Interlude Ozarov

Home, sweet home. A sanctuary turned sour, not by your absence, but by the poison of deception. Has it changed, or have you?

In the shadowed belly of a nondescript building in East Berlin, a spectral gloom hung heavy, its chill seeping into the bones. The stale air carried the faint, musty scent of old secrets and lost histories. The walls of this forgotten corner had seen many faces—resolute German communists whispering defiance during the war, stern Gestapo agents crafting a regime of fear, and now, the enigmatic agents of the KGB. A figure stood within its confines, even more gaunt and weathered from trials unseen. Colonel Ozerov, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity, met the taunting gaze of the man before him - Major Putin.

"Ah, Comrade Ozerov," Putin drawled, his voice dripping with false warmth, his smirk a twisted caricature of joviality. "Your inadequacies have been a thorn in the side of the Motherland. Incompetence or treason, does it matter? The Motherland demands satisfaction. Now, give me the artefact."

A revolution promised, stolen before fruition. But fear not, for it can be reclaimed. Are you ready to embrace the fire of sacrifice?

A guttural laugh, dark and hollow, ripped through Ozerov, resonating off the cold, unyielding walls. "Is this what the KGB has become? Preening peacocks, more enamoured with theatrical displays than with serving the Motherland?"

Ozerov's hand slipped under his hat, fingers brushing the circlet hidden beneath—a sensation of cold metal against warm, clammy skin. A spark of resolve, fueled by whispered promises, ignited in his eyes. Swiftly, with a visceral brutality that echoed in the deafening silence, Ozerov moved. His hands, like iron vices, wrapped around Putin's neck, squeezing until the smirk faded, replaced by an alien glow emanating from the dying man's eyes.

Gasps of horror morphed into cries of realization as the soldiers in the room grasped the implications. A fervor filled the room, a shared anger simmering in every gaze. "Comrades," Ozerov's voice boomed, echoing with a newfound authority, "we have been deceived, our revolution stolen by these serpents who masquerade as our leaders. But we can reclaim our Motherland. The question is, are you with me?"

Men are so easily deceived. Revolutions are but a myth, a farce played upon the gullible. Yet, the veil of lies can be torn asunder, the chains shattered. A new dawn beckons, ripe with the fruit of true power, if only you dare to seize it.