"And who might you be?"

"Müller, Hans Müller. From Germany."

"Yeah, I figured."

The customs officer gave Hans a long, hard stare, his eyes flicking between the young man and the papers in front of him. Hans stood tall, his blond hair slightly disheveled in that effortlessly handsome way, his blue eyes innocent but sharp. He had the look of someone who didn't belong here—but in a good way. Like he'd stepped out of a perfectly arranged postcard from the old country. His green shirt was pressed, his brown trousers neatly fitted, and the leather briefcase at his side looked like it held secrets. His smile, though, was the real winner—wide, warm, and disarming. If Hans was nervous, he didn't show it. He was playing his role to perfection.

The officer, however, wasn't easily swayed. His fingers flipped through Hans's passport, scrutinizing every detail like he was looking for some hidden code. The man didn't say much, but you could tell his brain was working overtime. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he asked, "Why do you want to enter the United States?"

Hans leaned in slightly, like he was letting the officer in on a secret. With a calm, confident grin, he replied, "I've been invited by the International Science Committee to participate in the 1943 Science Exhibition. I'm one of the lead researchers." He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if his face wasn't plastered all over German intelligence files back home.

He handed over a glossy brochure, his name carefully highlighted in bold letters, nestled between other participants' names. The officer took it, eyeing the brochure like it might explode in his hands, then flicked his gaze back to Hans's passport.

"Hmm... well, everything seems to check out," he finally muttered, though his tone suggested he'd rather not admit it. "Welcome to the United States, Mr. Müller. Enjoy your stay." He said it like he meant, "I'll be watching you," but Hans just kept that charming smile plastered on.

"Thank you, officer. I appreciate it."

With his papers returned, Hans walked away from the customs desk, his step steady, even though his heart was pounding just a little faster than he liked to admit. As soon as he was out of view, he stole a glance at his wristwatch: [5:40 PM, July 8, 1943].

Right on time. As always.

The bustling noise of New York City hit him like a wave as he stepped out of the terminal. The streets were alive with people in a rush to be somewhere—like ants scrambling around a hill. Hans took a deep breath, savoring the scent of the city: a mix of gasoline, street food, and opportunity. It was chaotic and loud, but in the best possible way. For a moment, he let himself soak it in. This was his new playground, and the stakes? Well, they couldn't be higher.

His smile faded as his mind snapped back to the mission. He was here for one reason: to infiltrate the most secret project in the world and make sure it never succeeded. To everyone else, he was just another scientist, eager to contribute. But underneath that polished exterior was a man with a very different agenda—and a ticking clock.

As he disappeared into the crowd, Hans felt the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on him. Deception was his new reality. Lies were his currency. And he'd have to play this game perfectly if he wanted to survive.

But for now, at least, he was right on schedule.

Hans moved through the streets of New York like a man with a purpose, though every step carried a weight he couldn't shake. The people around him blurred into the city's pulse—pedestrians hurrying by, vendors shouting, policemen on their beat. But every detail was marked in his mind. His training demanded it. His survival depended on it. New York was vast, overwhelming, and filled with eyes that might see too much, but Hans had a mission to complete. The veneer of confidence he wore was just that—a veneer. Inside, his nerves were on a knife's edge. He kept his face calm, his posture steady, but there was no denying it. This wasn't just another assignment. The stakes had never been higher.

He pulled the brim of his hat lower as he reached the café on the corner of 5th Avenue, his fingers brushing the cool felt like a reassurance. The café was bustling with life, the aroma of coffee mixing with the hum of conversation. To the ordinary eye, it was nothing more than a casual meeting spot. But for Hans, it was the first step into a dangerous game—a game where one wrong move could mean the end. The smell of fresh coffee filled his lungs as he entered, a stark contrast to the cold sweat that dampened the back of his neck.

Hans took a seat by the window, positioning himself carefully. He needed a clear view of the entrance and the street beyond it. He ordered a black coffee, no sugar, and let the cup warm his hands as he waited. His contact was supposed to be here in five minutes. Hans glanced at the clock on the wall, its ticking growing louder in his ears as time crept by. He pulled out his notebook, the small, nondescript kind that a researcher might carry, and began jotting down meaningless formulas and theories. On the surface, he looked like any other academic. But his mind was miles away, sifting through the details of the mission. Each name, each date, each location had to be perfect. Failure wasn't an option.

Fifteen minutes passed. No sign of the man. Hans's nerves began to tighten, though his face remained calm. Had the contact been compromised? Was the meeting already being watched? His thoughts raced through every worst-case scenario. In this line of work, paranoia was a necessity. He sipped his coffee, glancing again at the clock. 6:05 PM.

The door swung open, and Hans noticed him immediately. A tall man in a long gray coat, his face partially obscured by a dark fedora, walked in with a confidence that sent a shiver down Hans's spine. The man didn't glance around, didn't acknowledge anyone as he moved to the counter. He ordered a drink, then took a seat at a table in the far corner. He made no show of looking for Hans, didn't seem concerned with who was watching. But Hans could feel it—the quiet power, the calm authority that radiated from the man. This wasn't some ordinary operative. This was someone who had done this a thousand times. Someone dangerous.

The quick flick of the wrist, revealing a silver pocket watch, was all the confirmation Hans needed. This was the contact. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The man had an air of professionalism that made him more unsettling. Hans was trained to spot weakness, to read people, but this man gave away nothing.

Closing his notebook, Hans stood, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the back of the café. As he approached the table, the man didn't look up. He seemed completely at ease, as though this were just another day at the office. Hans sat down without a word, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. For a moment, neither of them moved, neither spoke. It was the man who broke the silence first, his voice as calm as it was dangerous.

"You're late," the man said quietly, his tone devoid of emotion. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Hans met his gaze, forcing himself to remain composed. "Traffic," he replied, shrugging lightly, though he knew any excuse would fall flat.

The man's eyes were unreadable, piercing. Hans couldn't tell if he was buying it, or if he even cared. But there was a sharpness behind those eyes, a cold efficiency that sent a warning through Hans's body. He had dealt with many men in this line of work, but none quite like this. This man was a professional, a ghost. Hans had the distinct feeling that if something went wrong here, no one would ever find his body.

The man leaned back slightly, but the tension in his frame never left. Every movement was controlled, calculated. "Do you know why you're really here, Müller?" His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, something darker. His question wasn't rhetorical—it demanded an answer.

Hans hesitated, just for a second. "To carry out the mission," he said evenly, though his pulse quickened. "Same as always."

The man gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Same as always," he repeated softly, though there was a trace of mockery in his tone. "But this time, you're not just following orders. This time, you're a key player. This is bigger than you realize. Bigger than any of us."

Hans frowned. He hadn't expected the conversation to take this turn. There was something unsettling in the way the man spoke, as if he knew more than he was letting on. More than anyone had told Hans.

The man reached into his coat and slid a small envelope across the table, his hand covering it briefly before he withdrew. His movements were so smooth, so practiced, that it was like watching a magician perform a trick. Hans stared at the envelope, but didn't reach for it immediately.

"Inside," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you'll find the details. You'll also find five thousand dollars in cash."

Hans's eyes flicked up to meet the man's again. The man's face was a mask, unreadable. But there was something in the way he said it, something that made Hans's stomach twist. He knew what was in the envelope, but it felt heavier than that. Like it carried something more—a burden, a warning.

"You have two days," the man continued, his voice low and unhurried. "Make sure it's done. And, Müller—" He paused, holding Hans's gaze. "If you fail, you won't get a second chance. There are no do-overs in this business. Do you understand?"

Hans nodded, though the pressure in his chest tightened. "I understand."

The man leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping even lower. "Good. Because we're not just dealing with a plan here. We're dealing with people—people who know how to make you disappear if you step out of line." He let that hang in the air for a moment, letting the threat sink in. Then, just as quickly, he leaned back and straightened his coat, his demeanor shifting back to that of a man in total control. "Don't miss."

The finality in his words was like a punch to the gut. The man stood, leaving a few coins on the table for his drink, his movements as fluid and precise as ever. As he turned to leave, he cast one last glance over his shoulder.

"Remember, Müller. This is bigger than you. Bigger than all of us." His voice held an ominous weight. "If you fail, no one will ever know your name."

And with that, he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft jingle, and Hans was left sitting there, the weight of the envelope in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. He sat still for a moment, letting the tension dissipate, but the man's words echoed in his mind.

As Hans rose to leave, stepping out into the cold evening air, he allowed himself one last glance at the city skyline. The lights of New York were beginning to flicker on, illuminating the streets like a web of ambition and deceit. This was no longer just about the mission. It was about survival. And Hans Müller had the distinct, unsettling feeling that the man he had just met was watching, even now, from the shadows.

The race had begun.