The warehouse was freezing. Shadows pooled in every corner, swallowing the cracked walls and rusted machinery. The air smelled like metal and oil, sharp and cold, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes. A few weak rays of light broke through the dusty windows above, cutting narrow paths through the dark.
In the middle of the room, the exchange was already happening.
Roman Malinovsky and Viktor Artamonov were tied to wooden chairs, black hoods pulled over their heads. They didn't look like men anymore. They looked like things. Assets waiting to be traded.
Malinovsky's body shook uncontrollably, small and constant. Artamonov didn't move at all. His back was straight, his jaw locked tight. He wasn't afraid—he was furious.
Koba stood in front of them. His left arm hung in a sling, the pain dull but constant. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, and his expression unreadable. Across from him stood Oberst Walter Nicolai, surrounded by two German agents. They weren't in uniform, but everything about them screamed discipline. The way they stood, the way their eyes moved—they were predators who knew what they were doing.
Nicolai stepped forward, his tone calm, almost friendly. "A proof of concept, Herr Schmidt, if you would."
One of the Germans pulled off Malinovsky's hood.
The man blinked, squinting against the dim light. His face was wet with tears, his lips trembling. The once confident revolutionary looked like a broken doll. When he saw the Germans, a pitiful sound escaped his throat—something between a sob and a whine.
Nicolai leaned close. "Deputy Malinovsky," he said softly, each word precise. "When the Okhrana's Foreign Section approves a permanent agent in a friendly nation—say, France—who authorizes it? The section chief? The Minister of the Interior? Or the Prime Minister himself?"
It was a test. Only a real insider would know the answer.
Malinovsky's survival instinct kicked in. "The Minister," he gasped. "Stolypin only signs off for hostile nations. For allies, it's Minister Makarov. It's just a formality—the real approval comes from Colonel-General Gerasimov—but the Minister's signature appears on the final—"
He couldn't stop talking. Words poured out in a flood of fear and desperation.
Nicolai nodded, satisfied. He looked at Koba, curiosity flickering in his cold blue eyes. "He's yours, Herr Schmidt. The traitor. His re-education will be… interesting." He paused. "Would you like to speak to him first? Perhaps pass sentence?"
It was a trap—one last chance to see whether Koba still had any trace of the old revolutionary fire in him.
Koba stared at the man he once called comrade. Malinovsky was pathetic now, weeping in front of strangers. Deep inside, the part of Jake that still remembered who he used to be screamed to act—to punish, to shout, to make it mean something.
But Koba didn't move. He just said, "He is no longer my concern." His tone was flat. Empty.
That was it. No drama, no speech. Just the end.
In the shadows, Pavel watched. His stomach turned. He had tried to believe this was a tactic, a clever plan that would somehow serve the revolution. But watching it now—seeing Koba's dead eyes—he knew better. This wasn't strategy. This was betrayal.
When Nicolai's men dragged the prisoners away, Pavel stepped out of the dark. "What have you done?" he whispered fiercely, gripping Koba's arm. "Look at them! German imperialists, Koba! This isn't the cause. This isn't the fight. This is a deal with the devil!"
Koba turned to him. The man who looked back wasn't Jake anymore. He was something colder. Harder.
"The cause is just an idea, Pavel," Koba said. "Words. Dreams. Kato is real. Her life is real. I chose the real thing." He nodded toward the Germans. "You can stay here and argue. Or you can come with me and finish the mission."
The words cut deep. They weren't an explanation—they were a verdict. Something broke in Pavel's chest. He let go of Koba's arm. The man he once followed wasn't there anymore.
Nicolai returned, all business again. One of his men handed Koba a sealed envelope. "Your part of the bargain," he said.
Inside was a train ticket to Tilsit. And a photo.
Kato. Pale, thinner than before, but alive. Her face was hard, proud even in captivity. Two guards walked beside her through a snow-covered yard. Proof of life.
"The exchange is in thirty-six hours," Nicolai said. "Queen Louise Bridge, Tilsit. Your side, our side. No complications."
Koba stared at the photo. For a long moment, the cold machine inside him went quiet. Jake surfaced—the man who had given up everything for her. He felt relief. He felt horror.
His plan had worked. But as the German truck drove away into the night, carrying the hooded prisoners, a single, unbearable thought took hold:
He might never be able to live with what he had done to make it work.