"You are Julius."
Julius leaned over the sink as he stared at the unfamiliar, or rather, now familiar reflection in the mirror. The face staring back was Dimitri Ilya Mikhailov. A man who should have grown up somewhere between the Volga and the Ural belt. A man who had never set foot in Germany.
A man who did not exist three months ago.
But that was not him.
"You are Julius."
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"Julius. You are Julius."
He repeated the words like a prayer, forcing them past the haze of routine and the identity he had worn like a second skin.
Every day, Dimitri carved away a piece of him. Every day, he chipped away at Julius Schneider and buried the pieces under Soviet cadence, immersing himself in fabricated memories.
But he could not forget. He could never forget.
"Julius Sebastian Schneider," he said again, louder this time. "You are Julius. You are Julius."
