The two pieces of paper in Jake's hands felt impossibly heavy.
In his left, the newspaper—a cheap page bearing the charcoal sketch of his own face. A public death sentence.
In his right, the sealed note from Malinovsky. A private one.
Two traps. One built in daylight, one in shadow. Both closing fast.
The cellar was silent. The gangsters, men who lived on shouting and swagger, were frozen. They stared at Jake with a mix of awe and terror. Their untouchable planner—the ghost who moved unseen—now had a face. His.
Their safe house had become a coffin.
Jake's pulse didn't quicken. His mind sharpened. The panic around him only clarified the board in front of him. He could feel the question in every pair of eyes: What now, planner?
They have my face, his thoughts clicked into motion, cold and methodical. But not my name. Not yet. The city is the board. Every citizen, every beggar, every child could be an enemy piece. But the name—that's the missing link.
His eyes drifted to the note in his hand. And this one… this is from the man who thinks he owns me.
Two enemies. Two fronts. The hunter and the serpent.
The silence broke. Pavel's voice came out low and raw. "We have to move. Now. They'll sweep the district, door to door. This place is a death trap."
A murmur rippled through the room—panic taking shape.
Jake's voice cut through it. "No."
The single word froze them all.
"Running now is suicide," he said calmly. "Where would we go? The bridges, the stations—they'll all be watched. Patrols everywhere. For now, we're safer in the dark than in the light." His tone was even, unshakable. "We wait. We think. We don't panic."
That steadiness was power. The men quieted. They didn't understand his calm, but they trusted it. He'd bought himself time—just enough to face the serpent.
He moved to the corner, Kamo's shadow looming beside him. Breaking the wax seal, he unfolded the note. He expected accusations. Demands. Threats.
What he read instead was worse.
Koba,
Excellent work. Your report on the Mensheviks' chaos was received. A masterful operation under difficult circumstances. You have proven your loyalty. The Center is pleased.
Jake reread the lines. The neat handwriting. The quiet elegance. It wasn't praise. It was a trap wrapped in compliments.
Kamo frowned, reading over his shoulder. "Pleased? With that disaster?"
Jake's whisper was cold. "It's not praise, Kamo. It's a warning."
The truth clicked instantly. Malinovsky knew everything. The printers, the fire, the missing crate. He knew Jake had lied. He knew Jake had stolen from him. And instead of punishment, he offered approval.
A leash made of silk.
The letter wasn't congratulating him—it was claiming him. I know your lie. And now it's mine too. We're bound together.
He wasn't being scolded. He was being owned.
Jake read on, his stomach tightening.
Your passage to Finland is arranged. But first—a final, delicate task.
A certain State Councillor, Konstantin Orlov, has been leaking information to the Kadet newspaper Russkoye Slovo. This undermines the Prime Minister's reform work. He must be… persuaded.
Jake felt the blood drain from his face. This wasn't revolutionary work anymore. This was the Tsar's palace intrigue.
Orlov has a mistress—an actress from the Alexandrinsky Theatre. He keeps a secret apartment near Nevsky Prospekt. Enclosed are the address and floor plan. During his next absence, you will enter. No one is to be harmed. Open the safe. Retrieve the letters. Only the letters. They are essential for his cooperation. Consider this your final exam.
Jake's hands tightened on the paper. The words blurred for a moment.
This was the true test. Not of skill. Of submission.
The print shop raid had been the initiation—a trial by fire. This was a leash around his throat. The Okhrana wasn't sending him against the revolution's enemies anymore. They were using him against one of their own.
To refuse now would expose everything. To obey would bind him tighter to the serpent's coils.
He was being pulled upward into the empire's web—useful, valued, and one step from being disposable.
His eyes shifted from the neat lines of Malinovsky's script to the crude, dark portrait on the newspaper. Two death sentences, written in two different languages.
He was to rob a noble's apartment under the watch of a city blanketed with his own face.
Not a mission.
A suicide note.