It began with a glance and nothing more. But in Moscow, the wrong glance could mean a knife to your throat or your brains splattered on the cobblestone.
Christian had learned to walk with the city's rhythm, to blend with the weary lines of workers waiting for bread, to nod when others nodded, to vanish into the anonymity of gray coats and bowed heads. Yet one afternoon, crossing a square where frost clung to the cobblestones, he felt it: the prickle of eyes fixed on his back.
He turned slightly. Among the queue of people waiting for coal rations, a man stood too still, his gaze locked on Christian's face. Older now, worn by hunger and fear, but unmistakable. The man's mouth tightened as if holding back recognition or perhaps delight at it.
Poland.
A fragment of Christian's past, rising like a ghost from beneath the snow.
The man shifted, whispering to a woman beside him, then vanished into the crowd. Christian's pulse thundered. He didn't follow; he didn't dare. But he knew. The past had caught him, and in Moscow of all places, there would be no mercy.
By nightfall, the city had changed around him. The air itself seemed to vibrate with pursuit. Checkpoints materialized on corners where yesterday none had stood. Black cars prowled the streets, their tires crunching over the frost like teeth. He ducked through alleys, sliding into the maze of the underground, but whispers chased him even there.
"They're looking for someone…" "NKVD, whole units…" "A spy, they say. A German spy…" Each word felt aimed at him. In every basement, in every cellar, faces closed like shutters when he entered. He had been tolerated as a shadow; now he was a liability. Even the brave ones looked away. No one would risk sheltering a marked man.
At a safe house on the Arbat, a woman with hollow cheeks let him in. She offered him a cup of thin tea, her hand trembling as she poured. He saw the flicker in her eyes, the hesitation before she set the cup before him. When the knock came minutes later sharp, deliberate, unhurried, he understood.
NKVD. Soviet Intelligence.
The woman looked at him once, shame burning through her gaze. He set the cup down without drinking and slipped into the narrow crawlspace behind the stove just as the door burst open.
Boots. Voices. The scrape of rifles against plaster. They tore the place apart, shouting, overturning the table, ripping open the floorboards. One of them laughed, a short, cruel bark. Another spoke of how spies died slowly, very slowly, in Lubyanka's cells.
Christian pressed himself flat against the damp stone, his hand curled around Kristina's ring. If they found him now, it would end here; in chains, not in silence.
The boots thundered above him, closer, then moved away.
A pause. Then silence. When he finally crawled out, the woman was gone. Taken or fled; he would never know.
From that night on, Christian was no longer simply hiding. He was hunted.
The NKVD spread like ink through the streets. Every square, every tram station, every breadline bore their silhouettes. Men in heavy coats lingered in doorways, their eyes searching. Children skipped along alleys, eager to betray for a ration card. The city itself had turned against him.
And always, behind the faceless mass, he felt the memory of that man from Poland. The one who had known him. The one who had whispered his name into Moscow's ear.
The ring at his chest felt heavier than steel. Kristina's face rose before him, and he wondered if he had already failed her?
There was no more margin for patience, no more room for hesitation. The mission loomed, vast and impossible, yet if he faltered now, it would be for nothing. He moved deeper into the labyrinth, carrying not only the weight of his orders, but the certainty that the walls were closing in.
And somewhere above ground, the NKVD waited with cold eyes and patient hands, ready to crush the ghost of Christian before he ever reached the Kremlin.