Petrograd ,1917
'They called me by many names….. the Red Rat, the Phantom of Baku, Lenin's shadow.
But I wasn't anyone's shadow. I was the storm they never saw coming.When the others ran, I stayed.I learned early that revolutions aren't built in parliaments or in lecture halls — they're born in basements, in whispers, in the hunger of men who have nothing left to lose.In sacrifice and beliefs.'
'I understood that better than any of them. I remember Moscow — the smell of ink, sweat, and loyalty. We printed pamphlets by candlelight, our presses hidden under floorboards. Every word we wrote was a weapon, every sentence a spark. The Okhrana hunted us day and night, but I was always remained a step ahead.'
'They said I disappeared like smoke.'
*chuckle
'Perhaps I did.'
'I learned to be invisible, to live among ghosts.And when I needed money for the cause, I took and used a many to get it. Banks, trains, whatever carried the Tsar's gold — all of it belonged to us now.The others hesitated. They called it theft. I called it necessity. Revolution is not financed by prayers.'
Tiflis, 1907.I still remember the blast — the smell of gunpowder, the horses screaming, coins scattering across the street like raindrops.
Three hundred thousand rubles, taken in broad daylight.
'18 dead? Yes Indeed'
'But God bless the souls of those 10 men that had died on that mission for the cause. I question myself at times if it was worth it. And I had always remained with the same answer.'
'Yes!'
'Every drop of blood bought us another day closer to victory.Even Lenin, from his exile, understood that.He knew I could do what others couldn't — what others wouldn't. And when they finally caught me in Baku. Caught was an overstatement. I sacrificed myself to save the whole, severing the leg to save the body.'
The Okhrana kicked in the door just before dawn — papers flying, comrades scattering. They thought they'd won, but prison wasn't the end for me. Siberia was cold, but colder still were the hearts of the men who survived it. I learned there that pain is temporary — fear is permanent.
'If you make a man fear you once, he'll obey you forever or long enough in some cases before he gained the courage to stab you in the back or the face. I kept my silence.I watched, I listened.Even in chains, I was learning how power worked — who controlled the guards, who broke first, who could be bought. And when the time came, I escaped.I always escaped.'
'And by 1912 , I was back in the south. A new name. A new face. Koba — that was what they called me now. A name from an old Georgian tale — a bandit who fought for justice, who feared no one.I liked that name. It suited me. When Lenin returned in 1917, he didn't find the same young revolutionary he once knew. He found a man who had spent years in the dark, a man who had seen what fear and loyalty could do — and how it could be used.
While others still spoke of theory, I spoke of survival and dominance. The empire was dying, and I was ready to claim what came after.'
—- —— ——-
Petrograd,1917
Location Unknown
The place was dim, the kind of light that made secrets feel at home. Rain kept tapping at the window like it had something to say. Papers littered the desk, smoke hung in the air—thick, stubborn, and familiar.
He smoked yes, but he kept it at a minimum, he wanted a long life free of the health issues that followed with excessive smoking and drinking. Imagine having stroke while eating dinner? Well that was food for thought later. Now he pondered on the city.
Petrograd breathed in gasps when I returned.
The empire lay dead, its bones scattered through the starving streets. Slogans echoed where prayers once had, and the Bolsheviks snarled among themselves for what was left.
'Lenin had come back from exile, Trotsky from across the ocean — both certain they alone could mold the future.'
'How wrong they were', he snickered mentally.I kept to the edges, silent, watching, listening.
Then the door slammed open. Lenin entered, eyes blazing, rain streaking his sleeves.
"Koba! Have you seen this? The Provisional Government still refuses to hand over power to the Soviets. They're fools — doomed fools!" He said.
I looked at him , regarding his statement while contemplating what that meant.
"They're frightened men, Vladimir Ilyich. Fear makes men cling to old power. It's all they know." I replied, inciting his real name.
I listened while the rain stitched the window into glass; their talk braided itself into the hush.
"Then we tear it from their hands! You agree?" He asks.
I gave him a smile the way a knife might glint in lamplight — small, certain. "I agree, but we'll need more than speeches this time. The people are restless — they'll follow strength, and manifested ideals not slogans."
Lenin's own grin was the kind a man gives when he's naming an accomplice. "Strength… yes. That's why I keep you close, Koba. You understand force and its need better than most."
In the silence that followed, I catalogued what I had become in their eyes. He saw in me what others feared: a man without hesitation. I was neither truly his friend nor pupil — I was, quietly and completely, a valuable weapon, a valuable ally.
The room was quiet for a long beat, the only sound the rain drumming on the windows. I felt Lenin's eyes on me, sharp as knives. He expected an answer, but the weight of it — the choice — pressed like iron on my chest.
I could step back, keep my head low, remain invisible. Or I could step forward, commit fully, and become something I had never been before. I drew a slow breath and let the words form, not for Lenin, not for anyone — but for myself.
"I'll do it," I said finally, voice low, steady. "Whatever it takes."
Lenin's grin widened. My smirk didn't falter. But inside me, a different calculation had begun. I was no longer merely watching history unfold. I had chosen to shape it. I had become a valuable piece , a major player and I had to step into the role further.
From that moment, there was no turning back.
——- ——— ————
Later that night
The night carried its own weight. Smoke curled in the lamplight, maps spread across a small table like a battlefield frozen in ink. Stalin, Makarov, and Sverdlov leaned over them, voices low and sharp.
"The workers at the Baltic Shipyard are armed. They're waiting for your word," Makarov said.
Stalin's eyes didn't move from the table.
"Not yet. Let them wait. A revolution too early is a funeral. We strike when the others are tired, not when they're loud."
Sverdlov pressed the point. "Lenin won't wait long. He wants a move within the week."
"He'll have to," Stalin replied softly, like a man reading the bones of the world. "We are the ones on the frontlines not them."
Makarov smiled faintly. "You've changed Koba."
And I realized what he meant. Ever since my escape from prison and our continued collaboration.He too had eventually learned the slow logic of survival, well it wasn't a damn surprise sooner or later it would've happened.
You either adapted to the changes or you die.
"The wolves that survive aren't the ones who bite first," Stalin said, and I understood that patience was his weapon now.
———- ——
October 1917
Smolny Institute
The corridors were tense, echoing with boots and whispered orders.
"The hour has come! We seize the Winter Palace tonight. No more delays." Lenin declared.
"The Red Guards are ready. Petrograd will belong to the people by dawn!" Trotsky then added.
I leaned toward Lenin, voice low, careful. "And when we've won, what then? Who commands the army? Who controls the papers? Who decides what the people hear?"
He hesitated. "We'll decide together, of course."
"Together… yes. Of course," I said. But I already knew the truth. When the shouting ended, only one voice would remain. Mine.