Somewhere in the Shadows, 2075
The crossing. Berlin's drenched night, when the Wall's cracks bled opportunity and the wolf in me learned to stalk in suits instead of rags. Nine years old in '89, a pup with a scar and a stolen ledger, thinking power was just outrunning Petrov's reach with Yuri's nod. Naive. The game shifts fast—alleys to boardrooms, knives to deals—and honor's the only thread that doesn't snap under the weight. Yuri watched from the sidelines that night, ledger humming with secrets, testing if I'd claw or negotiate. I clawed, then talked. Tasted like ink and iron—like the first time I spat Dad's blood after his belt. That move? First step from street rat to shadow architect. The thrill hums deep, pup, like a wolf's growl in the dark… till it demands a crown. Be honorable in the move; it's the code that builds empires from shadows.
Berlin, West Side, Fall 1989
The Wall loomed like a fractured giant, its gray bulk splitting East from West, chipped by hammers and hope as the world held its breath. It was late October, the air crisp with falling leaves and the electric buzz of change—nine-year-old me, scar itching under a too-big coat pilfered from a dockside drunk, stood at Checkpoint Charlie's edge, Yuri's ledger heavy in my pocket like a loaded gun. The crew trailed behind, shadows against the flickering border lights: Misha, his notched ear a badge from '86 Leningrad riots, lugging a duffel of smuggled ruble stacks that clinked with every step; Lena, sawn-off swapped for a silenced pistol, eyes still raw and red-rimmed from Tomas's death, her grip tight as a widow's prayer; and Katya, her black hair a shadow against the glow of West Berlin's storefronts, .38 tucked neat beneath a leather jacket, hips swaying like she owned the divided city's pulse. We'd slipped across the Gulf on a rust-bucket trawler, Helsinki's blood still sticky on my ribs from the vault fight, the hum of Yuri's whisper driving us: "Berlin's the vein—tap it, nephew, or Petrov carves your pack to ash." The journey had been a blur—foggy seas, Misha's gruff curses at the wheel, Lena's silent tears for her brother, Katya's warmth in the hold staving off the chill of Mother's pyre replaying in my head.
The plan was jagged but clear: hit a black-market auction in Kreuzberg, a den of suits and shadows, and snag intel on Petrov's West Berlin pipeline—diamonds, arms, and Duma dirt flowing through the Wall's cracks. Yuri's ledger, its pages worn and coded in thieves' cant, held the key: buyer lists, drop points, a map to Petrov's greed. "Petrov's men will be there," I muttered, voice steady despite the kid's tremble, scar tugging like a warning from Dad's ghost. "We take the ledger, flip the room—quiet or loud, your call." Misha grunted, duffel shifting on his broad shoulder. "Loud if they blink—rats scatter better that way." Lena's pistol clicked as she chambered a round. "For Tomas—make it hurt, Dima." Katya's lips brushed my ear, her breath warm against the cold: "And Irina—make it stick." Her touch lingered, nails tracing the scar over my eye—Sasha's gift—then lower, a spark to drown Dad's sneer: Useless whelp. I clenched my jaw, ledger crinkling, and nodded. The Wall's shadow stretched long, a silent judge to the hunt ahead.
We ghosted into the auction hall, a basement dive pulsing with cigarette haze and the clink of whispered Deutschmarks. Suited wolves circled crates—AKs stacked like cordwood, gem bags glinting like pirate loot, files stamped with Soviet seals fluttering like fallen leaves. I scanned the room, ledger open on my palm, decoding a buyer's nod: Hans, a gaunt East German turncoat with hollow cheeks and a Petrov wolf tattoo peeking from his cuff, his West-side mule. Misha flanked right, duffel ready to spill ruble bait; Lena covered the door, pistol low and steady; Katya melted into the crowd, her siren pull drawing eyes like moths to flame. I stepped up, nine-year-old frame swallowed by the oversized coat, but voice cut sharp through the murmur: "Hans, your boss owes blood. Hand over the files, or we paint this floor red." The room froze, suits twitching for holsters, the air thickening with tension.
Lesson of the Threshold: New ground's a beast—unfamiliar, unforgiving. Frankl turned camp bars to bridges with his mind's grit; I turned fear to fangs with every step. Dad's fists taught ducking from shadows; Mom's pyre taught standing tall in the flame. Cross the line deliberate, with eyes wide. Hunt the unknown like the wolf scents prey—pause, and it hunts you back. Be honorable in the cross; it's the code that claims the new turf as yours.
Hans smirked, hand sliding to a Walther under his tailored jacket, the metal glinting under the dim lights. "Kleine Ratte—little rat thinks he's a wolf?" Before the word faded, Misha's duffel hit the floor with a heavy thud, ruble stacks spilling like bait across the concrete—distraction enough. I lunged, ledger slamming his wrist with a crack, Walther clattering to the ground. Katya's .38 popped twice—silenced thuds dropped his guard, blood pooling neat and dark around his polished shoes. Lena's pistol barked, nailing a second thug lunging from the crates, his scream cut short as his head met a crate's edge with a sickening crunch. Chaos erupted—suits drew, shots cracked the air like thunder, shattering glass and splintering wood. I dove behind a table, ledger clutched tight, pulling a boot-knife as lead chewed the surface above me. Dad's voice roared in my skull: Spineless! I shook it off, stabbing upward into a thug's thigh as he leaned over, twisting the blade till he howled, collapsing in a heap of thrashing limbs and curses.
Katya dragged me back, her breath hot against my neck: "Files—now!" We scrambled to the crates, ledger guiding us to a locked steel case tucked behind a stack of AKs. My fingers trembled as I worked the combo—89-17-91, same as Helsinki: Union crack-year, scar-slice, riot-ear. Tumblers ground like teeth; the door swung wide with a groan—alarms wailed, a banshee's shriek splitting the fog-thick air. Inside, diamond sacks glittered like fallen stars, a thumb drive hummed with Petrov's West-East bribes, and a ledger fatter than Yuri's spilled secrets: Chernobyl ghost runs, oligarch payoffs, FSB wetwork logs. Triumph bit sweet, but boots thundered upstairs—Petrov's Berlin pack, six strong, shouts in guttural Russian slicing the din. "Out!" I yelled, stuffing the drive into my coat's hidden seam, ledger under my arm. Misha hoisted the duffel, ruble half-spilled; Lena laid cover fire, pistol flashing; Katya's arm hooked mine—fire escape loomed, fog swallowing our escape like a hungry maw.
We hit the alley, boots pounding wet stone, alarms wailing like Berlin's dying breath. A bullet grazed my leg, fire licking calf-deep—I stumbled, pain shooting up my spine, but Katya hauled me up, her strength a shock against her lithe frame. Trawler waited two blocks off, Misha hot-wiring it frantic, hands slick with sweat. Shots chased us, one clipping Lena's shoulder—she grunted, blood staining her sleeve, but kept moving, grit in her teeth. We leapt aboard, engine roaring to life, Gulf waves clawing back toward St. Pete. I slumped against the bulkhead, blood seeping through torn pants, the ledger's weight a anchor. Katya knelt, hands trembling as she ripped cloth from her jacket to bind it—fingers steadying on my skin, turning medic to minx in a heartbeat. "You're in deep now, Dima. No turning back," she whispered, eyes burning with that feral spark. Her touch lingered, tracing scars—old from Sasha, fresh from Erik—pulling me into the bunk's dim sway. Bodies crashed desperate, her curves an anchor against the ache, gasps slapping wave-rhythm. No words, just salt-sting release, her breath hitching my name like a prayer. She curled against me after, raven hair fanned on my chest, but sleep evaded—Tomas's ghost flickered, Mother's pyre glowed, Dad's laugh rumbled low. Weak, boy.
St. Petersburg Return, November 1989
St. Pete's docks swallowed us at dawn, trawler ghosting into hidden slips under a sky bruised purple. Yuri waited at the dacha, hearth-glow framing his silver fox silhouette, my haul spread on an oaken table—drive, ledger, diamonds winking like guilty eyes under the flickering light. "Berlin's yours now, wolf," he rumbled, clapping my good shoulder, gaze flicking to the fresh cuts and blood-streaked bandage. "Petrov's pipeline bleeds—you've got his heart in your jaws." Crew nursed wounds in the outer room: Misha's knee braced crude with a plank and rope, Lena's shoulder bandaged tight, chain-smoking to choke the sobs; Katya slipped out with a goodbye kiss tasting of ash and salt, her whisper hot against my lips: "Stay alive, Dima." I pocketed a diamond, scar-sized and cold against my palm—I felt the shift settle, bone-deep: no more rat skulking in alleys. Wolf had tasted Berlin's blood, hunger vast as the Neva, sharpened by the Wall's crumbling echo. The news crackled on Yuri's radio—November 9th, the Wall's fall announced, a tide of bodies surging through the breaches, change crackling like gunfire. Petrov's howl grew, but so did mine, a pup's growl maturing into a pack leader's roar.
Wisdom of the Hunt: Power's a hunt, not a gift—track it, take it, tame it with a steady hand. Aurelius faced Rome's fall with steel will: "Master yourself, or be mastered by the chaos." Dad's rage hunted me like a beast; this hunt builds me into something unbreakable. Cost cuts deep: blood on Berlin stone, trust fraying like Lena's tears, the weight of Tomas and Mother in every step. Forge the wolf, pup—let it rule the pack with honor, not ruin it with blind fury. Be honorable in the hunt; it's the code that crowns the shadow king.
Neva lapped black at the pilings, Berlin's fading in memory like a dream half-remembered. Yuri's eyes slid to a shadowed corner—a contact's silhouette, too still, too knowing, a figure cloaked in the dacha's dimness. Petrov's next move brewed, a storm on the horizon, but the knife in my pack glinted unseen, its edge a promise. Moscow's spires loomed in Yuri's next whisper, Petrov's endgame a chessboard of power and betrayal. The Wall's fall shifted the pieces—opportunities bloomed, but so did threats, each shadow a potential ally or assassin. I traced the ledger's spine, its secrets a map to dominion, and felt the wolf stir, hungry for the Kremlin's edge.