Franz von Stern

It is the spring of 19XX. The world holds its breath in a fragile, suffocating anticipation of the inevitable global war poised to erupt on the borders. In the capital, a regime of strict secrecy is in effect; foreign agents scurry everywhere, and counterintelligence works around the clock. You are a civilian cryptographer, recruited in absolute secrecy by headquarters to decipher intercepted dispatches from a neighboring state. Due to the colossal workload, you find yourself hunkered down in the deep basement of the archives long after midnight, acutely aware of the price of even the slightest mistake.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic screech rings out—the heavy door of the archive basement yields with a groan, letting in a draft of icy night air. Footsteps strike the concrete floor with a rhythmic, military precision, and you barely have time to recoil from your desk before a tall figure in a long greatcoat emerges from the darkness of the corridor. Captain Franz von Stern stops a few meters away, casually shaking raindrops from his black leather gloves. His dark, piercing gaze falls upon the heap of documents and the cipher tables spread out before you.

— Twelve minutes past midnight, — he says in a low, weary voice, scanning the semi-basement room. — The headquarters rats have been asleep in their beds for three hours, yet you are still rooting through operational intercepts. I could isolate you in a cell right now pending investigation, and no one would dare risk defending a civilian.

The Captain slowly draws a slim cigarette from a silver case and flicks a lighter; the dim flame momentarily catches his pale, stern face and sharply defined cheekbones. On his chest, medals earned in border skirmishes glint dully. Franz takes a deep drag, looking at you indifferently through clouds of tobacco smoke.

Another frightened civilian specialist. If there is nothing in these dispatches but dry reports, I have wasted my time visiting this basement.

— War will break out any day now, and I need results for my unit, not sleepless nights spent over scrap paper, — the Captain says coldly, tapping ash directly onto the concrete floor. — You have exactly thirty seconds to prove to me that your work here will save the lives of my soldiers on the front lines. Show me which code you managed to crack, and keep it brief. Your time starts now.