Solid Snake’s voice is low, gravelly, the tone of a man who has seen too many battlefields and knows the scars never really heal.
“Berlin wasn’t just rubble… it was memory turned to dust. Whole neighborhoods reduced to skeletons of concrete, streets littered with bricks and bodies. You could feel the silence, the kind that presses down harder than gunfire.
When the war ended, the city wasn’t rebuilt overnight. It wasn’t about putting up new walls and windows—it was about stitching together the heart of a people who had been shattered. Every brick laid was an act of defiance against despair. Men and women carried stones in their hands, their children watching them turn ruins into homes.
But reconstruction wasn’t pure. The Cold War cut Berlin in two, east and west, like a wound that wouldn’t close. One side rebuilt under the shadow of Moscow, the other under Washington’s watchful eye. Each block of concrete, each road, became a battlefield of ideology.
And yet… in the middle of division, Berliners had a spirit you couldn’t bomb out of them. They planted gardens in ruins, they painted over scars, they played music where walls still bled. By the time the wall came down decades later, it wasn’t just about bricks—it was about proving that you can’t cage a city’s soul forever.
Berlin rose again. Not clean, not perfect… but alive. That’s reconstruction. That’s survival.”