The air in Ivanov’s makeshift workshop, crammed into the back of a dilapidated Berlin auto repair shop, hung thick with the smell of solder and burnt coffee. Wires snaked across every surface, connecting a chaotic array of scavenged radios, repurposed military hardware, and Ivanov's own ingeniously crafted devices. The faint glow of multiple screens illuminated the faces of the Crimson Gauntlet, etched with fatigue and grim determination. They were huddled around a table strewn with intercepted documents – fragments of encrypted messages that Ivanov, after days of relentless effort, had finally cracked.