The captured Russian command post stank of tobacco, sweat, and fear. Broken telegraph wires hung like veins across the room, the air humming faintly with leftover static. This was their new base — a fragile island of order in the storm of the German advance.
By the time Koba's team arrived, leading their dazed but unharmed prize, Pavel had already built something that resembled structure. Guards at the windows. The wounded separated. The prisoners contained.
When Koba walked in, Pavel rose to meet him. No salute. No relief. Just silent judgment in his eyes — the kind that asks questions words can't. The kind that says: I saw what you became.
"The assets are secure," Pavel reported flatly. He motioned toward a side room where the Russian doctor worked over two bandaged officers. "The surgeon thinks you're a genius. Says your triage system could save thousands."
"Excellent." Koba's voice was smooth, clipped. He clapped Pavel on the shoulder — not like a commander greeting his comrade, but like a man claiming ownership.
"You see? Mercy pays. It's just another form of currency."
He moved on, his eyes already searching for what came next. The doctor straightened as Koba approached, his expression reverent.
"Your methods, Commander," the doctor stammered. "Revolutionary. God will bless you."
Koba gave a faint, humorless smile. "I'll settle for results."
He turned to one of his men. "The staff captain?"
The soldier handed him several pages of notes. "Spoke freely after a double dose of morphine."
Koba scanned the paper. His eyes sharpened, the gleam of a predator finding new prey. "Good. Very good."
He walked into the next room — the office. Kato was there, surrounded by stacks of captured Russian documents, organizing them into order out of chaos. A single lantern bathed her in gold light, but she didn't look up when he entered.
"The offensive was a success," Koba said, almost giddy. "Ipatieff is secure. Already discussing lab setups with our doctor. And our mercy back at the church?" He tapped the notes on the desk. "It's paid off."
Kato finally looked up, her eyes cold. He ignored it.
"The staff captain gave us something extraordinary," Koba continued, leaning over the desk. "The entire supply chain of the Northern Front—its weak point, its heart. All of it runs through one man."
He tapped the top page.
"Colonel Dmitri Orlov. Chief Procurement Officer, Warsaw District. A logistical genius. Loyal, incorruptible, efficient — which makes him our greatest obstacle."
Kato's expression didn't change. "And you want him dead."
Koba laughed — a short, sharp sound with no real humor.
"Assassination is crude. You kill him, and they replace him. No, Kato. We won't remove the bottleneck. We'll own it."
He straightened, voice lowering. "Orlov's weakness is well known. Fine French wine. And foreign women. He takes frequent 'diplomatic trips' to Stockholm for both."
Kato's eyes narrowed. "And?"
Koba's tone turned soft — too soft. "You've proven yourself good with systems and details. I have a new task for you. One that requires finesse."
She froze. She could already feel the trap.
"I need files," Koba went on, relentless. "Every Party sympathizer, agent, or exile in Scandinavia. Women only. I want names, faces, personal histories. Find me the ones who can reach Stockholm — or are already there. Find me the ones beautiful enough to catch Orlov's attention, clever enough to play the part, desperate enough to obey."
He said it calmly, like he was ordering supplies. But the words hit like poison.
He wasn't just assigning her work. He was dragging her down with him — step by step, into the same pit he lived in.
Koba laid the final file on the desk: Orlov's photograph, grainy and proud.
"Find me a weapon," he said quietly. "Not a gun. Not a bomb. A person. Someone who can reach his heart before I reach his mind."
Then he turned and walked out, the lantern light trailing across his back until the door closed.
The silence he left behind was heavy.
Kato stared at the file. The man in the photograph stared back — confident, untouchable. The kind of man who believed the world would never turn against him.
For a long time, she didn't move. Then, slowly, she reached out.
Not to push the file away.
To pull it closer.
Her hand trembled as she opened it. Her face, caught in the flicker of the lamp, was unreadable — part disgust, part calculation, part something darker.
Whatever war Koba had started inside her, she wasn't losing it. She was adapting.