Just as the Revolutionaries and the criminal underworld relied on their own network known as the deep web, the Directorate maintained an intelligence system of equal, if not greater, reach.

During the reign of the painter, this responsibility fell to the Gestapo, whose operatives embedded themselves into nearly every corner of German society. Their influence was so pervasive that, for a time, they controlled nearly all of the nation’s informants.

They built their web from ordinary citizens registered as IM, Inoffizielle Mitarbeiter , or informal collaborators. These were not trained law enforcement officers or government employees. They were neighbors, coworkers, shopkeepers, students, and even family members.

Anyone could’ve been an IM, and because of that, everyone was a suspect.

Many IMs reported the slightest rumor in exchange for the promise of protection, money, or simply to avoid becoming targets themselves. Their reports could be mundane, incorrect, or trivial, but volume mattered more than accuracy.

A single man might report a friend for making a joke at the wrong time.

A landlord might report a tenant because they held late-night meetings.

A jealous rival might denounce another simply to settle a private score.

And the Gestapo would listen. They would record, compare, cross-reference, then act.

Through this system, the Directorate today inherited not just the structure but the philosophy of the Gestapo. This was why the Directorate, the Secret State Police, was also sometimes referred to as the modern-day Gestapo.

However, in an era where technology was at its pinnacle, the Gestapo’s modern successors employed far more refined methods of gathering intelligence.

One of the most effective was the integration of contemporary IMs through a strictly regulated forum network developed and maintained by the Directorate.

This was not an ordinary message board, but an encrypted state-controlled platform in the daily digital infrastructure of 2149 Germany.

Access required Directorate authorization, and every post, login, and data packet flowed through layers of auditing.

Most importantly, the forum gave the Directorate real-time intelligence mapping.

Thousands of IMs could upload observations, and the Directorate’s predictive super-system would filter, cross-reference, and categorize everything within seconds.

"We have a job, Officer Schneider," said Klaus Weber, Field Director of the Directorate for State Preservation.

"Yes, sir."

A vague report had surfaced. But as operatives of the Directorate, it was their responsibility to confirm or disprove every lead, no matter how dubious.

The Directorate did not ignore rumors. It crushed or clarified them before they could grow teeth.

Weber passed Julius a data slate. "The source claims to have witnessed an individual of interest entering a restricted zone near the Speicherstadt docks. Time-stamped six hours ago."

Julius skimmed the attached report. It had been submitted by a warehouse worker in Speicherstadt. That meant their destination for the day would be Hamburg, to locate and interview the source directly.

Julius closed the slate. "A civilian IM?"

"Yes," Weber replied. "No previous reports, which makes it either very honest... or very suspicious."

Julius nodded, understanding the implication. First-time informants were either invaluable or useless. There was rarely an in-between. Still, protocol demanded investigation.

Julius and his supervising officer, Klaus Weber, boarded the express rail bound for Hamburg. Within an hour, they arrived at their destination.

"Mister Vogt?"

Seated in the corner of a cafe, the man’s head snapped up. His eyes alternated between Weber and Julius before he nodded.

"Yes. That’s me."

"We’re with the Directorate for State Preservation," Weber said, flashing his credentials. "May we sit?"

Vogt swallowed and gestured weakly to the seats across from him.

Julius slid into the booth and regarded him. Mid-thirties, oil-stained work jacket, fingers nicked with old cuts, nothing unusual. But his eyes kept darting to the windows as though something might be watching.

"You filed a report this morning," Julius said.

Vogt nodded. "I... I wasn’t sure if I should. But it didn’t feel right."

"Tell us what you saw," Weber said.

Vogt’s fingers tightened around the cup before leaning in.

"There was someone at the docks. Late shift. Shouldn’t have been anyone there, but I saw a co-worker... same position as me, but..."

"But?" Julius prompted.

"He went into Terminal 3. That building is sealed. I’ve worked in Speicherstadt for eight years. No one in my position is allowed inside. The locks are new, and access requires clearance."

Julius and Weber exchanged a look.

"Who is he?"

Vogt hesitated. Julius leaned back, weighing the man’s words. Fear like that was common, but fear alone didn’t make a report honest.

After a moment of silence, Vogt spoke. "His name is... Lukas Meinhardt."

"And you didn’t report it immediately because...?" Weber asked.

Vogt hesitated. "Because I was afraid I’d get in trouble. I only saw him because I was taking a smoke break I wasn’t supposed to take."

"You’re certain?" Julius asked, cold sweat running down his back.

Lukas Meinhardt.

That was a name he couldn’t forget, no mattet how much he wanted to.

In the future, Lukas would rise to become one of the leading figures of the Revolutionary Army with one of the highest bounties in Germany, which was something that should never have happened.

But in 2163, Julius and a unit of Directorate officers were sent to eliminate him after a string of murders targeting several Directorate personnel spanning from 2149 to 2153, attributed to Lukas.

Julius remembered that mission too vividly.

And it was a massacre, as every officer who went on that deployment had died.

"Officer."

All but Julius, who barely managed to run away. No, it was practically desertion.

"Officer."

It was the first time in Julius’s life that he had felt true fear. Even now, hearing Lukas Meinhardt’s name sent a chill down his spine, dragging old nightmares to the surface.

"Officer! What’s wrong? You spilled your coffee!"

Julius’s attention snapped back to Klaus. The man had raised his voice in alarm. Julius looked down, realizing he had crushed the paper cup with too much force.

"...."

In his previous life, he had never worked together with Klaus, even after all his years in the Directorate.

If Julius’s conjectures were correct, Klaus might have been one of the officers who died at Lukas’s hands in 2149.

"My apologies, sir. I think I need to get some air."

And this might’ve been that mission.