The cold in the cell had changed. It wasn't just temperature—it was intent. The soup came colder, the bread smaller and harder. The polite pretense of Stolypin's "psychological game" was gone. What remained was the unfiltered chill of state power.
Katerina Svanidze sat hunched on her straw pallet, the defiance that had once steeled her now hollowed by fear. She had won a moral victory, yes—but in the Trubetskoy Bastion, victories of the spirit were always followed by punishment. She braced herself for it: the boots, the fists, the dull repetition of pain.
But Stolypin was far more inventive than that.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Heavy. Deliberate. More than one pair. The bolt scraped, and the door swung open.
Stolypin entered, tall and immaculate in black. His expression was unreadable, his tone mild, almost polite. Two guards followed, dragging a body between them.
It was Orlov.
He was barely conscious, his face a ruin of bruises and blood, his breath shallow and ragged. His feet scraped against the stone as they hauled him in. The guards threw him down like a sack of coal. The sound of his body hitting the floor was dull and wet.
"Insubordination requires correction," Stolypin said. His voice was calm, professorial, as though he were explaining a principle rather than enacting punishment. "Your defiance, Katerina, has inspired Comrade Orlov. You've reminded him of who he used to be. He has, unfortunately, rediscovered his courage."
He sighed softly. "He no longer cooperates. You've infected him with hope. And I must cure him of it."
He gave a slight nod.
One of the guards stepped forward and kicked Orlov hard in the ribs. The sound was sharp, final.
Kato screamed. "Stop! Leave him! It was me! I did this—beat me, not him!"
The second guard shoved her back down. They didn't touch her again. That wasn't the point.
Stolypin watched her, eyes cold and curious, as if taking notes. The next kick landed lower. Orlov's body folded inward, a small, broken sound escaping his lips.
Kato screamed again, her voice tearing at the walls. The guards didn't even glance her way. Each blow struck deeper than pain—it struck at her conviction. Stolypin wasn't breaking her body; he was dismantling her belief. Every kick turned her act of defiance into someone else's punishment.
Finally, Stolypin lifted his hand. "Enough. For today."
The guards hauled Orlov up and dragged him away. His moans faded into the corridor, then silence. The door shut.
Stolypin stayed behind. He stepped forward, his polished boots clicking softly on the stone. Kato sat shaking, her face buried in her hands.
"Your martyrdom is a vanity, Katerina," he said quietly. "A form of pride. And pride, like all luxuries, must be earned."
He reached into his coat and drew out a folded sheet of paper. A list. He let it unfold, the crisp sound cutting through the still air.
"For every day you stay silent," he said, "someone you once knew will vanish."
She lifted her head, her eyes wide.
"A neighbor. A childhood friend. A shopkeeper from your street in Gori. I will take one name each day. They will be accused of treason, their property seized, their families scattered. Their only crime will be that they once shared a memory with you."
He dropped the paper. It landed in her lap like a blade.
"Your silence will be measured in the pain of others," he said. "That is the currency now."
Then he turned and left. The sound of his footsteps receded, the bolt slid home, and the silence returned.
Kato looked down. The list blurred through her tears. Names she hadn't thought of in years—Grigor the cobbler, Elene from the riverbank. Ordinary people, bound to her by nothing but memory.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the paper. The truth was unbearable. Her defiance hadn't saved her soul—it had condemned others. Every hour of silence would now buy another life destroyed.
The heroism she had clung to was gone. What remained was guilt, sharp and alive, sitting in her chest like a second heartbeat.
The drip in the corner of the cell continued, slow and steady. Each drop marked the passage of time—and the price of her choice.