The victory in the Volksgarten was silent.
No cheers. No toasts. Just four men sitting in a quiet Vienna boarding house, staring at one another across a plain wooden table.
Murat recounted the meeting in a rush of awe — describing it less as a debate than a hunt. "It was like watching a wolf take apart a lion," he said, his voice low. "Slow. Precise. And the lion never knew he'd already lost."
Koba didn't answer. He didn't feel victory — only the hollow chill that came after.
He hadn't just debated Trotsky. He had dissected him. Turned his pride, his brilliance, into a weapon. Used one of the greatest minds of the century as a pawn in a personal war.
Each time Koba flexed that power, Jake felt something inside him shrink. Another piece of humanity burned away.
Two days later, the door knocked.
Yagoda stood there — pale, rigid, his eyes wide with excitement and a trace of fear.
"A summons," he said quietly. "From the Chairman himself."
He handed Koba the letter, trembling slightly.
Trotsky had written to Lenin immediately after the encounter in the park — a long, feverish report. In it, he called Koba "the prophet of the abattoir," a mind of brutal genius, a necessary antidote to the Party's romantic idealism.
Lenin had been intrigued.
"The Chairman requests your presence," Yagoda said, almost reverently. "Trotsky has agreed as well. A neutral location — Geneva. The Party will decide its final position before the war."
The train to Switzerland felt different.
No more fugitive disguises. No more fear of border patrols. Their papers were perfect now. Their passage was smooth.
Outside, Europe glowed — a continent in denial, glittering on the edge of the abyss. In the valleys below, tourists hiked under the sun, laughing. None of them knew the ground was already cracking beneath their feet.
The safe house in Geneva was plain, almost monastic. A small working-class building near a row of watchmaker's shops. Inside — one table, three chairs, and a map of Europe pinned to the wall. The air smelled of tobacco and boiled cabbage.
A room built not for comfort, but for history.
Lenin was waiting when they arrived — compact, sharp, his energy filling the space. He barely looked up from the German newspaper in his hands.
Trotsky arrived next — all restless motion and charisma, pacing like a caged animal, his coat still swirling behind him.
The three of them took their seats.
The Mind. The Voice. The Ghost.
Jake felt dizzy for a moment — like time itself was folding. He was sitting in a drab little apartment with the three men who would one day rewrite the world.
It felt like watching gods convene at a kitchen table.
Lenin didn't waste a second.
He folded the newspaper with a snap. "The situation is clear," he said. His tone was all steel. "War is inevitable. The Second Internationale is finished — sentimental fools who will side with their flags the moment the first bullet is fired. Our task is to define the Party's position. Not for debate. For action."
He nodded toward Trotsky. "You were impressed by Comrade Koba's analysis. Begin."
Trotsky stood, posture perfect, voice rich and thunderous.
"The war will be the great catalyst," he said, eyes blazing. "The contradictions of capitalism will tear themselves open! The workers of Europe will see the truth when they are ordered to kill one another for colonies and profit. They will turn their guns on their masters. The war will ignite the revolution. The Internationale will rise from the trenches!"
It was a sermon, a performance — the kind that could make a crowd weep.
When he finished, silence filled the room.
Lenin turned to Koba. "Your response."
Koba didn't move.
He stayed seated, voice steady, controlled. "The beautiful logic of revolution," he said softly, "is a fantasy. You speak of spirit. I speak of supply lines."
He pointed to the map.
"You talk about awakening. I talk about logistics — about German rail timetables that can move ten divisions before our peasants find their boots. About factories that can outproduce entire nations."
He leaned forward. "The war will not awaken the worker. It will destroy him. It will grind the masses into dust long before they recognize their chains. Patriotism will blind them, and fear will chain them. Only after years of death — when the nations are bled dry — will they be desperate enough to listen. That is when we strike."
He looked directly at Lenin. "Our prize is not the battlefield of 1914. It's the ashes of 1917."
The silence that followed felt like a held breath.
Trotsky stared at him, his expression unreadable — anger, disbelief, maybe fear.
Then Lenin spoke.
A thin smile spread across his face. Not warmth. Recognition.
"Da," he said. "That is the correct analysis."
He stood and moved to the map, his eyes alight. "Attrition. Exhaustion. That will be our path."
He tapped the table once, sharp as a gavel. "The strategy is decided. Now, we divide the work."
He turned first to Trotsky.
"Lev Davidovich. Your passion is your weapon. Your voice will inspire millions. You'll write, speak, publish. You'll be our trumpet — the Voice of the Revolution."
Then to himself. "I will be the Mind. I will build the Party, forge the theory, plan the state that will rise from the wreckage."
And finally, to Koba.
"You," he said, his tone dropping to something darker. "You understand the machine. You understand what must be broken. You will handle Special Tasks — counter-intelligence, security, acquisition of funds, removal of obstacles. You will be the shield and the knife."
His eyes locked with Koba's.
"You will be the Dagger of the Party."
He stepped forward, placing a hand on Koba's shoulder.
"Good," Lenin said simply. "The Mind, the Voice, and the Dagger."
He looked from one to the other — the cold strategist, the burning orator — and smiled that terrifying, certain smile.
"A trinity," he said, "that will remake the world."