The old man, his back still ramrod straight in spite of supporting the weight of accumulated decades, his once formidable frame now thin and frail, his still thick head of grey-white hair close-cropped as always. The fire crackling cheerily in the nearby hearth hardly lending his tired bones any warmth of late, took a moment as he painfully lowered himself into the cracked leather and burnished hardwood chair in his study, facing the roll-top writing desk with its many nooks and drawers.
Using that moment to glance in the direction of the discreetly concealed closet built to blend seamlessly with the wainscoted mahogany panelling which lined the room, lending it a warmth that was in no way reflected in SS-Oberführer Heinrich Müller's withered soul.
Returning to the task at hand, Müller laid out his writing kit. The black lacquer Montblanc nib pen, indigo ink pot, blotting paper and stick of blood-red sealing wax, placing each with careful precision on the leather-framed surface. Once this small but important ritual was completed the old man, silently cursing his age-spotted and shaky hand, sun-bronzed except for a pale band around his ring finger, as he began to write.