The world shrank to twenty feet of smoke and fire.
The roar of the blaze, the gunshots, the screams—everything blurred into a low, pulsing hum. Koba's heart pounded so violently it swallowed the noise around him. Across the flickering wall of flame stood the man in the immaculate greatcoat, pale and unreadable in the hellish light.
Pyotr Stolypin. The Prime Minister. The hunter.
Inside the armor of the Koba persona, Jake Vance screamed. He sees you. He knows. It's over. Panic rose in him—raw, modern terror dropped into an old world. He saw himself dragged into the street, unmasked, shot like a mongrel. Instinct begged him to run.
But Koba—the cold, rebuilt mind—smashed the panic down like a hammer onto hot iron. Fear became fuel.
He doesn't know you. He has a sketch. A rumor. A ghost.
The soot on his face, the fireman's helmet, the smoke—all camouflage. Hesitation meant death. Running meant faster death. The only way out was through.
So he made his move.
He stepped forward, posture rigid with authority, voice hoarse but booming with outrage.
"Prime Minister! Chief Officer Lagunov, Third Fire Brigade!"
The name rolled off his tongue as if it had always been his.
He jabbed a soot-blackened finger at the Okhrana officer blocking the road.
"Your man is obstructing a state emergency! We're the only pumper crew this side of the canal. The fire's jumped to the timber yard at Pier Four—right next to the naval munitions warehouse!"
The lie hit like an artillery shell.
A munitions inferno would incinerate half the docks—and humiliate the Empire. Stolypin's sharp mind stumbled. The riot, the fuel depot, the collapsed bridge—he was already juggling disasters. But this? This was annihilation.
He studied the fireman: real uniform, real soot, real fury. The conviction in the man's eyes was absolute. Too absolute to be false.
Recognition flickered—some echo of familiarity. The jaw, perhaps. The glare. But he couldn't place it. And the risk of doubting him was too great. If the munitions blew while he hesitated…
Stolypin made his decision.
"Let him through!" he snapped. "Get this engine to Pier Four—now! Move!"
The rifles parted.
Pavel cracked the reins, and the fire-cart lurched forward, its bell clanging as they thundered past the Okhrana line.
They were through.
Koba allowed himself one glance back. Through the haze, his eyes locked with Stolypin's. For a heartbeat, the chaos vanished.
Not recognition—but something far worse.
Suspicion.
Understanding.
A spark that promised: I will find you.
Koba turned away, heart hammering. The bluff had worked. The gate was open.
But he had not escaped the hunter.
He had announced himself.
The cart rattled deeper into the burning port—a chariot of lies careening into the inferno. Ahead loomed the naval command office, untouched by flames, a slab of stone rising from a sea of chaos.
Koba jumped down before the wheels stopped.
"The water mains!" he shouted. "We need access to the main pump room—Pier Four's about to blow!"
The soot, the uniform, the urgency—perfect camouflage. Clerks waved him inside, desperate for anyone who looked like help.
An elderly adjutant escorted them downstairs, babbling orders. The corridors around them were pandemonium: messengers sprinting, boots hammering, officers shouting across the din. To the frantic staff, Koba and Pavel were invisible—heroes, not threats.
At the cellar stairs, the adjutant hurried ahead.
Koba and Pavel turned the opposite direction.
Up a side stair.
Down a quiet corridor.
To a heavy oak door beneath a brass plate:
Office of the Port Commander — Rear Admiral Fyodor Litvin
They had reached their target.
Across the port, the end came for Company Alpha.
Captain Ruslan stood atop a barricade of crates, revolvers blazing. His beard was soaked in blood, his grin stretched wild. His men lay scattered around him—his brothers, his legend. The Semyonovsky Guard closed in, rifles rising like the tide.
His last bullets flew.
Then came the volley.
He toppled backward into splintered wood—martyr to a fortune that had never existed.
The diversion had burned to ash.
The price was paid.
Back at the command office, Pavel slammed the crowbar into the Admiral's door. One monstrous shove—wood shattered, hinges screamed, the lock surrendered.
The office was a shrine to naval glory: ship models, maps, the scent of ink and old leather. But their eyes went straight to the safe—the black iron beast crouched behind the desk.
"Time," Koba hissed.
Pavel wrenched the crowbar into the frame. Metal screamed. Sweat rolled down his neck. Steel began to bend.
Back in the teahouse, Anya received the runner's report.
"Warehouse Three has fallen," the boy panted. "Ruslan's men… all dead."
Anya didn't blink. "How long has the General been inside?"
"Seven minutes."
"Not enough."
She seized another runner. "Find Company Beta. Captain Idris. New target."
Her finger slammed onto the map.
"The grain silo. Burn it."
The runner choked. "That's… civilian."
"Yes," she said. "And the General needs more time. Go."
He ran.
With that order, the last bridge between revolution and atrocity burned.
Anya didn't merely follow Koba anymore.
She was becoming him.
In the Admiral's office, the safe surrendered with a shriek of tearing metal.
Koba lunged, rifling through documents—deeds, letters, a bottle of brandy—until he found the leather folder stamped with the Imperial Navy seal. Inside were the manifests and transfer orders.
The prize. The key.
He stuffed the folder inside his coat—
—and the door exploded open.
Rear Admiral Fyodor Litvin stood in the doorway, face red with fury. His eyes swept over the splintered frame, the gutted safe, the two firemen standing before him.
Confusion.
Recognition.
Rage.
"Guards!" he roared, hand flying toward his holster. "Guards! Intrud—"
Pavel struck.
Ten feet vanished in a blur. His hand crushed the Admiral's wrist before the man could draw. His other arm locked around the thick neck, tightening like a steel vise.
The Admiral's boots drummed against the rug. His face blazed purple.
Pavel's one good eye turned to Koba.
Jake screamed inside. No. Not this line.
Koba gave a single, tiny nod.
Pavel tightened.
A wet crack.
Silence.
The Admiral collapsed in a heap.
The safe hung open. The papers were in Koba's coat. And at their feet lay a dead Rear Admiral of the Imperial Navy.
They had their key to freedom.
And they had crossed the final line.
The thieves were gone.
Only murderers remained.