January 7, 1907
Snow fell without urgency, drifting down in steady curtains that blurred the lamps and softened the city's hard edges. Night wrapped St. Petersburg in pale silence, broken only by the distant crunch of boots and the faint rattle of a carriage far off along the main road.
Alexei walked alone.
His steps were measured and unhurried, the way one learned to walk when one did not wish to be noticed. The snow swallowed the sound of his boots almost immediately, erasing him as quickly as it recorded his passing. He kept his coat pulled high, gloved hands tucked into its pockets, his breath steady as it fogged the air before him.
This was the tenth night in a row now.
He had been visiting their new territory regularly, but only for an hour or two as he needed to rest, checking in on Anna and the others to ensure nothing went wrong as new rules were established in the conquered area. A few attempted to challenge the Jackals' authority, but they were dealt with swiftly.
The same could not be said for the certain group or organization that had ties to the Ratcatchers, however. They did not cause open trouble like the others, but they made their presence known through threats and ultimatums, insisting that if we wanted to keep the territory peaceful, their demands had to be accepted.
He had Nikolai delay giving them an answer, though he knew he could not put it off for long. Accepting their demands was, of course, never an option. Instead, he was considering how to deal with them, and whether there was anything to be gained in the process.
The audacity of these people to issue threats and ultimatums grated heavily on his nerves. It was as though they believed themselves untouchable, as if they already ruled the country rather than hiding in shadows, whispering in the basements, and fleeing the moment the authorities closed in. Their confidence was not born of strength, but of arrogance, a dangerous kind, sharpened by ideology and desperation.
When he finally decided to move against them, he would give them a beating they would never forget. Of that, he was certain.
The snow thinned as he reached the edge of the slums. He saw children and adults shoveling snow and piling it along the sides of the streets, while others stood nearby giving orders and directing the work. He climbed onto the rooftop of one of the houses and watched them for a while.
When the work was finished and those who had given the orders paid the children and adults for their labor, he nodded to himself and left. Corruption could not be stopped; he had known that from his previous lives already.
Fortunately, the Jackals had not yet succumbed to corruption, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they learned its ways. And when that happened, he would punish them harshly if he caught them in the act.
He crossed the last stretch of rooftops above the packed houses, climbed down, and turned into the alley that led to their headquarters.
From the outside, the walls and gate looked as lifeless as ever, dark and worn, the kind of place people avoided instinctively. But he could hear the warmth of voices from within. He smiled faintly; it seemed his minions were celebrating something.
The guards at the gate noticed him but did not move, watching him in silence. He nodded to them, pulled back his hood, and showed them his mask before performing a series of hand signs his minions had memorized. When the guards confirmed the signs were correct, they saluted him silently and allowed him inside.
Of course, he had adapted the hand seals from a certain anime he had watched in his first life. He could not help but feel amused each time he performed them.
He pulled his hood back into place, crossed the front lawn, circled around the front building, and walked directly toward the center of the compound.
The moment he stepped into the central yard, warmth and noise washed over him.
A fire pit crackled at the center, its glow throwing long, dancing shadows against the surrounding buildings. Rough tables had been dragged together, laden with skewers of meat, hunks of bread, and dented bowls filled with steaming soup. Laughter rose and fell in uneven bursts, mingling with the hiss of fat hitting flame. Somewhere to the side, a few men passed around bottles, their voices louder, looser than the rest.
Alexei slowed.
Some of them were drinking.
He shook his head faintly at that. Alcohol dulled edges. It made men careless. Still, tonight was not the night to strip them of this small indulgence, whatever their celebration was all about.
He stepped forward, letting his boots crunch deliberately against the frost-bitten ground.
His minions turned toward him at once. Conversations faltered, and laughter died mid-breath. As recognition sank in, they straightened immediately; chairs scraped back as several hurried to their feet. In the next moment, they snapped to attention and greeted him in unison.
He waved back his hands in greeting but they held still, uncertain.
"At ease," he said evenly. "Continue what you were doing."
They hesitated at first, then the tension finally eased. Slowly, movement returned. Men sat back down. Someone let out an awkward laugh. The fire popped again, and the night breathed on.
Alexei nodded once to the men and moved on.
He passed the tables and headed toward the cooking area, where the air was thick with the scent of broth and spices. Anna stood over a large iron pot, ladle in hand, steam curling around her sleeves as she scooped soup into waiting bowls with practiced ease.
"You're back," she said without turning, already reaching for another bowl. "You just broke the atmosphere of their celebration with your presence."
"If I had known there was a celebration going on, I would've skipped coming over tonight," he said with a shrug as he stopped beside her. His gaze flicked briefly to the pot. "Smells good."
She allowed herself a small smile as she handed a filled bowl to one of the waiting men, then finally looked at him. "We're celebrating Nikolai's release from prison today, and the successful attack on the Ratcatchers."
"Oh?" Alexei glanced around the yard but didn't spot Nikolai among the men. "Where is he?"
"Inside," Anna replied as she scooped another ladle of broth from the pot. "He was bruised and battered when we found him earlier, but he's fine. I already had the healers check on him. They said he just needs rest."
"Hm." Alexei nodded. "I'll check on him, then." He turned to leave, then paused. "And make sure they don't drink too much." He gestured toward the men with the bottles.
Anna followed his gaze and nodded. "Don't worry. I have it handled. You don't want some soup?"
"Give me some when you're finished here," Alexei replied, already turning away as he headed toward the house.
The warmth inside the house was heavier and quieter than the yard outside. The walls muffled the laughter and clatter of plates, leaving only a low murmur that faded as Alexei climbed the stairs.
He stopped in front of one of the rooms near the end of the hall where Nikolai and Oskar's personal room was located.
The door was closed.
Alexei knocked once, then opened it without waiting for a reply.
Nikolai lay on the narrow bed inside, propped up by pillows. His coat was folded neatly on a chair nearby, boots placed side by side beneath it. Fresh bandages wrapped his forearm and part of his shoulder, already darkening slightly where blood had seeped through. His face was pale, bruises blooming along his jaw and cheekbone, but his eyes were sharp when they lifted.
"Master," Nikolai said, starting to move.
"Tsk. Stay still," Alexei said calmly.
Nikolai froze, then settled back against the pillows, his jaw tightening more from embarrassment than pain. "I didn't expect you tonight."
"They must have done quite a job for you to end up like this," Alexei replied, a faint smile crossing his face as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Nikolai tried to chuckle, only to hiss as the pain flared. "Yeah… they certainly did."
Alexei chuckled softly at Nikolai's condition as he pulled a stool closer and sat beside him. For a moment, he said nothing, calmly observing his minion's wounds.
Nikolai shifted slightly under his gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the scrutiny.
"So," Alexei said at last, after finding no serious injuries, "how was the beating and interrogation?"
Nikolai smiled wryly. "Painful, of course. But I managed to deliver the message you asked me to give them when they started getting rough."
Alexei nodded. "Tell me the details."
Nikolai took a slow breath as the memories surfaced, his eyes unfocused, as though he were no longer in the room.
The beating had not begun immediately after he was taken by the Politsiya. At first, they tried patience. Questions were asked calmly and methodically, their tone almost courteous. They asked for names, affiliations, and anything connected to the attack that had taken place. He answered them evenly, but when they questioned him about the bodies, he kept his lips tightly sealed and insisted that he knew nothing at all.
When they pressed him and still failed to get what they wanted, the atmosphere shifted.
The second group entered.
That was when interrogation gave way to violence.
The blows came in waves, deliberate and exhausting. Fists at first, then truncheons when bare knuckles grew tired. They rotated men to keep their strength fresh, striking in places that would not cripple him outright, careful to avoid injuries that would require explanations. The pain was constant, dull at first, then sharp enough to steal his breath. When they realized he still would not admit to the killings, they escalated.
Cold water burned his lungs as his head was forced under again and again, each moment stretching until panic clawed at his chest. They dragged him up only long enough for him to gasp before pushing him down once more. When drowning failed to break him, they restrained him and focused on his joints and ribs, places that throbbed long after the impact faded.
There came a point when everything hurt, breathing, moving and even thinking. Consciousness slipped in and out, pain blurring into a haze that threatened to swallow him whole. It was there, at the edge of collapse, that he finally did what his master had instructed.
He broke.
Resistance faded, his body slackening as he allowed fear to show. He gave them something, not the truth, and not about the killings, which he continued to deny, but information about the revolutionaries. He told them how they had contacted his gang, how they had threatened to attack the Jackals if they did not continue the contracts and agreements once held with the Ratcatchers, and how they had demanded peace in the newly conquered territory on their own terms.
That made them pause.
He did not know how much time passed before someone else entered, someone more serious, and noticeably different from the Politsiya officers. The man questioned him again, and Nikolai delivered everything his master had instructed him to say. The man accepted it readily, convinced that the beating had finally broken him.
The deaths were forgotten.
Instead, the man's focus shifted to the revolutionaries who had contacted him. The man ordered Nikolai to maintain contact with the revolutionaries and report any further communication to someone who will contact him soon enough. Threats were issued, harsh ones, but he barely remembered them. By then, all he could recall was nodding along, aware that his mission was finally complete.
And he was finally released.
Alexei said nothing as the recollection ended.
He remained seated, his expression calm, his posture relaxed, as though what he had just witnessed through Nikolai's memories was nothing more than a routine report. In truth, his silence was deliberate. Words, at moments like this, were unnecessary, and often insufficient.
He looked over Nikolai again, this time not as a commander assessing the usefulness of his subordinate, but as a man measuring the cost of his own decisions.
The bruises, the bandages, and the faint stiffness in every movement, each was a reminder that Nikolai had endured pain not meant for him. Pain Alexei had calculated, anticipated, and ultimately allowed. That knowledge settled heavily in his chest, colder than guilt, and sharper than regret.
He had not underestimated what the Politsiya or the Okhrana would do. If anything, they had behaved exactly as he expected.
That did not make it easier to accept though.
Alexei had lived through enough lives to understand that loyalty was not forged by kindness alone. It was tempered in suffering, proven when a man stood at the edge of collapse and chose obedience over survival. Nikolai had done exactly that. He had broken when instructed, not before, and only in the way Alexei had intended.
Still.
Alexei's fingers curled slightly against his knee.
He did not regret the plan. It had worked too cleanly for that. The Okhrana had taken the bait, shifted their attention, and begun focusing on the revolutionaries instead of digging deeper into the Jackals. Nikolai's endurance had brought them contact with the Okhrana, contact he had always wanted. Though with a price.
Nikolai had suffered for that, and Alexei did not forget such things, not in this life, and not in any other.
When Nikolai finally broke, the sobs coming unrestrained and raw, Alexei pulled him into a brief embrace. The man's body shook against him, exhaustion and pain spilling over all at once. For a fleeting moment, Alexei wondered if all of this had been worth it, every calculation, every risk, and every order he gave.
The doubt lasted only a heartbeat.
He hardened his resolve almost immediately. This was for his family. For the future of his minions. For a world that would not hesitate to crush them if they showed weakness.
"I'm sorry I put you through all of this," Alexei said quietly, his voice low and steady as he offered comfort.
Nikolai did not answer. He only clutched at Alexei's coat weakly, his sobs slowly softening into uneven breaths as exhaustion overtook him.
It did not take long.
The tension drained from Nikolai's body, his grip loosening as sleep finally claimed him. Alexei waited a moment longer to be sure, then carefully eased him back onto the bed. He adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, and made sure his injured arm was positioned comfortably, so it would not ache when he woke.
For someone so used to violence, Alexei's movements were surprisingly gentle.
He stood there for a moment, watching Nikolai sleep, the harsh lines of pain finally softened by rest. Then he turned away, extinguished the lamp, and closed the door quietly behind him.
The corridors were silent as he made his way towards Anna's office.
Alexei entered without a word and closed the door behind him. He did not sit immediately. Instead, he stood by the window for a moment, looking out at the snow-covered yard at the center of the compound, at the faint glow of the fire burning there, surrounded by his minions in celebration, a stark contrast to the room he had just left.
Only then did he take a seat and wait.
The door opened softly not long after.
Alexei did not turn and waited for her to be in his sight. Warm air followed her in, carrying the familiar scent of broth and spices.
"Here's your soup," Anna said quietly as she entered his line of sight.
He saw her holding a bowl in both hands, steam curling lazily upward. She set it down on the desk in front of him, the sound gentle, deliberate.
"Thank you," Alexei replied.
He did not speak again right away. Instead, he picked up the spoon and took a slow sip. The warmth spread through him almost immediately, chasing away the lingering cold that clung to his bones. It tasted simple, meat, salt, and spices, contrary to the palace soup, but it was filling and grounding. He ate in silence, each spoonful unhurried, as if giving himself permission, just this once, to stop thinking ahead.
Anna smiled slightly at the sight.
She moved to the opposite chair and sat down, picked the pen on her desk and twirl it in her hand. She watched him quietly, her expression composed but attentive, the way it always was when she sensed his thoughts were heavy.
Alexei set the spoon down and exhaled softly. Only then did he look at her properly. "Nikolai's asleep," he said. "He surely went through a lot."
Anna nodded, a flicker of gloom crossing her face. "Yes. He volunteered for it as punishment, but don't you think it was excessive?"
They had not told her everything about the plan, and Alexei knew it had been the right decision. Who knew what she might have done if she had learned the full truth? Anna had accepted many of the underhanded choices they had made, but he was certain there would come a time when she would not. Especially decisions like this one, too dangerous, too costly, and too close to crossing a line she would not forgive.
Alexei offered her a faint smile, trying to lift her mood. "The most important thing is that he survived, and no serious injuries were found. We should be grateful for that. It's a lesson learned too, that we don't get caught by the Politsiya. Though we know it can't always be avoided, all we can do is minimize the risk as much as possible."
Anna sighed, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. "I know," she said. "I just… don't like seeing them hurt like this."
"Neither do I," Alexei replied. But we can't avoid it.
He left the last part unsaid.
Alexei rose from his chair and stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder, a brief, deliberate gesture meant as reassurance rather than comfort. Anna looked up at him, searching his face for something more, but after a moment she nodded, accepting what he offered.
He withdrew his hand, turned slightly, and chose to change the subject at once.
"Tell me about today," he said, his tone shifting back to business. "Did anything happen while I was away? Anything that needs to be dealt with."
The change was subtle but immediate. Anna straightened in her chair, her expression settling into its usual composed focus as she gathered her thoughts.
"There were a few minor incidents," she began. "Nothing serious, but there are things you should know…"
The night pressed on outside the window, the firelight in the yard flickering steadily as the work resumed, quiet and never ending.
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