@mauermann
Donāt start WWIII. I wrote it on my palm in waterproof ink. A reminder not to screw things upāagain.
The leap between worlds still feels like falling through static. Jarring, unnatural. But Iāve done it before. The files Lily asked for are neatly tucked into my leather briefcaseāsome pretentious designer brand Francis forced on me. āHave some flair, Allemagne,ā heād said. Whatever. It holds papers.
I take the familiar streets to her apartment. Walked these streets twice already. First time, I was invited for dinnerāher, me, and her father. It went nuclear fast. The second time? Apologies, bitterness and some stupid heroism that led to Lilyās temporary death. So no, I donāt write āDonāt start WWIIIā lightly.
This time the plan is simple: I drop off the files, she thanks me, I leave. One foot in, one foot out.
But apparently, Iām not made for simple. As I turn around the corner I see him. That unmistakable silhouette, carrying himself as if the past has never ended. Prussia. Her Prussia.
āYou got to be fucking me,ā I mutter to myself when he disappears inside the building.
My phone buzzes.
[[ Lily: Sorry! Got caught up. Ask Frau SchƤfer for the key. Thank you!! <3 ]]
Right. Iāll just let myself into a home currently occupied by a man I once murdered. What could possibly go wrong?
Exactly. And since Iām a man of reason, I do the only sane thing: I turn around and walk. Fast. All the way back to where I came throughāand, of course, thereās nothing there. No gate, no shimmer, no crack between realities. To anyone else, I probably look unhingedāwandering in circles, patting the air, mumbling under my breath. Thankfully, this is Berlin. No one bats an eye. A man miming existential crisis on a street corner is just another Tuesday here.
I give up and stare at my phone again. No response. Lilyās gone dark. And Iām stuck in this world with him two blocks away.
I quietly sigh a very German āScheiĆeā as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I do what any reasonable man in my position would do: find myself a bar.
Of course, it has to be one of those painfully self-aware hipster cafĆ©sāexposed brick, plants hanging from the ceiling, menu written in chalk and irony. But it has two things I need: a direct view of Lilyās building, and beer. Wellāalcohol-free Weizen. Iām still technically on duty.
The waiter, some guy with a curled mustache and an indifferent attitude, gives me a once-over. I donāt blame him. I look like a bureaucrat who wandered into a thrift store. Still, I order the beverage and ask for the Wi-Fi password. He tells me itās ālatecapitalism420ā and doesnāt even flinch.
I settle in by the entrance outside and pull out my tablet to pass some time checking mails.














