The backroom of the print shop stank of ink, tobacco, and fear. Smoke hung low, curling through the lamplight like a living thing. A dozen revolutionaries crowded around a rough table—planks laid over barrels, scarred and stained with years of secret meetings. Faces were drawn tight with exhaustion, eyes sharp and wary. This was the heart of the Tbilisi cell—and the heart was beating itself to death.
When Jake and Kamo stepped inside, the murmur of voices stopped. Every head turned. Every stare weighed them. The news of the ambush had already spread. They weren't just comrades now—they were symbols. Survivors. Executioners.
At the far end of the table sat Comrade Orlov.
History had never captured him properly. Books spoke of his strategies, his role in the movement, but none of them conveyed the magnetic pull of his presence. Orlov was tall, solid, handsome in a workingman's way. His smile was warm, his handshake firm, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that wrapped around a room like a promise. He radiated confidence, conviction—leadership.
And that, Jake thought, was what made him so dangerous.
"Ah, Soso! Kamo!" Orlov stood, arms open, all charm and camaraderie. "The heroes of the night! You gave the Tsar's dogs a taste of their own cruelty."
He clapped Kamo's shoulder, then extended a hand to Jake. Jake took it. Orlov's grip was firm, his eyes bright, unreadable.
"Luck," Jake said quietly, forcing a smile.
"Luck favors the bold," Orlov replied. He gestured to two empty chairs. "Sit. We have much to discuss."
The game began.
Orlov commanded the room with ease. His words flowed like polished steel—smooth, strong, gleaming. He spoke of loss, of the capture of Mikho, his tone thick with sorrow. Jake almost believed it. Almost.
"Comrade Mikho's courage will be remembered," Orlov said, his voice heavy and sincere. "But his capture proves one thing: the old ways are failing. We hide like vermin, and so they hunt us like vermin."
The room stirred. Heads nodded. Orlov's rhythm was flawless—grief giving way to anger, anger hardening into resolve.
"I say no more!" he thundered suddenly, slamming a fist on the table. The lanterns flickered. "No more scurrying through alleys like rats! We are lions!" His eyes blazed as he swept the room. "It's time we show them what that means."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial growl. "A campaign of action. Bombings. The police headquarters on Golovin Avenue. The governor's residence. Let them choke on the fear they feed us."
A stunned silence followed. Then, scattered murmurs. Nervous, excited.
Jake's blood went cold. It was suicide—dressed up as glory. The perfect trap. Every instinct in him screamed that Orlov was laying the groundwork for the Okhrana's next sweep. A plan bold enough to seduce the reckless, doomed enough to erase them.
Orlov watched the reactions like a conductor guiding a symphony. And then his gaze found Jake.
He smiled.
"And for such a bold new beginning," he said, "we will need a man of action. A man with fire in his blood. A man who proved his courage only hours ago."
Jake's stomach tightened.
"We need you, Comrade Soso."
The room fell still. Every eye turned to him. Kamo's hand twitched near his holster.
Orlov leaned forward, his tone rich with admiration. "You will lead the first strike. The attack on the police headquarters. The revolution must begin somewhere—let it begin with you."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Jake could feel his pulse in his throat.
If he refused, he'd be branded a coward. A man who spoke of courage but hid from its cost. Kamo's respect—his alliance—would die on the spot. The cell's trust would crumble.
If he accepted, he would march his comrades straight into the jaws of an ambush.
Orlov's smile widened, patient and confident. He was enjoying this—the trap closing, the quiet triumph of control.
Jake met his gaze. His heart hammered. Every eye in the room waited for his answer.
The future of the revolution—and the shape of his own damnation—balanced on the edge of a single word.