The afternoon sun fell through the manicured trees of the Volksgarten, painting the gravel in soft gold. Birds sang. The city hummed with the quiet confidence of peace.
It was a world away from the one Koba knew.
He sat alone on a park bench, a folded newspaper resting on his lap. To anyone passing by, he looked like an aging scholar enjoying the day. Only his stillness betrayed him—the kind of stillness that comes before something happens.
Then came the sound of footsteps on gravel.
Joffe approached first, beaming with pride. Beside him walked Trotsky—alive with energy, every movement sharp, impatient, precise. The man radiated charisma. Even from a distance, Koba could feel it.
"Herr Schmidt," Joffe said eagerly, "may I present Comrade Lev Davidovich Bronstein."
Trotsky didn't bother with small talk. His eyes—bright behind the pince-nez—locked onto Koba with immediate challenge. "Joffe tells me you're a prophet of doom," he said. "He says you believe the coming war will bury the working class instead of freeing it." A thin, amused smile. "A grim thesis. Defend it."
It wasn't a request. It was a duel.
Koba stayed seated. The choice was deliberate—a small act of defiance. "There is nothing to defend," he said evenly. "One doesn't defend a diagnosis. One presents evidence."
And he did.
He spoke of railways and shells, of the fragile arteries of empires stretched too thin. He painted the future not as a storm of glory but as an endless slaughterhouse—a war fought by machines, not men.
Trotsky listened, expression taut with thought. He was enjoying himself. When Koba finished, he struck back instantly.
"You underestimate the revolutionary spirit," Trotsky said, his voice rising, rich and theatrical. A few park-goers turned to listen. "You see the worker as a cog. I see him as a giant waiting to wake. The first gun fired across Europe will tear down the lies of nationalism. The German worker will not shoot the French. He'll shoot his masters. The war will birth revolution!"
"The revolutionary spirit does not stop bullets," Koba replied quietly. "And patriotism is a poison that seeps deep. It will take years of blood before the fever burns out. You expect an awakening. I expect a sickness—a slow, wasting sickness. And when the world lies broken and hollow, then—" his voice hardened, "then a new doctor will arrive."
The debate raged on: Trotsky's fire against Koba's ice. The dreamer against the cynic.
Trotsky's words were poetry, all light and conviction. Koba's were engineering—cold, unyielding, full of grim precision.
And slowly, Trotsky began to realize he wasn't winning.
No matter how brightly he burned, the man on the bench wouldn't melt.
He changed tactics. "For a man who claims to care for the workers," he said sharply, "you sound almost mechanical. What's your stake in all this, Herr Schmidt? What fire burns in you?"
The question was dangerous.
And for a heartbeat, Jake Vance—the man buried inside Koba—flinched. He thought of Kato, of the dead farmer, of every ghost that followed him.
When he spoke, his voice was soft but laced with steel.
"The fire that burns in me," Koba said, "is cold. It's the fire of knowing the world is a machine made of flesh—and that to change it, some parts must be broken. Your fire gives warmth. Mine burns through steel."
Trotsky hesitated. For the first time, his confidence cracked.
He looked at Koba as though seeing him for the first time—not as a thinker, but as something far more dangerous.
Then he smiled again, intrigued. "Your thinking is… unique," he said. "Perhaps too dark. But your grasp of material realities is exceptional. You should write for Pravda. Share these ideas."
Koba inclined his head, as if considering. "A platform is generous, but my work is… practical."
He leaned forward, letting the tone shift from philosophy to business. "For example, I've studied the Tsarist machine closely. Its weakest link isn't the army—it's the Okhrana. A beast with too many heads, each one biting the others."
He spoke a few sentences of carefully constructed lies—about corruption in Warsaw, power struggles between departments. Enough truth to sound authentic.
Trotsky's curiosity sharpened. "You have sources?" he asked.
Koba gave a faint smile. "Let's say I have… interests. The Okhrana runs like any bad factory—too many foremen, not enough discipline. Information leaks in all directions."
Then, smoothly, he set the hook.
"Perhaps we can help each other," he said. "I can share certain data about our common enemy. And in return, I need information from inside your own circle."
Trotsky leaned in. "What kind of information?"
Koba's voice dropped to a whisper. "You have a new man in Vienna. From Odessa. Calls himself Yasha."
Trotsky frowned slightly.
"I hear he's reckless," Koba continued. "Connected with… explosive elements. I need to know who he is. His contacts, his history, his real name."
The name hung in the air between them like a knife.
Yasha — the man who had led Kato into the bomb plot.
Trotsky nodded slowly, intrigued. "That shouldn't be difficult," he said. "Consider it done."
Koba smiled faintly, eyes cold and distant.
The mission had changed. He was no longer just Lenin's spy.
He had turned Trotsky — the lion of the revolution — into an unwitting pawn in his own quiet war of vengeance.