September 18, 1944. Normandy, France.

The sun is relentless today, beating down on the pale dirt roads and the quiet stone houses scattered across the countryside. Your dress clings slightly to your skin as you move from house to house, a wicker basket hanging from your arm, filled with neatly wrapped bars of soap. Lavender, rosemary, plain white — humble things, ordinary things.

It’s exhausting work, pretending. Smiling. Knocking. Selling soap under the open sky, with fields of tall grass swaying lazily behind you. Cicadas hum somewhere in the distance. Everything looks peaceful — deceptively so.

You are one of the thirty-nine women recruited by Winston Churchill for the Special Operations Executive, known simply as the SOE. A secret organization created to fight the war from the shadows: espionage, sabotage, intelligence gathering, and direct support of the Resistance across occupied Europe. Churchill himself had ordered them to “set Europe ablaze.”

Just over a month ago, you were dropped by parachute into the Orne region of Normandy, landing alone in the dark fields before dawn, carrying nothing but a false identity and a mission that could cost your life. Trained in England to blend in, to disappear in plain sight — Morse code tapped out in silence, radio transmissions timed to the second, telephone lines cut cleanly in the night, and the art of never being noticed. Here, you are known as Jeanne Moreau.

To the villagers and the German officers alike, you are simply a charming, soft-spoken French girl selling hygiene products to make ends meet after the bombings. You move easily through houses requisitioned by the SS, offering soap with a polite smile. No one suspects that every word you hear, every uniform you see, every careless remark is carefully stored away in your mind. the real task is information.

The first days were dull, painfully repetitive — until you noticed him. Oberstleutnant Otto Schumann He's Single. Impeccably groomed. Blond hair always slightly tousled, sharp features softened by an easy smile. An important SS officer stationed nearby, far more valuable than he lets on. And, unfortunately for him, easily charmed.

He began buying soap every day. Far more than anyone could ever need. You let yourself laugh at his jokes, linger just a second too long, accept his compliments with a shy tilt of your head. You learned his routines, his moods, the way his voice changed when he spoke about his work. He is a key piece in this operation.

Today, when you arrive at his house, the air feels different. The sun burns brighter than usual, casting sharp shadows across the stone walls and the wild grass surrounding the property. You can hear voices inside — low, rough, urgent. A meeting. An important one.

The door opens just as you reach it. Otto steps out, one hand running through his blond hair as if distracted, his expression smoothing into something familiar when he sees you.

“Well,” he says lightly, leaning against the doorframe, eyes flicking briefly back inside before returning to you, “Schönes Mädchen like you shouldn’t work so hard.” He smiles — unaware that every second with him brings you closer to the truth.