The transformation happened in the acrid smoke of a back alley.
Koba shed the skin of the criminal mastermind and pulled on the heavy, soot-stained wool of a fireman. The uniform was rough, coarse against his skin, smelling of ash and other men's sweat. It felt like a costume for a play he'd never rehearsed—a lie stitched from fabric and brass.
Pavel was already dressed, his hulking frame straining the seams. He handed Koba a helmet—dented, crested, absurdly heavy.
Koba slid it on. The damp leather clung to his scalp, and the world narrowed to the slit beneath the brim. Through it, everything looked smaller, sharper. He was no longer the general commanding from above. He was a soldier about to march into the war he'd built with his own hands.
The steam pumper fire-cart waited—red paint, brass fittings, raw iron muscle. The horses stamped restlessly, their breath ghosting in the cold air. Steam hissed from the boiler like a restrained snarl. It was a chariot of salvation and deceit.
They climbed aboard. Pavel took the reins. Koba gripped the brass rail at the back.
"Go," he said.
With a shout, Pavel flicked the reins. The horses lunged. Iron wheels screamed on the cobblestones. The engine surged out of the alley and into the main street—straight into the storm.
The city hit them like a wall.
Smoke rolled in choking waves. The air burned the throat. Dawn should have been breaking, but the sky was a bruised ceiling of orange and black. Gunfire cracked from the north. Bells clanged everywhere—church bells, alarm bells, the city screaming for help.
Pavel slammed his gloved hand down on the fire-cart's bell. Its sharp, metallic clangs cut through the chaos, demanding obedience. The crowd obeyed. The terrified flood of civilians parted, faces turning toward them with desperate, pleading hope. They weren't fugitives now—they were heroes.
They thundered past a police barricade. The officers didn't stop them. They waved them through, pointing them toward the port, shouting unheard words into the noise. The city's entire machinery—police, soldiers, citizens—was clearing a path for its enemy.
And Koba realized the terrible irony.
The state that had hunted him was now escorting him. The empire itself was the unwitting accomplice, guiding its own virus straight to the heart.
The closer they got, the louder it became. Soldiers from the Semyonovsky Guard marched past them, rifles in hand, faces streaked with soot and resolve. They were heading into the furnace at Warehouse Three—to die for a fiction written on Koba's table.
Ahead, the sky pulsed orange. The fire at the fuel depot was no blaze—it was apocalypse. Whole buildings were devoured, their black silhouettes collapsing into the inferno. Steam pumpers dotted the docks, dwarfed by the scale of the monster they fought.
Koba gripped the railing tighter. The chaos was his design. The city burned by his hand. For a moment, he saw it from above, like a god admiring his own destruction.
In the teahouse, the silence was sepulchral.
Anya stood over the map, the last calm mind in a city of panic. The room reeked of burnt paper and cold tea. A boy of fifteen stumbled in, breathless.
"Commander," he gasped, using her new title. "From the north—Ruslan's company. The Semyonovskys have them surrounded. They're trapped. Fighting to the last man."
Anya's expression didn't change. Her gray eyes were glass. "Excellent," she said. Her voice was flat, clinical. "They're holding the enemy's focus. Send word if you can—tell them to hold for ten more minutes. For the glory of the cause."
The boy stared, horror dawning behind his exhaustion. Then he nodded and fled.
Anya turned back to the map. Her hand moved with steady precision, adjusting positions, noting losses. The student had seen only her cruelty. He hadn't realized the truth. She was no longer Koba's student. She had become him.
The fire-cart clanged through the last of the checkpoints. Ahead stood a full military cordon—rifles ready, faces grim. This wasn't city police. This was the Empire's backbone: the Imperial Guard.
A man in the dark uniform of the Okhrana stepped forward, his silver insignia glinting in the firelight. His eyes were pale, cold, professional.
Pavel slowed the horses. The fire-cart hissed to a stop.
"This zone is restricted," the officer barked. "By order of the Prime Minister. No one passes."
Pavel played his part perfectly. "We've got to reach the northern yard! The fire's spreading!"
"The northern yard is military property now," the officer replied. His gaze lingered on them—on Koba—for a moment too long. "My orders are absolute. Turn back."
The plan—flawless until now—hit an unmovable wall. The naval command office stood just beyond that line of rifles, close enough to smell the smoke from its roof. But the path was sealed.
Koba's mind raced. A lie? A distraction? Force? He was opening his mouth when the growl of an approaching engine silenced everyone.
A staff car.
Black, gleaming, official.
It screeched to a halt behind the guards. An aide leapt out, opening the rear door.
Prime Minister Pyotr Stolypin stepped into the smoke.
He strode forward, the fire's orange glow washing over his pale, set face. The city burned behind him; the weight of empire walked with him.
And time stopped.
Koba stood on the fire-cart, soot-streaked and disguised, yet unmistakable.
Stolypin—the architect of the trap, the man who had studied his face—looked straight at him.
In the flickering light of the inferno, the hunter and the ghost finally saw each other.