Hours later, the teahouse was still. The adrenaline had drained away, leaving behind the stale taste of metal and smoke. Downstairs, Timur's men murmured in low voices, their laughter subdued, wary. Anya was at her desk, already working, her pen whispering across ledgers as she shaped this new empire from the chaos they had survived.
Koba was alone.
He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by Persian rugs and soft lamplight, a man out of place in borrowed luxury. The persona—the General—that had carried him through the bathhouse storm had receded, leaving Jake Vance stranded in its wake.
And in the silence, the horror finally caught up.
His right hand looked clean. He had scrubbed it until the skin was raw, but he could still feel it: the vibration of steel through bone, the resistance of flesh, the wet sound of impact. He could still hear Rykov's scream—the sound of a man unmade.
He staggered to the washbasin and vomited nothing. His body convulsed, rejecting what his mind had forced it to accept. When it was over, he clung to the porcelain rim, staring at the cracked mirror above.
The man staring back wasn't Jake anymore.
The reflection was colder, sharper—a stranger with dead eyes and blood on his soul. This was the face of someone who could maim without hesitation, who could twist horror into strategy. The last traces of the gentle historian from 2025 were gone, scorched away by necessity.
He had crossed a line. Not by ordering violence—he had done that before—but by committing it. By shaping it into art. He had taken cruelty and refined it into language.
This is how it happens, whispered the part of him still capable of shame. This is how Stalin is born.
Not through one monstrous act, but through a thousand small necessities—each justified, each "for the greater good."
He pressed his hands to the sink, chest tight, the self-loathing almost physical.
In his office overlooking the Moika Canal, Prime Minister Stolypin studied a photograph under the glow of his desk lamp. The image was blurred—steam and motion distorting the features—but it was enough.
The cheekbones. The dark mustache. The burning, intelligent eyes.
It was him.
"The ghost has a face," Stolypin murmured.
Colonel Sazonov stood at attention across the desk. "By the time my men breached the bathhouse, the story was already waiting for us. Two guards claimed a Georgian revolutionary named 'Koba' had stormed the building, maimed Captain Rykov, and taken Timur Akhmadov hostage. Political motives. Punishment for selling rifles to Serbian nationalists."
"A fiction," Stolypin said softly. "A perfect one." He turned the photograph toward the light, studying the blurred outline. "He didn't just vanish. He rewrote the narrative. He turned a criminal act into propaganda."
For a long moment, Stolypin was silent. He felt the rare, reluctant thrill of recognition—the intellectual respect of one predator for another.
Then the moment passed.
"This changes everything, Colonel." He placed the photograph flat on his desk and tapped it once. "Send copies to every precinct in St. Petersburg, Moscow, Kiev, Warsaw. Every Okhrana office, every stationmaster, every telegraph post. I want this face everywhere. Every night watchman, every drunk, every beggar will know the name 'Koba.'"
He looked up, eyes hard. "He's no longer a ghost. He's Public Enemy Number One. Find him—whatever it costs."
A soft knock pulled Jake back from the abyss.
Pavel entered quietly, hat in hand, his massive frame filling the doorway. His one eye took in Jake's pale face and sunken expression. He mistook the guilt for exhaustion.
"Planner," he said, voice low with reverence. "You were magnificent."
Jake shook his head. Words caught in his throat.
Pavel hesitated, then stepped forward and held out a small, tattered scrap of folded paper. "This came through the old Bolshevik channels. Passed through many hands."
Jake's pulse quickened. He recognized the fold. It was their code.
Kato's handwriting was faint, smudged—but it was hers.
The old man in the city on the Dnieper still waits by the river.
Kiev. She was in Kiev.
Hope flared—then died with the next line.
The vineyard has been sold. The new owner demands a different harvest.
Her cover was blown. Yasha's network—her lifeline—was gone. A "new owner" meant a new syndicate. She was trapped.
He read the words again and again, as if repetition could change them.
Then Pavel spoke. "There's more, planner."
He handed Jake a freshly printed newspaper. The smell of ink still hung in the air.
Jake unfolded it—and froze.
Across the front page, beneath the headline WANTED FOR TERRORISM AND TREASON, was the blurred bathhouse photograph. Next to it, the police sketch. His face.
He was no longer a rumor. He was an identity. A name. A target.
The ghost had become real.
He felt the world tilt again, the walls closing in. His face was on every street corner. Every train station. Every telegraph office. He could not hide.
And then Anya appeared in the doorway.
"Koba," she said, sharp and composed, her voice slicing through his spiraling thoughts. "Timur's confirmed the contact. The arms exchange is in three days—naval warehouses, port district." She stepped closer. "We need a plan."
Jake didn't answer. He stood at the center of the room, holding three fragments of his unraveling life.
In one hand, Kato's coded letter—her plea for rescue.
On the table, the newspaper bearing his hunted face.
And in front of him, Anya—cold, brilliant, demanding his next move.
Three clocks, all ticking toward destruction.
He was more powerful than he had ever been—and more trapped than ever before.
He had to stop a war.
He had to save his wife.
He had to survive.
And time had already run out.