Kiev moved with a different rhythm than St. Petersburg. The air was warmer, softer, smelling of river water and bread instead of coal and salt. But for Kato, it was only a bigger, prettier cage.
She sat in a smoky tavern in the Podil district, the city's old heart of trade and crime. An accordion played somewhere behind her, students shouted, glasses clinked. It all felt miles away. She had become a ghost—worn down by fear, travel, and the hollow ache of not knowing if Soso was alive.
Across the beer-stained table, her new handler studied her like a bored predator. Grigory. Not like Makar, who hid cruelty behind charm. This one flaunted it. His hair was greasy, his hands scarred and swollen. He was a blunt instrument that thought itself a blade.
"Makar's gone soft," Grigory sneered, breath thick with vodka. "Always playing nobleman. He's out. I'm in. We run things differently now."
He slid a small package wrapped in oilcloth across the table. It hit with a solid thud. Kato looked down at it, then up at him, her face unreadable.
"You'll take this to the university," he said. "There's a student group in the chemistry cellar. You'll give it to a man who asks if you've 'brought the book from Tolstoy.' They're Narodnaya Volya. Bomb-makers."
Cold spread through her chest. Documents, letters, forged IDs—she could stomach those. Lies were survivable. But this? This was blood.
"I'm a courier," she said quietly. "Not a revolutionary."
Grigory barked a laugh that turned heads. "You're whatever we say," he hissed, leaning closer. "You work for us. We keep the Okhrana off your back. That's the deal."
He grabbed her wrist. His grip crushed bone. "You'll deliver the package," he said. "Then the next. Or we'll see how loud little birds sing when we start breaking wings."
He let go. White marks bloomed on her skin. She stared at the package. It looked like a tombstone. Her clever deal with Makar had led her straight into this: from subtle manipulation to brute control.
In St. Petersburg, in the quiet of the teahouse, Anya's question still hung between them like a blade. How does the king escape the board?
Koba looked at her, and for the first time since the bathhouse, a smile touched his lips. Thin. Cold. The kind that meant he'd just seen the impossible move.
"You're right," he said softly. "The king can't move. So…" He paused. "He'll be removed from the board."
He bent over the map, tracing the Neva as it wound into the Gulf of Finland. His finger stopped at the sketch of the barge carrying their stolen rifles.
"I won't go by land," he said. "That's what they'll expect. Every road, every rail line—watched. I'll go by water. Smuggled out as cargo."
He tapped the tiny space drawn among the rifle crates. "Pavel's men will build a hidden compartment inside the timber shipment. Big enough for one man. They'll seal me in before the barge sails."
Anya stared. It was madness—claustrophobic, brilliant, desperate. A coffin turned into an escape route.
Her voice sharpened. "And then what? Riga? Stockholm? You'll wash ashore with an arsenal and no plan?"
Koba shook his head. He picked up a crumpled note—the one that had driven him since the night before. Kato's note.
"The barge stops first in Riga," he said, pointing at the map. "From there, I go south. To Kiev."
He looked at her. The calm mask couldn't hide the fire behind his eyes.
"The rifles aren't for selling," he said. "They're for buying."
He laid it out plainly: the manhunt forced the escape. The heist created the means. The stolen rifles would be the currency. Each step built on the last, a perfect chain leading to one goal.
"The men holding my… associate… in Kiev," he said, the word cold and false. "They're businessmen. I'll buy her freedom. A crate of rifles for one woman."
Anya's breath caught. The logic was flawless, terrifying. But beneath it, she saw the truth he was hiding. This wasn't about strategy. It was about love.
"All of this," she whispered, eyes wide. "The heist, the chase, the risk of death—it's for a woman?"
Koba's face turned to stone. The mask slammed back into place. He folded the note carefully, tucked it away, and said, "She's a valuable asset. I don't intend to lose her."
The lie was perfect. But Anya had already seen through it. She had glimpsed the man behind the machine.
Koba turned back to the map, calm and mechanical once more. Outside, the city hunted him. Inside, he was already planning his next move—one that would take him toward Kiev, toward her, and toward a reckoning neither of them could escape.