The meeting hall of the rail-yard workers' cell roared like a furnace. The air was thick with sweat, tobacco smoke, and the bitter tang of oil and iron. Voices clashed in waves—angry, hopeful, desperate. Men with cracked hands and soot-stained collars argued the future of the revolution, their words fueled by hunger and conviction.
Jake sat among them, the picture of calm focus. He nodded when others spoke, offered quiet, measured thoughts about coordinating with the telegraph operators, and spoke of discipline and unity. To the men in that hall, he was Soso—the steady strategist, the loyal comrade.
But it was all theater. His body sat beneath the gaslight, but his mind was far away—in a dark, frozen corner of the city where something monstrous was about to happen. Every tick of the wall clock landed like a hammer inside his chest. Every burst of applause sounded like a gunshot. He had split himself in two: the man who smiled and reasoned, and the one silently counting down the seconds until blood was spilled.
A hand gripped his shoulder. He nearly flinched.
"You're quiet tonight, Soso," Kamo murmured. "Is everything well?"
"Just listening," Jake said, forcing a thin smile. "It's important to know the will of the workers."
Kamo nodded, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. He too was performing—the loyal lieutenant, calm beside his leader. Only they knew what lay behind the curtain of this night. Only they carried the secret that made every breath feel like a lie.
Miles away, the city slept beneath a different kind of silence. In the wasteland by the river, frost gleamed on the skeletons of abandoned factories. Inside a derelict warehouse, four men crouched in the rafters, their breath visible in the dark. Kamo's chosen witnesses—the "memory of the party." Their eyes never left the ice house across the empty lot. Their fingers dug into the wood as they waited.
Inside that ice house, the scene was perfectly staged. Fikus was tied to the central pillar, his face swollen and purple from Kamo's "interrogation." His eyes darted wildly in the dim light. He didn't know the details of the plan, but he knew enough. He could smell death in the air. The ropes at his feet were frayed, cut to suggest an escape attempt. A crust of bread and a half-empty cup of water sat just out of reach. Hope as decoration. The cruelest prop of all.
Back in the meeting hall, Jake stood and spoke about pamphlets and distribution networks. His voice was clear, disciplined. Every sentence was automatic. His mind wasn't on his words—it was listening for a sound that had nothing to do with politics.
Then, it came. Two quick stomps from the outer wall. The signal.
The message had been delivered. The trap was set.
A rush of adrenaline hit him like a flood of ice. The walls seemed to bend, the air thickened. He finished his speech without knowing what he said, then sat, hands steady on his knees while his heart beat like a drum.
Across the city, the waiting stretched thin as wire. Minutes dragged. The men in the rafters began to wonder if the plan had failed. If the Okhrana had ignored the note. If Fikus would survive the night after all.
Then, a carriage appeared at the edge of the street—no lamps, no sound but the crunch of wheels on frost. It stopped a hundred yards from the ice house. Four men stepped out. They didn't speak. Their movements were practiced, silent, lethal. They wore the rough coats of workers, not the uniforms of Tsarist agents.
A false flag.
They approached the door. One man kicked it open—the sound cracked through the night like a pistol shot. The four vanished inside.
From the rafters, the witnesses heard everything.
A strangled cry from Fikus, cut short.
A muffled shout.
The heavy thud of a body collapsing.
Then—one gunshot. Sharp, final, absolute.
A moment later, the men reemerged, moving quickly and without panic. Their job was done. They crossed the lot toward the waiting carriage. As they passed beneath a break in the clouds, moonlight caught one of their faces.
Kamo froze. The blood drained from his face. He knew that face—had shared bread with it, laughed with it, debated with it.
Danilov.
A trusted revolutionary. Orlov's man.
The truth hit like a hammer blow. The assassins weren't Okhrana at all. They were comrades.
The betrayal wasn't distant—it was here, within the party itself, breathing the same air, shaking the same hands.
Kamo's heart pounded with fury and disbelief, but he didn't move. He couldn't. The plan demanded silence. The "memory of the party" would remember everything.
In the flickering dark, the revolution devoured one of its own—and no one in the hall of shouting workers would ever know that, while they spoke of unity and justice, the real war was already being fought in the shadows.
The rail-yard meeting ended in thunder—songs, vows, fists raised to the freezing night. Jake walked among them, shaking hands, returning claps on the back, letting the fire of their devotion reflect in his eyes. To them, he was Soso: steady, decisive, the man who had cut through confusion with strategy instead of slogans.
Inside, he felt hollow. Detached. A ghost wearing a revolutionary's skin.
When the city noise faded, he and Kamo slipped away, boots striking cobblestone in a steady rhythm. Neither spoke. They moved toward the edge of town, toward the tannery—a long-dead building gutted by time, reeking faintly of rot and old leather.
Inside, four men waited. The witnesses. The "memory of the party." They rose when Jake entered, their pale faces half-lit by a shard of moon through a cracked window.
Kamo spoke first, fury trembling in every word. "It was them, Soso. Just as you said—but worse. It was Orlov's man. Danilov. I saw him. All of us did."
Luka, oldest of the group, stepped forward. "They didn't hesitate," he said quietly. "One shot. Then they left him on the floor. Like butchers."
The others nodded, unable to meet Jake's eyes for long.
Jake listened without moving. When he finally spoke, his voice was too calm. "Good."
The word cracked through the room like a whip. Every man stiffened.
"Good?" Kamo exploded. "This is a disaster! They're murdering our own! Danilov today, who tomorrow? We have proof—four witnesses! We go to the Committee, expose Orlov and his pack—"
Jake raised his hand. The gesture was small, but the room went silent.
"No," he said. "You're thinking like a soldier again, Kamo. Swinging your fists and hoping the world will move."
He paced slowly, each step echoing through the hollow space.
"If we accuse Orlov before the Committee, what happens? Chaos. He denies it. Calls Danilov a rogue. Says you forged this story, that you're my loyal dogs trying to steal him a seat." Jake stopped, his gaze sweeping coldly over them. "And the party will believe him. Because they always believe the man with more friends."
He let that sink in.
"A public trial is a stage," Jake said. "And Orlov lives for stages."
Understanding crept across their faces. Dread followed.
Jake spoke softly now, but the softness made it worse. "A political trial is for politicians. Traitors deserve a revolutionary's justice."
Silence thickened until even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.
"We won't shout this purge from rooftops," he said. "We'll cleanse. Quiet. Precise. We have proof. And we know who we can trust." His eyes traveled across each man—binding them with something deeper than loyalty. Shared guilt.
"Danilov is first," Jake said. "He's the loose thread. We take him tonight. He confesses who gave the order. His confession justifies what comes next." His tone hardened into something unmistakably final. "Then we deal with Orlov. Silent. Clean. Finished."
No one objected. They couldn't. Jake had turned their outrage into obedience.
He wasn't just leading them. He was remaking them.
The silence inside the tannery grew dense and alive. Kamo, Luka, Davit, Levan—four revolutionaries moments ago, conspirators now—watched Jake with a mixture of fear and reverence. Something had shifted. Soso wasn't reacting to events anymore; he was reshaping them.
Jake drew the outline of Avlabari district on a dusty table with his fingertip. "Danilov feels safe," he said, tone clinical. "He just completed a mission. He thinks he's untouchable. His arrogance brings him to us."
Kamo frowned. "He'll smell a trap."
"Not if it comes from a woman," Jake said. His eyes moved to Luka. "Your niece, Anna. She distributes pamphlets by the station. Danilov watches her. Too often."
Luka stiffened. "She's a child. I won't risk her."
Jake softened his voice, but not his resolve. "She'll never know. She'll deliver one message: 'A friend of Fikus wants to meet. He has information to sell.' Nothing more. She'll be home before sunset."
Luka hesitated, jaw tight, but nodded.
Jake tapped the map again. "The meeting is at the old Sulphur Baths. Abandoned after last year's fire. Maze of halls. No light. Perfect."
Assignments came next, each placed with surgical precision.
"Kamo, Luka—inside the main chamber. Davit—roof of the bakery across the street. Levan—back exit by the river." He paused. "No one goes in or out unseen."
Kamo scowled. "And you, Soso?"
Jake's answer froze the room. "I'll be inside. Alone."
"That's madness," Kamo growled.
Jake met his eyes. "He expects fear. He'll relax if he thinks he's facing one frightened man. When he steps close, the trap closes."
No one argued again.
The next evening, the plan unfolded with quiet, deadly precision.
Anna delivered the message—fear in her voice making it all the more convincing. Danilov took the bait instantly. "A friend of Fikus?" he'd repeated, smiling. "I'll handle it."
At dusk, he entered the ruined baths. The building squatted at the edge of the city like a corpse. Frost coated the broken tiles. Jake waited in the dim antechamber, posture trembling just enough to sell the act.
"You're the friend of Fikus?" Danilov asked, stepping closer.
Jake nodded. "He told me things," he whispered. "Things worth money. Or my life."
"Show me."
"Inside," Jake said, turning toward the shadowed hall. "Where we won't be seen."
Danilov followed him into the dark main chamber. When Jake turned back, his posture shifted—too calm, too controlled.
Suspicion flickered in Danilov's eyes.
He didn't have time to act.
Kamo erupted from the left like a bull. Luka burst from the right, silent as a knife. In a single, fluid motion, Kamo's arm crushed Danilov's windpipe while Luka stripped the revolver from his grip. Danilov's body jerked, kicked, then sagged into unconsciousness.
No gunshot. No scream. Just the scrape of boots on tile.
They gagged him, bound him, and slipped him through the back into Levan's waiting cart. Within minutes, the street outside was empty again.
The wine cellar beneath a deserted merchant's villa was their destination—a stone oubliette, cold and silent.
When they hauled Danilov down the stairs, he was awake again, thrashing wildly. His muffled cries echoed off the walls.
Kamo shoved him into a chair. Jake closed the heavy door and slid the iron bolt home. The metallic finality rang through the chamber.
Danilov's terrified eyes fixed on Jake.
Jake stepped toward him, hands clasped behind his back, voice soft as velvet.
"Now, Comrade Danilov," he said. "Let's talk about your orders."
There was no cruelty in the words.
No heat.
No haste.
Only certainty.
The certainty of a man who had crossed the line—and wasn't coming back.