I raised my hands slowly. The bag strap dug into my shoulder. My fingers spread automatically, palms open.

Metal clicked above me. Rifles shifting, safeties, bolts. I couldn’t see them properly from this angle, but I felt them—thin, invisible lines running from the wall straight through my chest.

“Don’t move!” another voice called from closer in, ground level this time. “Nicht bewegen! Stay where you are!”

“I’m not moving!” I called back. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted in the cold air.

“Louder!” the first voice barked.

“I’m not moving!” I repeated, forcing my lungs to work. “Hands are up!”

There was a low burst of conversation above the gate, too fast and too soft for me to catch anything but rhythm.

Then the main doors—two big slabs of welded metal from three different lifetimes—shifted, scraped, and groaned open just enough for two people to step through.

They walked out with the controlled kind of confidence that said they’d survived too many bad days already.