The world shrank to the size of a steel box. The steady clatter of the train wheels was the only sound, a hard rhythm marking time toward something inevitable. The air was heavy—old metal, tobacco, and the sharp tang of fear. They weren't escaping anymore. They were trapped, locked in a moving cage with their captor sitting only a few feet away.
The Okhrana officer introduced himself as Captain Morozov. No warmth. No ceremony. Just the name, like a sentence. He sat across from Koba on the hard wooden bench, relaxed in a way that made it worse. His pale blue eyes were calm, watchful, and endlessly patient—the kind of patience that comes from knowing the hunt is already over.
Pavel, Murat, and Ivan stood at attention beside the door, stiff and silent. But the tension in the air was electric. Pavel's fists were clenched tight behind his back. Murat's stance was coiled, half-turned, ready to spring. All it would take was a single word from Koba, and the car would erupt into chaos.
But that would be suicide. A fight inside this cramped space meant noise, blood, and failure. They had to keep acting. They had to stay dull, ordinary—four tired soldiers on a routine trip. Nothing more.
Morozov broke the silence first. His tone was casual, even friendly, but his eyes didn't blink.
"A strange business, that uprising yesterday," he said. "Did your regiment see any action, Sergeant?"
The words were bait, designed to slice into lies and pull at their edges. Koba drew on the mask of Sergeant Orlov—the weary, blunt veteran. He gave a quiet grunt.
"The Semyonovskys were kept in reserve, Captain," he said, his voice low and rough. "Command thought the Preobrazhenskys could handle a mob of workers. Turns out they couldn't." He gave a dry chuckle. "We spent the day sharpening bayonets and waiting for orders that never came. Typical army work."
It was a simple answer, laced with believable irritation. Koba knew the details of the Tsar's guard regiments, their rivalries, their deployments. The story fit perfectly, a lie shaped like truth.
Morozov nodded, thoughtful. "A pity," he said. "A man like you might have been useful in the streets. Where did you serve before Petersburg, Sergeant?"
Another knife, another test.
Koba didn't hesitate. "The Caucasus, sir. Second Dagestani Regiment. Ten years trading shots with mountain bandits. Honest work. No politics. No students shouting slogans."
The answer came easily, smooth and lived-in. He spoke like someone remembering a past that never existed. But Morozov's eyes only narrowed.
He wasn't testing the story anymore. He was studying the man.
"It's your eyes," Morozov said softly. "I remember them now. You were at the port. The fireman who shouted about a munitions blaze that didn't exist."
Koba's heart stuttered. He kept his face still. "I don't know what you mean, Captain."
"Oh, I think you do." Morozov leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but cutting. "You have the look of a man who commands, not obeys. Not a sergeant. Something higher. Or perhaps something… less human." His thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "A ghost, maybe."
The word landed like a shot. The air thickened. Pavel shifted his weight. Murat's hand twitched near his coat.
Morozov's tone turned official again. "When we reach Vyborg," he said, "you'll explain all this to Colonel Sazonov. I think he'll be very interested in your story."
That was the end of it. No more pretending. No more way out.
Koba gave a small nod. The signal.
Pavel moved like a thunderclap. One moment he was still; the next he was across the car, slamming into Morozov with the force of a cannon. The two men crashed into the wall. Morozov was fast—faster than anyone expected. He managed to draw his revolver, but Pavel's hand crushed his wrist before he could aim. The gun hit the floor.
Morozov shouted once, a sharp cry for help that echoed through the steel car. His hand shot upward, grabbing the red emergency cord and yanking hard.
The train screamed. Brakes locked. The floor tilted. They were all thrown against the walls. Koba hit the bulkhead headfirst, the world exploding into light and ringing noise.
Through the haze, he saw Pavel lift Morozov clear off the floor. The Captain's head struck the ceiling with a dull, final thud. His body went limp, folding to the ground in a heap.
Then silence. The train ground to a full stop, shuddering in the middle of nowhere.
Morozov lay still, a thin trickle of blood running down from his temple. Whether he was unconscious or dead didn't matter. The damage was done.
The emergency brake had been pulled. The signal would have raced down the line already. Patrols would be coming—Cossacks, soldiers, police. Maybe all of them.
They stood in that iron box, catching their breath, staring at the man on the floor. The rhythm of the wheels was gone. No sound but the faint hiss of cooling brakes and their own hearts pounding.
They had escaped the city. Escaped the station. But not the net. The hunt had simply followed them here, into the forest that now surrounded the stopped train.
The ghost train had become their coffin.