From the cold shadow of the mausoleum, Jake watched, numb with disbelief. The air smelled of wet stone and decay, but what turned his stomach wasn't the graveyard—it was the sight before him. Everything he thought he understood, every thread of the game he believed he was weaving, unraveled in a single, silent instant.
Orlov and Yagoda stood side by side in the dim light. Not enemies. Not even rivals. Comrades. Orlov clapped Yagoda on the shoulder like an old friend. Their gestures were casual, practiced—two men confident in their secrecy. They spoke quietly, their words lost to the wind, but their ease told Jake everything.
They weren't two separate battles. They were one. Two arms of the same monster.
The realization hit like a physical blow. The web Jake had spun around Fikus's confession, the grand illusion of an Okhrana plot, the careful balance of politics and deceit—all of it was a lie built on a deeper lie. He hadn't outsmarted anyone. He'd been dancing in the palm of their hand.
It all clicked with horrifying clarity. Fikus's "confession" hadn't been a lucky break. It had been planted—fed to him by his handler, crafted to draw out exactly this response. Jake hadn't invented the story of a fabricated plot against Orlov. He had delivered it on schedule, right on cue.
The humiliation burned like acid. His chest tightened. His pulse pounded in his ears. He had thought himself the puppeteer, but the strings were still wrapped around his neck.
Beside him, Kamo trembled—not in fear, but in raw fury. "Traitors," he hissed, gripping the revolver in his coat. "Both of them. We take them now. End it here."
Jake caught his arm before he could move. "No."
Kamo's eyes flashed. "No? They're right there, Soso! Together! We can finish this!"
"It's not proof," Jake said sharply. His voice came out harder than he intended. "We're just two men hiding in a graveyard. They're a hero of the revolution and his protégé. Who do you think the party will believe? Us? Or them?"
The words hung in the frigid air. Kamo hesitated, confusion fighting with anger. Jake pressed on.
"If we go to the committee now, they'll call us provocateurs. They'll say we are the Okhrana agents. We'll be destroyed before dawn."
He forced himself to breathe. His humiliation turned inward, cooling into something harder, colder. Rage was dangerous; calculation was useful.
He needed a new board. A new plan. Something ruthless enough to make even this betrayal serve him.
His voice dropped, calm and eerily steady. "We're not going to take them, Kamo."
Kamo blinked. "Then what? You want to just let them walk?"
Jake shook his head slowly. "No. We're going to make them destroy each other."
Kamo stared at him, lost. Jake's tone stayed even, almost detached. "They built this lie around Fikus. They used him to protect Orlov. But that's their weakness—they left him alive. A loose thread."
Realization flickered across Kamo's face. "Soso… what are you thinking?"
Jake turned toward him, eyes cold and bright. "We leak the location of our prisoner."
Kamo frowned. "To who?"
"Not the party," Jake said. "To the Okhrana. Through Yagoda's own network." His words came out like slow strikes of a hammer. "We send an anonymous message. We say a captured informant is being held in the ice house—and he's about to talk."
Kamo froze, understanding dawning with dread.
"Think about it," Jake continued. "They can't let Fikus live. He ties them both to this entire scheme. If they believe he's about to confess, they'll panic. They'll send a team to silence him."
Kamo's voice was barely a whisper. "And when they come?"
Jake's reply was ice. "You'll be waiting. Hidden. You won't interfere. You'll witness it—Okhrana agents murdering their own man. You'll have your proof. A body, a bullet, and a story no one can dispute."
Kamo stared, horrified. "You're talking about letting them kill him."
Jake's expression didn't change. "He was dead the moment they made him a pawn. We're just finishing their move."
The silence between them was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to die. The idea was monstrous—and brilliant.
Kamo's breath shook. He didn't speak for a long time. Finally, he said, "This will work?"
Jake looked past him, toward the graveyard's darkness. "It will," he said. "Because it has to."
His voice was flat, mechanical, drained of the man who once taught history and believed in redemption. Only Soso remained—the emerging shadow of a man who believed truth itself was just another tool to be broken and rebuilt.
"This is how we get our proof," Jake said quietly. "Proof in blood. The kind they understand."
He met Kamo's eyes, the faintest spark of challenge in his stare.
"Are you with me?"
The night offered no answer—only the sound of wind moving through the graves, whispering like the ghosts of men who'd already chosen yes.
The air in the grain silo was heavy and stale, thick with dust and the faint smell of grain long gone to rot. It was the kind of place where even silence seemed to gather in layers. Around the cracked wooden crate that served as their table, Jake's new plan hung like smoke—dense, poisonous, impossible to breathe through.
Kamo stood rigid, his jaw working, his eyes dark. Violence came naturally to him, but this—this cold, deliberate sacrifice—felt wrong. It wasn't battle. It wasn't revenge. It was mathematics with blood for ink.
"Soso," he said finally, voice low and rough. "To send a man to his death like this… to lead them straight to him—it isn't right."
Jake met his eyes, unreadable. Whatever fear or doubt still lived inside him was buried deep. He spoke with a calm that chilled the room.
"Honor," he said quietly, "is for men who have the luxury of peace. We don't." He stepped closer, his voice flattening into something mechanical. "They made this choice the moment they sold the revolution for coins. When they decided that your life, my life, Kato's life, were worth less than a bribe. We're not killing a man, Kamo—we're closing the circle they started."
Kamo hesitated. Jake's stare hardened.
"One man's life," Jake continued, "for a cancer that will kill hundreds. Do the revolutionary arithmetic."
The phrase hit Kamo like a blow. It was the language of their cause—the cold logic that turned morality into a ledger. His jaw clenched, his knuckles whitened, and slowly, painfully, he nodded.
Jake exhaled once. The matter was settled. He turned to the crate and began arranging pebbles, nails, and splinters into a crude map of the district. The transformation was eerie: hesitation gone, replaced by a sharp, chilling focus.
"The leak must be flawless," he said. "Anonymous, believable, and impossible to trace. A street boy will deliver it—one of the rail-yard orphans. He won't know who sent him or what's inside. One coin, one errand, and he vanishes."
He looked to Pyotr, who had been silent until now. "The message goes to Yagoda's cobbler contact. It must sound panicked—someone desperate to sell out his comrades for cash and safe passage. It must sound weak. Real."
He moved on without pausing.
"The stage will be the ice house. Fikus will be there, tied to the central pillar. But the ropes will be frayed—cut just enough to look like an escape attempt. We'll leave food just out of reach. A little water, a crust of bread. It must look sloppy, human. When they come, they must believe we're amateurs. Confidence makes men stupid."
Kamo said nothing. Jake's voice didn't waver.
"You'll pick three men," Jake went on. "Not the hotheads. Not the talkers. The quiet ones. Men whose word carries weight because they never speak."
He traced a line in the dust on the crate. "You'll watch from the rafters of the warehouse across from the ice house. You'll see everything. You won't move. You won't speak. You won't shoot. You are not fighters tonight. You are the memory of the party."
The phrase hung in the still air, heavy and sacrilegious. Kamo stared at him, realizing the shift. This was no longer an operation. It was a ritual.
Jake continued, relentless.
"While it happens, you and I will be somewhere public. The rail-yard workers are meeting about the strike. We'll be there, in plain sight. We'll argue about pamphlets and dues. Two dozen men will swear we never left the room. That's our alibi."
It was flawless—terrifying in its precision. Every angle considered. Every variable controlled.
Jake paused, his eyes colder now. "One last thing."
Kamo's voice was hoarse. "What?"
"Fikus," Jake said softly. "When they find him, he needs to look like he's been questioned. Hard."
The meaning was clear. The bruises weren't for information—they were for effect. The scene needed to feel true.
Kamo's throat tightened. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then, finally, he nodded once. Slow. Resigned.
"I'll see to it," he said.
Jake said nothing. He didn't need to.
In the dim light of the silo, among the dust and the echoes of rats in the grain chutes, the plan solidified. What they were about to do would end one life—and, Jake knew, whatever was left of his own humanity with it.
But he didn't flinch. The arithmetic was already done.