In the cellar of a ruined bakery, they found not soldiers, but three terrified Volkssturm—old men and boys with rifles older than Mikhailov himself. The "Berlin Operation" was a symphony of ends. The end of a regime, the end of a long march from Moscow, and for many, the end of a life just meters from the finish line.

As the red flag finally unfurled over the smoke-choked skyline, there was no cheering. Only the heavy, ringing silence of a million spent shells and the realization that while the war was won, the city they stood upon was a grave that would never truly be silent.

"Eyes up," he hissed. The squad moved like ghosts through the Spree’s mist. This wasn't the glorious charge the propaganda films promised. It was a rhythmic, agonizing grind: clear a room, check the rafters, dodge a grenade, repeat.