The train was a world in motion—an iron beast dragging the weight of an empire behind it.
In the first-class carriages, merchants and minor nobles sipped tea and discussed politics over rustling newspapers. In third class, where Kato sat, the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and boiled eggs. It was a swaying, restless village of peasants, soldiers, and families fleeing famine for the promise of factory smoke.
In this sea of faces, Kato had vanished.
She was Anna Petrova now—a widow from Odessa. Her performance was quiet, seamless, and convincing. She didn't act grief; she wore it. Her dark dress was plain but clean, her posture weary, her voice soft. She looked out the window for hours, her eyes distant, and when a drunk soldier tried to flirt, her polite refusal carried the finality of a closed door. No one bothered a woman already claimed by sorrow.
Her journey north was a chess game played across miles of steel. The first handoff, the package for the watchmaker in Rostov-on-Don, had gone without trouble. Abram, the contact, was a nervous man with trembling hands and darting eyes. He passed her a sealed envelope and disappeared into the fog before she could thank him.
Inside was money—and a note, written on the back of a watch repair receipt.
Okhrana patrols heavy on main line to Kharkov. Frequent checks. Try Donbass route—slower, rougher, but safer. More thieves, fewer police.
The message was worth gold. Proof that Yasha's network had reach—and that she'd been right to demand it.
At the next junction, she sold her original ticket and bought another: a third-class fare through the coal valleys of Donbass. It was a detour through misery, but a clever one. Anna Petrova, the quiet widow, was also a strategist.
Her next contact was waiting on the platform of a town that looked carved from soot. He held a folded newspaper in one hand—a prearranged signal.
He introduced himself as Makar.
He wasn't what she expected. Not one of Yasha's twitchy forgers or couriers, but a man of polish. His coat was tailored, worn at the edges but well kept. His face was handsome in a sharp, dangerous way. His eyes, pale gray and almost colorless, missed nothing.
"Anna Petrova," he said, voice low and smooth. "A pleasure. I am Makar. I'll be your guide for this leg."
His manners were perfect, but his tone had the precision of a knife's edge. As they walked through the crowded station, his small talk began—too casual, too specific.
"Odessa," he said lightly. "I've heard of the Gambrinus tavern. Still as good as they say?"
Her pulse quickened. She had never been there. But she had memorized stories—details from Soso's old recollections, polished with guidebook trivia.
"It's for sailors," she said, her voice shaded with soft nostalgia. "If you want real Odessa, go to Moldavanka. The food is better. The company... braver."
A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. "And your husband? You said he worked in shipping."
"He did," she answered evenly. "A clerk for the ROPiT line. Accounts." She let her gaze drop, just long enough for a believable flash of sorrow. The grief was real, even if the man she mourned wasn't the one she named.
The conversation became a quiet duel—question, answer, test, countertest. Makar's charm never cracked, but his curiosity was too sharp to be harmless.
That night, in the safe house above a tavern, the masks came off.
He poured tea, his movements precise. "Your story is perfect," he said. "Almost too perfect."
She didn't answer.
"Yasha told me you were clever," he went on. "He didn't say you were a ghost. A woman like you—calm, educated, unafraid—you're not a clerk's widow. You're running from something. Or someone."
He sipped his tea, eyes steady over the rim. "Word travels fast. The Okhrana is looking for a Georgian woman. The wife of a revolutionary. Vanished from Borjomi."
Kato's heart lurched, but her face didn't move. "You must have me mistaken for someone else. My husband died of typhus."
He smiled thinly. "Of course he did."
He leaned forward, dropping the pretense of courtesy. "I'm not Okhrana. But I'm not one of Yasha's petty smugglers either. He works for us. My employers control the southern routes. He's a craftsman. I'm management."
The words landed like weights. She had stepped into a syndicate's territory.
"Yasha's reach ends at the border," Makar continued. "Mine extends farther. Vienna. Paris. Places where the Tsar's men can't touch you. I can take you there."
He paused—then smiled again, cold and confident. "But my price is higher."
His eyes flicked toward her travel bag.
"The package you're carrying," he said quietly. "Yasha's been playing both sides. My employer wants proof. Give it to me, and I'll guarantee your freedom."
It wasn't a request.
Kato's mind spun. If she refused, she risked her life—and Yasha's network would abandon her. If she agreed, she'd betray the one man still feeding her the information she needed to find Soso.
Two devils. Two roads. Both led into darkness.
Makar waited, patient and poised, the faintest smile on his lips. "Choose wisely, Anna Petrova," he said.
Kato held his gaze. Her heartbeat slowed. Whatever she chose next would decide not just her journey north—but who she became to survive it.