The world shrank to twenty feet of smoke and fire.
The roar of the blaze, the gunfire, the screams—all of it faded into a low, pulsing hum. Koba's heart hammered so loud it drowned the world. Across the flickering wall of flame stood the man in the immaculate greatcoat, face pale and unreadable in the light.
Pyotr Stolypin. The Prime Minister. The hunter.
Inside the armor of the Koba persona, Jake Vance screamed. He sees you. He knows. It's over. Panic rose like a tidal wave—raw, modern terror in an ancient world. He imagined himself dragged into the street, unmasked, shot like a dog. He wanted to run.
But Koba—the cold, rebuilt mind—slammed the panic down like a hammer on hot steel. The fear became fuel.
He doesn't know you.
He has a photograph. A sketch. A ghost.
The soot, the helmet, the firelight—all of it was camouflage. If he hesitated, he'd die. If he tried to run, he'd die faster. The only way out was through.
So he made his move.
He didn't wait to be questioned. He didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his posture stiff with outrage, his expression that of a man too furious to be afraid.
"Prime Minister!" he shouted, voice hoarse from smoke, booming over the din. "Chief Officer Lagunov, Third Fire Brigade!"
The name came easily. It felt real the moment he said it.
He pointed a soot-blackened finger at the Okhrana officer blocking the road.
"Your man is obstructing a state emergency!" he barked. "We're the only pumper crew this side of the canal, and the fire's jumped to the timber yard at Pier Four—right next to the naval munitions warehouse!"
The lie hit like a grenade. It was flawless—layered, credible, and terrifying. He had invented a new catastrophe, bigger than any Stolypin could ignore. A munitions fire would level the docks and take half the fleet with it. Koba's trap had turned itself inside out.
Stolypin froze. His sharp, calculating mind stumbled over the new reality. The riot, the fuel depot, the bridge—each disaster already demanded his full command. But this? This was apocalypse.
He studied the fireman standing before him—uniform real, tone righteous, urgency absolute. The fury in his eyes wasn't fear; it was conviction. The kind of conviction that only truth—or a perfect lie—could produce.
For a moment, the hunter's instinct warred with reason. The face looked familiar—something in the set of the jaw, the glare—but he couldn't place it. And what if the man was right? What if, while he hesitated, the munitions went up? Thousands dead. The Empire humiliated.
Stolypin made his choice.
"Let him through!" he snapped. His voice cut like a whip. "Get this engine to Pier Four immediately!" He turned to his aide, already moving on to his next command. "Reinforce the munitions yard! Clear every road! Move!"
The line of rifles broke. The wall fell away.
Pavel didn't need a second order. He snapped the reins, and the horses surged forward. The fire-cart lurched through the gap, its bell clanging wildly as they thundered past.
They were through.
As the cart rumbled forward, Koba looked back once. Through the haze, his eyes met Stolypin's. For a single heartbeat, the chaos fell away, and only that look existed.
It wasn't recognition he saw. It was something worse.
Suspicion.
Understanding.
The spark of a mind that knew it had been played—and would never rest until it learned how.
Koba turned away, heart pounding, hands slick against the railing. The bluff had worked. The gate was open.
But deep inside, he knew the truth.
He hadn't escaped the hunter.
He had marked himself.
The war had just become personal—and it would end only with one of them dead.