The news from St. Petersburg reached Tbilisi like the echo of a distant explosion—muffled, but carrying the weight of disaster.
A courier brought it to the bakery safe house, his face pale with the awareness that the papers in his bag could change everything.
The smell of fresh bread filled the room, a strange contrast to the tension hanging over the table where Jake and Kamo sat. The papers were spread out before them, the ink still smelling faintly of the press.
The headlines screamed in bold, hysterical print.
STATE'S WITNESS SUFFERS SPECTACULAR BREAKDOWN!
MYSTERY FAMILY SHATTERS BOLSHEVIK HERO'S STORY!
Kamo read slowly, sounding out each line in his thick accent. His voice was a low rumble of disbelief and grim satisfaction. The articles described Pyotr Dolidze's collapse in lurid detail—his screams, his struggle, the chaos before the cameras. They painted a picture of a man utterly destroyed.
"He's finished," Kamo said, jabbing a calloused finger at a grainy photograph of Pyotr's contorted face. "Stolypin's golden witness is mad. No trial. No speeches. Nothing. You broke him, Soso. Without firing a shot."
The men who had once grumbled about Soso's "overcomplicated" plans were silent now. Their fear had turned to reverence. This wasn't violence they could understand. This was something colder. Smarter. Terrifying.
Jake said nothing.
On the surface, he was composed—the perfect strategist dissecting the aftermath of a victory. But inside, the triumph felt hollow. He had crushed a weak man and used a broken family as weapons. There was no glory in it, only the sour taste of ashes.
The satisfaction that used to come with winning was gone. He'd saved his cause, but something vital inside him had burned away with it.
It was a victory without joy.
The courier shifted uneasily, breaking the silence. "There's something else, Comrade Stalin."
He stepped forward and laid a small envelope on the table. It wasn't coded paper or cheap stock—it was fine, thick parchment. And the handwriting on the front was neat, looping, heartbreakingly familiar.
Kato's.
"It came through the sympathizer in Borjomi," the courier explained. "He said it was… personal."
Kamo took one look at Jake's face and understood. He dismissed the courier with a grunt and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Jake stared at the letter. For a long moment, he didn't move. His instincts—the ones that belonged to Stalin—told him to burn it unopened. It was weakness. A crack in his armor.
But Jake Vance's hand reached out anyway.
He broke the seal. The scent of pine and cold mountain air seemed to rise from the page as he unfolded it.
My dearest Soso,
The cottage is as you described. It is quiet. The air is clean, and the stars look close enough to touch. The silence here is deafening—it gives a person too much time to think.
I think of you. Of the man I saw in Tbilisi, weighed down by shadows. I know your work is dangerous. I know it changes you. I saw it happening even before I left, and I was afraid. Maybe I shouldn't have run.
But I also remember the man who brought me flowers from the market, who read poetry by the fire, whose voice carried such hope for the world. I have to believe he is still there, somewhere beneath the armor.
The man who sent me away—I don't know him. He frightens me. But the man who promised to come to me when it was over... I'm still waiting. I'll wait as long as it takes.
Please, Soso. Tell me he's still in there somewhere.
The words cut deeper than any enemy bullet could.
They tore through every layer of control he had built—every justification, every wall of ideology and calculation.
He could almost see her as she wrote it, her brow furrowed, her hands stained from work, her heart still impossibly soft.
For a moment, the mask cracked. The man who had once been Jake Vance—the man who'd loved history, poetry, and simple kindness—rose to the surface. He wanted to write back. He wanted to tell her everything.
My name isn't Soso. I am from another world. I am wearing your husband's face. I'm trying to stop the monster he will become, but I think I'm becoming him instead.
But he couldn't. He couldn't risk it.
He clenched the letter in his fist, trembling. To answer her would be suicide—not for his body, but for the mission. For the fragile thread of purpose that was all he had left.
He walked to the table, held the corner of the page to the candle flame, and watched the handwriting curl into fire.
The paper blackened and crumbled, falling to ash. Her voice—her hope—was gone.
He told himself it was necessary. That this was sacrifice. But as the last ember died, he realized what he had really done.
He hadn't burned the letter. He had burned what was left of himself.
The door burst open.
Kamo stood there, breathless, holding another telegram. "Soso! New report from St. Petersburg. It's about the family."
Jake turned slowly from the dying candle flame. "What about them?"
Kamo's face was grim. "They're gone. The Okhrana took them off the street. Broad daylight. But they weren't arrested." He looked down at the paper, confusion flickering in his eyes. "They were put on a private train. Guarded. Destination—Tsarskoye Selo."
Jake's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped to a cold whisper. "Stolypin's estate."
Kamo nodded. "His personal one."
The candle flickered, its small light reflected in Jake's eyes—two burning coals in a face carved from stone.
"So," he said quietly, almost to himself. "The next move is his."