The requisitioned manor felt more like a tomb than a headquarters. Outside, the rain whispered against the blacked-out windows, a steady, ghostly rhythm beneath the distant thunder of artillery. The sound seemed to seep through the walls, through the floorboards, into the bones.
Inside, in a stripped, echoing study, Koba stood before the map of the Gorlice sector. The neat lines and bright pins looked almost delicate against the heavy oak wall, but to him they were a diagram of ruin. Every shaded contour and numbered division represented lives he had already condemned. His mind—Jake's mind—was no longer a gift. It was a cell. He could see the numbers like ghosts: four hundred thousand Russian casualties, ninety thousand German and Austro-Hungarian. Half a million. He had built the blueprint for an apocalypse and handed it to the executioner.
Tomorrow he would walk into it himself.
The soft click of a door pulled him back. Kato entered, carrying a tray with a single cup of coffee. She moved quietly, her face pale in the lamplight. She set the cup down, the porcelain clinking once against the saucer, then turned to go.
"Stay," Koba said.
The word came out rough, more command than request.
She froze, her hand on the door. She didn't turn. He crossed the room slowly, boots heavy on the boards. When he reached her, he didn't touch her hand. His palm settled on her back, over the coarse wool of her dress. The muscles beneath were tense, rigid.
"I need you to," he said softly, the words cracking as they left him.
She didn't answer. He guided her toward the adjoining room. The bedroom was bare, impersonal, smelling faintly of damp linen and old smoke. The rain was louder here.
He turned her to face him. Her eyes were dark and unreadable. His fingers fumbled at the top button of her dress, clumsy and impatient. She didn't move to help him. She just watched him, distant and still. The dress fell away, leaving her in a thin shift, pale against the dark room. When he touched the straps, she neither stopped him nor looked away.
He pushed her gently onto the bed. She went without protest, sitting first, then lying back. He undressed quickly, his movements harsh and awkward. The air was cold on his skin. He bent over her, trying to find something human—some spark of warmth, of the woman he had crossed the world to save.
Her lips were still. Her eyes open. Her body compliant but lifeless.
He whispered her name—once, then again—but she didn't react. When he moved, it wasn't out of love or hunger; it was out of despair, a frantic attempt to break through the silence. The sound of rain filled the spaces where her voice should have been.
When it was over, there was nothing. No closeness. No warmth. Only the slow creak of the bed and his own unsteady breathing. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, realizing what he had known all along: he hadn't won her back. He had only proved how far she had gone.
After a while, she moved. The rustle of fabric was the only sound. She sat up, pulled on her shift, and began to dress. The simple, efficient motions had the finality of a verdict.
When she spoke, her voice was calm, stripped of emotion. "Is that what you needed to be brave, Koba?"
The words hit harder than any blow.
She didn't wait for an answer. She buttoned her dress, crossed the room, and left. The door closed softly, the latch clicking shut like the seal on a crypt.
Koba sat for a long moment, listening to the rain. Then he rose and dressed. Piece by piece, the uniform came back on—the armor, the mask, the machine.
By dawn, he would be ready to face the fire he had built. And he would face it alone.