The journey back to Tbilisi was a descent into silence and cold precision. Jake traveled under a false name, cap pulled low, face half-hidden in shadow. The panic that had consumed him in Geneva had burned itself out. What remained was something harder — purpose stripped of humanity. The teacher who once argued with his own conscience was gone. The strategist had taken full control.
He didn't go to the main Bolshevik office, now buzzing with Kamo's staged "assault preparations." He went instead to the quiet safe house on Erevan Street, a place built for secrets. The air inside was heavy and still.
Kamo met him at the door, expression tight. "He's in the back room," he said. "We kept him sober. He weeps. He begs. He's… nothing."
"Nothing is good," Jake said, voice flat. "Nothing can be shaped."
"Only the four of us have seen him," Kamo added. "No one else knows."
Jake nodded. "Keep it that way. No one enters. This place is a tomb until I say otherwise."
He walked down the narrow hall and opened the door. The room beyond was bare — a mattress, a bucket, one barred window leaking gray light.
Pyotr Dolidze sat huddled under a blanket, shaking. Days of forced sobriety had stripped away the alcoholic fog. What was left was raw and hollow — a trembling skeleton of a man. His eyes lifted at the sound of the door. Recognition flickered. He knew this face.
Years ago, Soso Jughashvili had stood before him in judgment — calm, clinical, dissecting his failures before cutting him loose from the party. The same cold voice that had exiled him had returned.
"Soso…" Pyotr rasped. "Why? What is this? I've done nothing. I'm no one."
Jake closed the door. The latch clicked. He dragged the lone stool into the center of the room and sat. His voice was steady, unhurried.
"Your life is over, Pyotr. You died years ago. You just never stopped breathing." His tone held no cruelty, only fact. "You've been given a final chance. A purpose."
Pyotr stared, lips trembling.
"You can still make your death mean something," Jake said. "You can die a hero's death — a martyr's death — instead of a drunk's."
He began to explain, piece by piece, the design of his plan — the logic, the necessity, the trap.
"There was a man named Luka Mikeladze," Jake said. "He's dead. But the Okhrana doesn't believe he's dead. To save Comrade Shaumian, Luka must return to life."
He leaned forward, eyes locked on Pyotr. "You, Pyotr, will become Luka Mikeladze."
The words seemed to drain the air from the room. Pyotr gaped, uncomprehending.
"We have everything — his letters, his reports, his habits. You will study them. You will eat as he ate, walk as he walked. You will forget your own name."
Jake's voice was calm, relentless. "And when you are ready, you will go to the Okhrana headquarters on Golovin Avenue. You will surrender. You will tell them you were a Menshevik agent who faked his death to escape party justice. You will tell them you've come to confess."
Pyotr's voice broke in a sob. "They'll kill me."
"Yes," Jake said simply. "But not immediately. First they will question you. They'll confirm your identity. They'll withdraw the murder charge against Shaumian. By the time they realize what you are, it won't matter. He will be free. You will die, but the revolution will live."
Pyotr crumbled, choking on his own fear. Jake didn't flinch.
"I can make your death matter," he said quietly. "Or I can make it meaningless. Do this, and your wife and children will receive a pension. Enough to live, enough to educate the children. They'll never know why, but they'll live well."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Refuse… and we'll kill you here. Throw you in the Kura. Your family will starve and curse your name."
It wasn't a choice. It was a sentence.
Pyotr broke. The sobbing came in great, shaking waves — the sound of something collapsing inside him.
Jake watched him for a long, cold moment. No pity. No guilt. Just calculation. The wreck on the floor wasn't a man anymore — he was material. Something to be stripped down and rebuilt.
The forging had begun.