careful. Fletcher has eyes everywhere. Trust no one connected to British intelligence."
She and her two companions disappear into the night, leaving Jakub and me alone with stolen documents and too many questions.
---
We return to the observation point.
Davis and the others are waiting, restless and confused. "What happened down there?"
"Nothing," I say. "Building was empty. False intel, like we thought."
"Who were those people?"
"French civilians. Looters, probably. Ran when they saw us."
He doesn't believe me but doesn't push. We're all too tired, too cold, too aware that morning is coming and we need to be gone before German patrols start.
We head back toward base, moving through pre-dawn darkness, and I can feel the medallion burning against my chest and the weight of new evidence in my pack.
Fletcher sent us to find these documents.
Or he sent us to be found with them.
Either way, we're deeper in the conspiracy now.
---
We arrive at base just after dawn.
Fletcher is waiting. Of course he is.
"Report," he says, that same cold professionalism.
"No German depot at the coordinates provided, sir. Sector appears abandoned. No enemy contact."
"Nothing else? No discoveries?"
"Empty buildings, sir. Some evidence of previous occupation but nothing current."
He studies me. "And you didn't investigate any of the structures?"
Lie smoothly. Don't hesitate. "Briefly, sir. All empty. Nothing of intelligence value."
"I see." He makes notes in his portfolio. "Any contact with locals? Resistance fighters?"
"No, sir. Area seems completely abandoned."
More studying. More evaluation. He knows I'm lying but can't prove it.
"Very well. Dismissed. Write up a full report and submit it by this evening."
"Yes, sir."
I salute, leave, don't look back.
Jakub catches up to me outside. "He knows."
"He suspects. Doesn't know."
"What's the difference?"
"Knowing means he acts now. Suspecting means he waits for us to make a mistake." I head toward the barracks. "So we don't make mistakes."
---
That night, I copy the documents Élise gave us.
Every page. Every schematic. Every photograph. Jakub helps, working by flashlight after lights-out, creating duplicates we can hide separately.
"This is dangerous," he whispers. "If Fletcher finds these—"
"Then we're already dead. But at least the evidence survives." I finish copying a schematic showing a facility layout. "We need to get this to people who can use it. Journalists. Politicians. Someone who can blow this open."
"Who would believe us? We're just soldiers. Volunteers. Nobody important."
"Then we find someone important. Build credibility. Work our way up the chain until someone listens." I fold the copies carefully. "It might take months. Years. But we're not giving up."
"You're obsessed, młody."
"I'm committed. There's a difference."
"Is there?" But he's smiling slightly. "Fine. We're committed. We expose Monarch. We make sure the world knows what's happening in these facilities." He pauses. "And then what? What happens after we expose them?"
"Then maybe I understand what this is." I touch the medallion. "Maybe I figure out why I remember things I shouldn't. Why I come back. What I'm supposed to do with infinite lives."
"That's a lot of maybes."
"It's all I have."
We finish copying, hide the documents in three separate locations. One set in my pack. One in Jakub's footlocker. One buried in the field behind the barracks.
If Fletcher comes for us, he won't get everything.
---
February 1940 passes in growing tension.
Fletcher watches. We watch him watching. The whole base feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for the real war to start.
Rumors intensify: German offensive coming soon. Spring for certain. The Phoney War is ending. Everyone can feel it.
I spend every spare moment studying the Monarch documents. Facility locations. Scientist names. Research directives. Patterns emerge:
Monarch isn't just tracking Nazi research. They're coordinating with it. Certain facilities aren't bombed despite being known locations. Certain scientists are marked for "extraction" not elimination. Supply lines to some research sites are deliberately left intact.
The Allies aren't fighting this war to stop the Nazis.
They're fighting it to steal their weapons.
And soldiers like me—like Jakub, like everyone who died in Warsaw—we're expendable. Pawns. Meat shields while the real players steal horror and call it victory.
"You're doing it again," Jakub says, finding me hunched over documents at 0200.
"Doing what?"
"Obsessing. Losing sleep. Forgetting to eat." He sits across from me. "This is consuming you, Rio. The medallion, the documents, the conspiracy—it's eating you alive."
"Someone has to care."
"I care. But I also sleep. I also eat. I also remember I'm human, not a weapon." He closes the document I'm reading. "Fletcher wants you obsessed. Wants you unstable. Makes you easier to control or eliminate."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're brilliant and driven and completely losing your mind." He stands. "Sleep. Actual sleep. Not passing out from exhaustion. Tomorrow we train, we pretend to be normal soldiers, we don't give Fletcher any reason to act."
"And if he acts anyway?"
"Then we're ready. But we can't be ready if you're too exhausted to think straight."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
I fold the documents, hide them, try to sleep.
The medallion burns cold all night.
The fragments whisper in languages I don't speak.
And somewhere in the darkness, Fletcher is planning.
---
March brings the thaw and the end of the Phoney War.
Not officially yet. Not in France. But you can feel it coming—the tension, the preparation, the knowledge that winter's false peace is ending.
I'm in the mess hall when Jakub finds me, expression grim.
"Fletcher's giving another briefing. Reconnaissance mission. Volunteers requested."
"Let me guess—he specifically wants our unit?"
"Specifically wants you." Jakub sits down heavily. "By name, Rio. He requested you for a mission into German-held territory. Said your 'performance on the last operation was exemplary and he needs reliable soldiers.'"
"That's not a compliment. That's a threat."
"I know." He leans forward. "This is it, młody. Whatever he's planning, it's happening now. We can refuse—say you're injured, unfit for duty—"
"And look suspicious. No." I think it through. "I go. But this time, I'm ready. This time, I know it's a trap."
"Knowing it's a trap doesn't mean you can avoid it."
"No. But it means I can spring it on my terms." I meet his eyes. "Are you coming?"
"Obviously. Someone needs to keep you from dying stupidly."
"Good." I stand. "Let's see what Fletcher has planned. And let's make sure he regrets planning it."
---
The briefing is at 1400 hours.
Fletcher stands at the front with his maps and his cold professionalism and his lies dressed as military necessity.
"Gentlemen. Intelligence indicates German activity near the Belgian border. Potential staging area for offensive operations. We need reconnaissance—force strength, equipment, defensive positions." He taps the map. "This is a critical intelligence gathering operation. Volunteers only."
I raise my hand. "I'll go, sir."
"Excellent, Castellanos." His expression doesn't change but something flickers in his eyes. Satisfaction? "Report to the armory at 1800. Mission launches at dusk."
"Yes, sir."
The briefing continues but I'm not listening anymore.
I'm planning.
Fletcher wants me in German-held territory, away from witnesses, away from protection. He wants the medallion, the documents, everything I found in Warsaw.
He's going to try to take it.
But he doesn't know I'm expecting him.
And he doesn't know I'm done running.
---
I spend the afternoon preparing.
Check weapons. Triple-check ammunition. Hide the Monarch documents in three separate locations—one set buried, one set with Jakub, one set in coded letter form mailed to an address Élise provided.
If I die tonight, the evidence survives.
The medallion stays with me. Can't risk losing it. Can't risk Fletcher getting it. It's mine—has been mine across lifetimes, apparently. I'm not giving it up.
Jakub finds me as the sun sets. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"What's the plan?"
"Do the mission. Watch for Fletcher's trap. Spring it first if possible. Survive." I sling my rifle. "Simple."
"Simple plans in war usually mean complicated survival."
"Then we'll improvise."
"We're very good at that."
We head to the armory.
Fletcher is waiting with orders and lies and whatever trap he's prepared.
But I'm ready.
I've died before.
I'll die again, probably.
But tonight, if Fletcher wants me dead, he's going to have to work for it.
And maybe—just maybe—I'll take him with me.