The Okhrana headquarters on Golovin Avenue looked built to crush a man's courage. The wide steps gleamed under the morning light, polished to intimidate. Pyotr Dolidze—now Luka Mikeladze—kept his eyes on the tall double doors above. Every step felt endless. His fingers brushed the worn photograph in his pocket. It was his anchor against the storm inside him.
He wasn't Pyotr, the useless drunk walking to his death. He was Luka, the revolutionary walking to his cause. He had to believe that. It was the only way to keep himself from falling apart.
The doors were heavy, the hinges groaning as he pushed them open. Inside, the air was colder. A marble hall stretched out in front of him, echoing with the boots of officers and the scratch of pens. A giant portrait of Tsar Nicholas II glared down at him, all smug calm and silent judgment.
He walked up to the reception desk. The officer behind it didn't even look up at first.
"I'm here to turn myself in," Pyotr said. His voice didn't shake. He'd practiced it too many times to fail now.
The officer raised his head with an annoyed sigh. "Turn yourself in? For what—being drunk in public?"
He waved a hand. "Get out before I throw you out."
"My name is Luka Mikeladze," Pyotr said. "I'm with the Bolsheviks. You've been looking for me."
That got the reaction he expected. The man froze, eyes sharp, hand drifting to his pistol. The name Mikeladze carried weight in this building. It was the ghost every officer had been chasing.
"Guards!" the officer barked.
Two policemen appeared, grabbed Pyotr by the arms, and hauled him through the back corridors. Their boots thundered down the stone halls until they shoved him into a small, windowless room. The air smelled of damp walls and fear. The bolt slid shut with a final, heavy click.
He was alone. The fear came rushing back. His hands shook as he pulled the photo from his pocket—Elene and the two children smiling up at him.
For them, he thought. My death will give them a life.
He repeated it until the shaking stopped.
The first interrogator came exactly as Soso had described: a thick-necked brute with cold eyes and fists that looked like weapons. He circled Pyotr like a predator sizing up its meal.
"So," the man growled, "you're Luka Mikeladze. You look very alive for someone supposed to be dead." He leaned in, his breath sour with garlic. "We can fix that. Who helped you? Where've you been hiding?"
Pyotr steadied himself. The first test.
"I came here to seek protection from the state," he said flatly. "Not to be barked at by its dogs."
The officer's eyes flashed, but before he could react, the door opened. Another man stepped in—thin, sharply dressed, holding a cigarette between elegant fingers. His tone was calm, almost amused.
"That will be all, Denisov," he said. "You're better at breaking bones than getting answers."
The brute grunted and left. The newcomer took his place across from Pyotr. Smoke curled lazily between them.
"Captain Volkov," he said. "I handle… complicated cases. So, Luka Mikeladze—miraculously alive. Quite a coincidence, isn't it? You return just as Shaumian's accused of your murder."
"There's no coincidence," Pyotr replied. "I came because I heard he was arrested. He's innocent. The Party didn't kill me. They tried to."
Volkov smiled thinly. "An excellent story. So you faked your death? Hiding in the mountains, perhaps? Shepherd by day, hero by night?"
"I hid near Kutaisi," Pyotr said, staying to the script. "A cousin of a friend gave me shelter. He never knew who I was."
"And why run from your comrades?" Volkov's tone turned sharp.
"I'm a revolutionary," Pyotr said, voice steady now. "But I'm not a murderer. I spoke against the expropriations, against the terror of men like Kamo. Soso Jughashvili called me a Menshevik sympathizer. When I learned they planned to silence me, I used a police raid to vanish. I let them think I was dead."
The words came naturally. He wasn't acting anymore; he believed it. For the first time in years, he sounded like a man with conviction.
Volkov listened carefully, eyes half-closed. The story fit too perfectly. That was what bothered him.
"How convenient," he said finally. "Everything matches our own files. Almost too well." He leaned forward. "We also have a man who looks like you—a drunk, a failure. Pyotr Dolidze. That name mean anything to you?"
The silence stretched. Pyotr felt something strange—real contempt. Contempt for the man he used to be.
"I don't know every drunk in Tbilisi," he said coldly. "I've been busy fighting for this country's future."
It hit exactly right. Volkov saw no fear in his eyes, only exhausted pride. The interrogation dragged on, but every answer was perfect. Every lie matched a record. Every detail fit.
When Volkov finally stepped out, he looked unsettled. He walked straight to the chief's office.
Colonel Morozov sat behind a desk piled with papers, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Well?" he demanded.
Volkov took a drag from his cigarette. "If he's lying, he's the best liar I've ever met. He believes every word. Either he's Luka Mikeladze… or he's lost his mind becoming him. Either way, our case against Shaumian just fell apart."
Morozov went pale. The Prime Minister himself had taken interest in that case. And now the supposed victim was alive, sitting in their cells.
"What do we do?" he asked quietly.
"This isn't for us to decide," Volkov said. He pointed to the telegraph machine. "Send word to St. Petersburg. The Prime Minister must hear about this."
Morozov stared at the device like it might bite him. He knew what that message meant—a career-ending scandal, maybe worse. But he had no choice.
As the telegram clicked out, the wheels of power began to turn.
And far from that office, Jake's plan moved one step forward.
The ghost had spoken.
The fortress was cracking from within.