The list lay on Kato's straw pallet, pale and venomous in the dim light. It wasn't just paper. It was a weapon. Every name on it carried the sting of guilt.
She hadn't slept. She couldn't. Her mind was a battlefield where pride and regret tore each other apart. For hours, she just stared at the list, her thoughts drifting to faces she thought she'd left behind.
Grigor Vissarionovich, cobbler. She could almost smell the leather and wax of his tiny shop again. He'd once fixed the strap of her school satchel for free, saying that a girl who loved books needed a strong bag to carry them. He wasn't a revolutionary. He wasn't even political. He was just kind.
Elene Gabunia, laundress. Kato could see them both as little girls by the Kura River, hands purple from mulberries, laughter echoing across the water. Elene had a husband now. Children. A quiet, ordinary life.
And on it went — name after name, memory after memory. The list was her past turned into a weapon. Each name cut a little deeper. Her defiance had once felt noble. Now it felt like arrogance. A selfish, proud act that would cost innocent lives.
When the guard came that morning, it wasn't the one she knew. This man looked like a clerk who'd wandered into a prison by mistake — expressionless, cold. He placed the usual black bread and cup of murky water on the ledge, then added something else. A folded sheet of paper.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
Her hands trembled as she reached for it. A part of her wanted to ignore it, to stay in the comfort of not knowing. But she unfolded the paper anyway.
It was an official telegraph.
TO: OKHRANA PROVINCIAL DIRECTORATE, TIFLIS GOVERNORATE, GORI DISTRICT
FROM: SPECIAL SECTION, ST. PETERSBURG
PRIORITY: URGENT
SUBJECT: INVESTIGATION OF SEDITIOUS ACTIVITIES
ORDERS: INVESTIGATE GRIGOR VISSARIONOVICH, COBBLER, RESIDENT 34 STALIN STREET, GORI, FOR SUSPECTED TIES TO CAUCASIAN SEPARATIST AND ANARCHIST-TERRORIST GROUPS. PROCEED WITH IMMEDIATE ARREST OF SUBJECT AND SEIZURE OF ALL BUSINESS AND PERSONAL ASSETS. REPORT CONFIRMATION UPON COMPLETION.
Grigor.
The first name on the list.
The paper slipped from her hands. It wasn't a threat anymore. It was happening. The machine was already moving. Somewhere far away, in her hometown, soldiers were kicking open the door of a kind old man's shop.
She could see it all — the confusion on his face, the shouting, the fear. His life was gone. And it was her fault. Her silence had signed his death warrant.
Her stomach twisted. She gagged, but there was nothing left to throw up.
Then she began to cry.
It wasn't quiet or graceful. It was raw, animal, the sound of a person breaking. She wasn't crying for herself. She was crying for Grigor. For Elene. For everyone who would suffer because of her pride.
"Guard!"
The word scraped out of her throat, barely human. She stumbled to the door, pounding on the iron with both fists. "Guard! Please!"
The viewing slot slid open. The same blank-eyed guard stared in.
"What do you want, prisoner?"
"Tell him!" she gasped. "Tell the Prime Minister—I'll cooperate! I'll do whatever he wants! Just stop! Please, tell him to stop!"
The slot slammed shut. The sound echoed through the cell like a gunshot.
She slid down to the floor, shaking, tears mixing with the dirt. It was over. Stolypin hadn't broken her body. He'd broken her soul.
Later—she didn't know how much later—the door opened.
No one dragged her out this time. She was escorted, almost gently, to the infirmary. They let her wash. They gave her a clean gray dress. It felt wrong against her skin, soft where everything else had been hard.
Then she was led outside. Snow fell in light flakes over the courtyard. A black carriage waited.
Inside, Stolypin sat waiting. Calm. Perfectly composed. He didn't smile or sneer. He just gestured for her to sit.
She obeyed.
He handed her a cup of tea. Steam curled into the cold air. It was hot, sweet, familiar. The same gesture as before. Then, it had been a trick. Now, it was victory.
"A wise decision, Katerina," he said, his tone polite, almost kind. The carriage began to move, the wheels crunching softly over the gravel.
She took a sip. The warmth spread through her body like poison.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
"To the Warsaw Station," he said. "From there, you'll take a special train. You're part of a prisoner exchange."
He glanced out the window, then back at her, eyes sharp with curiosity.
"It seems your Koba has been very busy in Berlin. Bold, even. He's captured a man I want returned — a traitor named Malinovsky. It appears you are the price of that man's freedom."
Kato froze.
Koba.
For a second, everything inside her went still. He had done it. Against all odds, he had forced the Prime Minister's hand. He had traded everything to save her.
But as Stolypin's calm words sank in, the truth turned to ice in her veins.
She wasn't being rescued.
She was being used.
She had already agreed to cooperate. She had already surrendered.
Now, she was being handed back — not as a lover, not as a comrade — but as a weapon.
A gift wrapped in betrayal.
And Koba, the man who had sold his soul to save her, would never see it coming.