The order made no sense.
To Kamo, it felt like madness.
The city was burning. Their comrades were dead or in hiding. And yet Soso wanted men—not to strike back, not to defend their shrinking ground—but to search the slums for a ghost's ghost.
It went against every instinct Kamo had. But the look in Soso's eyes stopped him from arguing. That cold, sharp gleam—the look of a man who saw a battlefield no one else could see.
With a tired sigh, Kamo obeyed. He sent his best men into the filth and shadows, combing the forgotten corners of Tbilisi for the remnants of Pyotr Dolidze's old life.
A day later, he came back.
The tenement reeked of smoke and damp air. Soso—Jake—sat at the table, unmoving, staring at a wall like it held the answers to the universe.
Kamo placed a thin folder in front of him. "There's not much," he said quietly. "The man was a drunk. After you cut him loose, he worked the docks, drank the pay, then vanished. Left his family behind."
Jake's eyes flicked to the folder. "The family?"
Kamo nodded, checking his rough notes. "Wife's name is Anna Dolidze. Washerwoman in Avlabari. Tough woman. Hates him. Says losing him was the best thing that ever happened."
"Children?"
"Two boys. Giorgi and Levan. Around ten and twelve. Don't remember their father. They live in a single room in Navtlughi. Poor doesn't even begin to describe it."
Jake opened the folder. Inside—one blurred photo of a crumbling building, a few lines of notes. That was all. But it was enough.
"Stolypin made a mistake," Jake murmured, more to himself than to Kamo. His voice carried a low, dangerous energy. "He turned Pyotr into a symbol—a puppet hero wrapped in propaganda. But he forgot that underneath the suit and speeches, he's still just Pyotr Dolidze."
He tapped the folder. "A weak man, desperate for meaning. His courage came from a lie we gave him—the promise that his 'sacrifice' would give his family a pension. A noble story built on rotten wood."
Kamo frowned, starting to see where this was going—and not liking it. "You mean to expose him? Tell the world who he really is?"
Jake shook his head slowly. A thin smile formed, cold and deliberate. "No. That's too easy. Stolypin would expect that. He'd crush it with his press machine before sunrise. Words can't beat words."
He rose from his chair. The air in the room seemed to shift with him. The tired, hollow man was gone—replaced by something sharper, alive again.
"We can't kill Pyotr," Jake said, pacing. "If we do, he becomes their martyr. We can't outshout their story either. So we won't. We'll take something else from him."
Kamo's brow furrowed. "Take what?"
Jake stopped pacing. His eyes burned. "His soul."
Kamo blinked. "His… soul?"
"Stolypin guards his body," Jake said, his tone quick and focused now. "Pyotr's in a hotel under heavy protection. Men watching him, tasting his food. But no one's guarding his past. No one's guarding the truth. Stolypin doesn't know about Anna Dolidze—or her starving sons. That's his blind spot. His perfect story has a hole. We'll pull on that thread until the whole thing unravels."
Kamo felt the chill rise in his gut. This wasn't planning anymore. This was art. Dark art.
Soso—Jake—was alive again. His voice carried that intoxicating rhythm, the hum of a man back in his element. "He thinks I'm playing chess," Jake said softly. "He doesn't see the pieces I'm moving are people—and people feel. And feelings," he added, almost whispering, "can destroy empires."
Kamo hesitated, then asked, "What's the order?"
Jake didn't hesitate. "I need quiet men. Observers, not fighters. They'll watch Anna Dolidze and her boys. Everything—where she works, who she talks to, when the children eat. No contact. No threats. They're to stay invisible."
He closed the folder with a soft snap. "They're a weapon. And a weapon only works if it doesn't know it's being used."
The orders spread quickly. What was left of the network stirred back to life.
Through Kamo's men, we see what Jake sees: a cracked, one-room home in the slums. Anna, bent over a tub, her hands raw from soap. Two boys with hollow faces, playing in the alley with a rag ball. A life so poor it barely qualified as living.
They were real. Flesh and breath. And they were about to be turned into ammunition.
Kamo watched for hours, saying nothing. He'd killed men before, robbed banks, bombed trains—but this felt different. This was quieter. Colder. Dirtier.
When he returned that night, his voice was heavy. "We have them. The wife's tough. The boys… they're just children. Hungry ones. What do you want done?"
Jake didn't flinch. He closed the folder. The sound was final.
"Good," he said. "Bring the woman to me. Alone."