My brothers keeper, an OC/SI as the twin of Stalin

[Alenco98]

December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

Night had fallen in the city, and in my heart, but that didn't matter. The room I was in smelled faintly of dust and old paper—a bureaucrat's tomb. A single bare bulb swung overhead, its light cutting sharp angles across the walls.

The boy—Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky—sat tied to the chair, rope biting into his wrists, a gag in his mouth. I had promised I wouldn't touch him. Yet. Promises are important to keep—until they aren't. The only thing between us was a table. And there was an empty chair next to the one I sat in.

I wasn't sad. I wasn't mourning. What I felt was pure, undiluted rage, coiled tight in my chest like a steel spring. I could shoot him now, end it quickly—but that would be like throwing away a fine wine without savoring it. No, this had to be slow. He had to taste his death.

A knock at the door.

"Enter." My voice was flat, controlled. A pane of glass over a volcano.

Dzerzhinsky came in first—expression carved from stone—followed by Yagoda, whose eyes flicked briefly to the bound boy, then away. Stalin trailed them, leaning against the doorway with his hands in his pockets, watching as if this was just another meeting about grain quotas.

"Dzerzhinsky," I said without looking at the boy, "did you get what I asked for?"

"I did." Felix approached the table, set down a brown envelope. His fingers lingered a second too long on the paper before letting go, as though to remind me this wasn't his style.

I opened it, scanned the contents. Pavel Andreyvich Solkovsky. Nineteen. Parents: Natassia and Andrey. Sister: Irina. Brother: Alexei. Friends. A lover. A whole life, neatly typed and now mine to dismantle.

I handed the envelope to Yagoda. "Did you gather them?"

"They're outside," he said, his voice neutral, but his gaze darted to Stalin for a fraction of a second—looking for some kind of approval or permission. Stalin gave none.

"Bring his lover in first."

I finally looked at the boy. His eyes had gone wide, pupils like pinpricks. His chest rose and fell faster now. Good. Fear was seasoning—it made the meat tender.

The door opened again. A woman stepped in—young, pretty, the kind of pretty that doesn't last long in this city. Probably Joe's age when Kato died. Maybe younger.

Without a word, I drew my pistol and shot her in the head.

The crack snapped through the air. She folded to the floor like a ragdoll, her blood creeping toward the leg of the table.

Yagoda flinched—just a twitch—but quickly smoothed his face. Stalin didn't move, didn't blink; his gaze stayed fixed on me, as if measuring the efficiency of what he'd just seen. Dzerzhinsky's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the body, then back to me—judging, not shocked.

"Ungag him," I said.

Yagoda stepped forward and yanked the cloth from the boy's mouth.

"You—" Pavel's voice cracked. "You bastard!!!"

"Careful," I said softly. "You're on thin ice already, and I've got your whole family to work with."

He spat on the floor. "You think this will make a difference?"

I smiled, thin and sharp. "No, Pavel. This is just me venting my anger. Look at your lover, you killed her the second you pulled the trigger and my wife died." I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table. "And vengeance… is best enjoyed slowly."

I turned to Yagoda. "Bring in his mother."

The boy thrashed in his chair, shouting curses. Stalin's lip twitched—the faintest suggestion of approval. Dzerzhinsky's eyes narrowed, arms crossed, already weighing how much of this was revenge and how much could be justified as state security. Yagoda simply nodded and stepped out, but I saw the stiffness in his shoulders; he wanted this over quickly.

Then I started with a song, Singing in the snow because my wife liked it when I sang the English part at the beginning. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight."

Unfortunately this was interrupted when Natassia Solkovskaya entered, flanked by two guards. She was mid-forties, still holding herself with the composure of a woman who believed manners could protect her from reality. Her eyes darted from me to her son, then to the body on the floor.

"Sit her down next to me," I said.

No ropes—yet. I wanted her to have the illusion of safety for just a moment.

I leaned forward again, fixing Pavel with my gaze. "There are two ways this ends for you, boy. And for the rest of your charming little family. Option one—you tell me everything. Who your associates are. What group you work with. Where they live. You talk, and I give you all a gift: a quick death. One bullet. You, your mother, your father, your siblings—fast. Clean. You'll all look like you fell asleep."

Natassia's lips trembled. She said nothing.

"Option two…" I let the silence stretch. "You don't talk. And then, Pavel, we do it my way. I will have them all tortured. One by one. Right here. While you watch. I will make you watch until you're crying blood. And then—when they are nothing but screams and broken bones—I will burn them alive in front of you. One by one. All of them. And when the last one is ash… then your torture starts."

The boy's breathing quickened. His mother turned to him, voice breaking: "Tell him."

"Mama—"

"Tell him for god's sake!"

"Oh, don't bring the lord into this," I said lightly, almost amused. "He left the room when your son decided to murder my wife."

Stalin's eyes stayed on me, cool and appraising, like a man watching an experiment he expected to work. Yagoda avoided looking at the boy, staring instead at a crack in the plaster. Dzerzhinsky's mouth was a hard line; I could feel him filing this away for a later conversation about discipline and the Revolution.

I steepled my fingers. "So, Pavel… which ending do you want? Quick and easy or slow and painful. And please, please choose the slow option. I want to see you suffer like I am right now."

Pavel's chest heaved, the ropes creaking with every strained breath. His mother's hand was trembling on the table. The silence stretched until it was nearly unbearable.

Finally, his voice cracked. "It was the Left SRs."

I cocked my head. "The Left Socialist-Revolutionaries?"

"Yes," he spat. "You're a tyrant. All of you. You and your brother and every damn Bolshevik. We knew this was coming. You were just the first. There are others. Lists. Names. You're all—"

I raised my hand slightly, and he went quiet—not because he wanted to, but because he saw the smile spreading across my face.

"Oh, Pavel," I said, almost tender. "Spare me with the whole, you're all so and so bit, it's boring."

Stalin shifted slightly in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but I could see the gears turning—Left SRs, organized assassination plots, lists. He wasn't thinking about the morality; he was calculating the counterstroke.

Dzerzhinsky's gaze snapped to Pavel, the first flicker of genuine interest I'd seen in his eyes all night. "Names," he said flatly. "Now."

Pavel laughed—a raw, ugly sound. "I don't know them all. But I know enough. And when they come for you, no one will stop them. Not even you," he added, looking straight at me.

I leaned in until our noses were almost touching. "Pavel… I'm not going to stop them. I'm going to find them. I'm going to bring them here. And then—" I gestured lazily toward the cooling corpse of his lover, "—I'm going to do this, and worse, until they wish they'd died before they were born."

Yagoda finally spoke, voice low. "If he's telling the truth, this is more than a personal matter."

I chuckled. "Oh, it's still personal, Genrikh. It just has the bonus of being professionally useful."

Pavel tried to meet my eyes without flinching. He almost made it. "You can't kill an idea," he said.

I patted his cheek. "No. But I can kill everyone who has it and their families, down to the fucking babies. Now, names, locations. Or I'll stab one of your mother's eyes out. You have 30 seconds, one."

Pavel's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. His eyes flicked to his mother, then back to me. The defiance started to crumble—rage giving way to something else.

"They're here," he muttered.

I leaned back, folding my arms. "Names, Pavel."

He hesitated, and then it poured out in a rush. "Grigori Stepanovich Shilov. Ivan Dorofeyevich Markov. Yevgeniya Pleshko. All in Petrograd. Safehouses on Bolshaya Morskaya Street, one near the Haymarket. They got their orders from Moscow—from Yakov Blumkin's people. He's running it with Spiridonova's blessing."

Dzerzhinsky's head tilted almost imperceptibly at the mention of Blumkin. Yagoda's eyes narrowed, his mind already mapping the raids. Stalin, still leaning in the doorway, let out a quiet hum. "And Moscow?" he said slowly.

Pavel nodded. "You're all targets. Petrograd first, then Moscow. You were the first."

I let the words hang there. My pulse didn't quicken—if anything, I felt calmer now. The outlines of my evening's work were sharpening into something much bigger, something with more legs.

"Felix," I said without looking at him, "I guess you know what needs to be done?"

Dzerzhinsky stepped forward, his voice clipped. "They'll be taken alive. Interrogated properly."

"Of course," I said, smiling faintly. "Alive. At first."

Yagoda spoke up, almost cautiously. "And in Moscow?"

Stalin finally moved from the doorway, stepping closer. His voice was quiet but carried weight. "In Moscow, we send a message. This ends before it starts."

I turned back to Pavel, resting my hands on the table. "Thank you, Pavel. You've just upgraded yourself from 'slow and brutal death' to 'quick and painless.' That's progress. Not much, but progress."

He glared at me, but I could see the fear now—thin cracks running through the defiance. "Bring the rest of the family in."

The door opened again, and the rest of the Solkovsky family was marched in under guard. Father, sister, brother. All pale, silent, eyes darting to the body on the floor, then to Pavel, then to me.

"Line them up," I said.

The guards arranged them against the far wall. Natassia's eyes were glassy but fixed on her son. The father stood stiffly, as if refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing him shake. The sister was trembling so hard she could barely stand, and the brother kept trying to catch glimpses of the gagged Pavel.

I walked slowly down the line, hands behind my back, boots clicking on the floor. "You're all going to die," I said plainly, as if I were informing them of a change in train schedules. "The only question is whether you do it with a priest or with cigarettes."

They stared at me in stunned silence.

I turned to Pavel. "And you, boy? Priest or cigarettes? It's a courtesy you never spared my wife when you shot her in the back."

He swallowed hard, eyes wet. "Priest," he muttered.

I looked back at the rest of them. "Well? Speak up."

"Priest," Natassia said quickly, voice breaking. The others nodded.

"Very pious family," I said with a mock warmth, clapping my hands together softly. "Felix, make the arrangements."

Dzerzhinsky's face was unreadable, but I caught the faintest tightening of his jaw as he turned to one of his men and murmured an order. Stalin watched from the side, expression impassive—this wasn't about mercy to him, only procedure. Yagoda didn't meet anyone's eyes; he seemed intent on the far wall.

I strolled back to the table, leaning on it casually. "You'll all have your prayers. And then, once your souls are tidied up… well, we'll move on to the part Pavel's earned all for himself."

Pavel tried to hold my gaze but couldn't. The moment his eyes dropped, I smiled.

"Good. Then it's settled."

Stalin, Dzerzhinsky and Yagoda left the room. It was only me and the guards along with the family I was going to murder. I didn't speak to them, no need to speak to corpses. But I sang, over and over again. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes hold me tightly in your sweet arms."

Over and over again, Mikiko Noda'a singing in the snow. Only now I didn't have my wife with me. Only this anger, only this emptiness in my soul. So what if I killed them, it wouldn't bring her back. Hell, Aleksandra was a gentle woman, she probably wouldn't have minded letting them go if she survived.

But she didn't, and I was angry.

So I kept singing. "Ohh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms." Over and over, that same intro. All while remembering my wife's face when I sang it. A few tears streaming. The guards looked unsettled, the family even more so. I just wanted to hold Aleksandra, tell her how much I loved her and make love until the sun came up.

Around 15 minutes later, the door opened again and in shuffled Father Sergey Eldarevich Patruchev, still in his cassock, snow clinging to the hem. His eyes darted from the family lined up against the wall to me, and I could see it—the flicker of recognition, followed by disapproval so strong it almost radiated heat.

I composed myself and I grinned. "Father Sergey, thank you for coming on short notice. You've got some last rites to handle."

His lips tightened. "You know I don't approve of this, Mikheil."

"Of course you don't," I said lightly. "But you'll do it anyway, because if you don't, I'll find someone less squeamish and they'll botch it. Besides…" I gave him a mock-confiding smile, "I'll just confess next week anyway. You know how this works."

He closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward, murmuring the prayers. I stood beside him the whole time, arms folded, watching each family member bow their head in turn. Pavel kept his gaze fixed on the floor, jaw clenched.

When Sergey was done, I patted him on the shoulder. "Excellent work, Father. Truly dignified."

Then I began.

One shot. The father dropped like a sack of flour.

Another shot. The sister crumpled to her knees before falling forward.

A third shot. The brother's head snapped back, and he slid down the wall.

Natassia was last before Pavel. She didn't plead, didn't scream. Just crossed herself and waited. The shot was clean.

Now it was just Pavel.

I walked over slowly, savoring the sound of my boots on the wooden floor. "Your turn. What was it again? Priest or cigarettes?"

His voice was hoarse. "Priest."

I gestured toward Sergey. "Go on, Father. One more soul for the road."

Sergey hesitated, then stepped forward, speaking the words with the same gravity as before. I watched Pavel's lips move faintly along with him—whether in prayer or just trembling, I couldn't tell.

When it was over, I looked at Sergey. "Thank you, Father. That will be all. You can go."

He lingered for a moment, meeting my eyes. There was no fear there—just the heavy weight of judgment. I smiled at him.

Then I raised the pistol and put a single round through Pavel's gut. His body jerked, then he screamed.

"You should be grateful, better to bleed out on the floor than being burnt alive after a torture session. Think about what you've done as you bleed out. Guards. Make him look at his family's corpses as he bleeds. Once he's dead, bayonet him to make sure he's dead then burn his and the families bodies. Throw them in the Neva."

The guards only nodded as I walked out.

The rage was there, it was only blunted. But it wouldn't go away.

December 30, 1917
Winter Palace – Throne Room
Petrograd, Russia

I walked in and could almost hear my boots echo on the polished floor, though the Committee was already seated around a long, scarred table hauled in for the meeting. I didn't slow my stride. I didn't smile. I probably still smelled of gunpowder and charred meat. Good. Let them smell it. Let them remember what I'd done an hour ago.

I didn't say a word at first. I slid into my chair — directly across from Lenin, just off-center from the massive throne itself — and let the discussion wash over me: food shipments from the Volga, shortages of coal, worker morale in the Vyborg district. The usual revolutionary small talk.

That pressure in my chest was still there. Sashiko. Aleksandra. My wife. My anchor. The warmth in my life. Lying on the cold stone of a church floor with blood blooming through her coat. A part of me was already dead, and the part still alive was sharpening its bayonets.

Then I noticed them watching me — half the table had gone quiet, eyes flicking in my direction.

"Do I have so—" I stopped, sniffed once, and wiped at the corner of my eye. My fingers came away damp. "Sorry about that." My voice caught briefly. I took a slow, deep breath, made a show of steadying my hands, then wiped the tears again. "Carry on. Don't worry about me." My voice was as flat and monotone as I could manage.

No one looked reassured.

Stalin was seated further down, one arm resting lazily on the table, his eyes on me for just a beat too long. It wasn't pity — it was calculation. Is he in control enough to be useful? Or is he about to take the whole building down with him?

Dzerzhinsky sat ramrod straight, pen scratching against a pad, not looking up. But his shoulders were tenser than usual. I knew exactly what was behind that blank face — disapproval. Not of the killing. Never the killing. But the fact I'd done it hot, not cold. Felix preferred his terror like a surgeon preferred his scalpel — clean, exact, impersonal. Mine was a butcher's cleaver.

I let the silence stretch, then said, "The Left SRs need to be crushed. Completely. Pavel Solkovsky gave us names, addresses. Petrograd first — I'll work with Dzerzhinsky to clean it up, hard and fast. No speeches. No warnings. Then I take five thousand of my Guard Corps to Moscow. We hit their leadership before they have a chance to scatter. After that, Ukraine — I start escorting the Czechoslovaks to Murmansk."

Kamenev shifted uncomfortably. "Five thousand? That's a large deployment—"

"Better large than dead," I cut in.

I leaned forward, eyes sweeping the table. "And for that escort, I want Lenin's full authorization — in writing — to do whatever is necessary. If Red Guards or Soviets interfere, we put them in the ground. The Czechoslovaks are disciplined, armed, and dangerous. Piss them off, and they'll start killing our men in retaliation. We treat them carefully, or we don't bother."

A few murmurs passed around the table.

"And since we're talking about security for the revolution," I went on, "The Revolutionary Guard Corps is a guard corps. An attack on me is an attack on all of you. From now on, every member of this Committee and their families are to be guarded at all times — minimum of five guards. Not the factory type. Mine. And you all wear what my men wear: helmets and bulletproof armor. You might think it's excessive — until you hear the fireworks outside your church."

The silence that followed was thick.

Lenin finally spoke, leaning forward, fingers steepled. "You've acted decisively today, Mikheil. The Left SRs must be repressed, yes. Moscow especially. But personal grief is not the same as Party necessity. We must ensure your… methods… serve the Revolution, not private vengeance."

I smiled faintly. "Comrade, my private vengeance and the Revolution's needs just happen to be holding hands and skipping in the same direction right now. You can call it whatever you like."

Trotsky's eyes narrowed. "We can't have Petrograd turned into a theatre for your vendettas. Yes, crush the Left SRs — but under the Party's authority, not as some Georgian morality play where you're both judge and executioner."

I met his gaze and held it until he looked away. "Don't worry, Trotsky," I said softly. "I'll make sure the curtain call says approved by the Central Committee."

Bukharin, ever the optimist, tried a different tack. "We have to be careful not to alienate the workers with… heavy-handed repression. We can't afford to look like the Okhrana."

I leaned back, smirking. "Nikolai, if the workers see us wearing helmets, maybe they'll think we plan to stick around long enough to help them. Or at least to make sure the Left SRs don't get to them first."

Sverdlov tapped his pen. "The Petrograd purge should proceed immediately. The Moscow operation… we should authorize troop movements but finalize plans after Petrograd is secure."

Lenin nodded. "Agreed. Petrograd purge — approved. Mikheil and Dzerzhinsky will coordinate. Moscow — preliminary approval. Czechoslovak escort with full discretion — approved. Committee security: minimum three guards, five for those under direct threat, armor optional."

"Optional armor is still armor for the smart ones," I said.

The vote went quickly:

Petrograd purge: unanimous.

Moscow strike after Petrograd: approved, Stalin and Sverdlov to monitor.

Czechoslovak escort with full discretion: passed, Trotsky abstaining.

Committee security: passed, Kamenev muttering about "militarizing the leadership."

I sat back, folded my arms, and let my eyes wander around the throne room The Tsar had sat here once, surrounded by courtiers and gold. Now it sat empty, dusty, and irrelevant. Like my heart.

---------

December 30, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

The meeting was over, but it didn't feel like a victory. No one walked out talking strategy or boasting about decisions. It was just footsteps echoing down the marble halls, each man wrapped in his own thoughts.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The long table in Smolny's dining room felt more like a funeral reception than a meal. Stalin sat at my right, silent, his eyes occasionally flicking toward me but never lingering. Across from him, my younger brother Aleksander methodically cut his food into tiny pieces he didn't eat. My mother, Keke, cradled baby Besarion in her arms, rocking him gently. Iosif and Kato sat stiffly beside each other, their eyes fixed on their plates, chewing without appetite.

I didn't speak. None of us did. The clink of cutlery was the only sound until Keke softly hummed a lullaby to calm the baby.

When the plates were cleared, I stood without a word and made my way down the dim hallway to my quarters — the same ones I had shared with Aleksandra.

The air in the room was colder than I expected. I closed the door, and the latch seemed louder than it should've been. The bed was still made the way she liked it, the blanket folded back with that little crease at the corner. Her hairbrush sat on the vanity, a few strands of her dark hair still tangled in the bristles.

On the desk was our wedding photograph — the one with the two of us standing stiffly, unsmiling in that formal Georgian way, but with our hands clasped tight. I picked it up, my thumb tracing the outline of her face.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at it for a long time before I realized I was humming. No — singing. Mikiko Noda once again, singing in the snow.

"Oh baby you're my baby, so happy Christmas tonight, shining down free in your eyes, hold me tightly in your sweet arms."

The words came slow, unsteady. My voice cracked halfway through the verse, and I kept going anyway. By the time I reached the Japanese part of the song my throat had tightened, and the picture frame was wet in my hands.

It was ridiculous, really — a song about snow, here in Petrograd, where it never stopped falling.

My vision blurred. I pressed the picture to my chest, bent forward, and the sound came out of me — low, raw, almost a growl at first, then breaking into something closer to a sob.

I stayed there for what felt like hours, singing in fragments, stopping when my voice gave out, starting again until the words dissolved into silence.

When I finally set the picture back on the desk, my hands were shaking.

I wasn't done with the Left SRs. Not by a long shot.

But for the first time all day, I felt the weight of what they'd actually taken from me.

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from Memorandum – American Embassy, Moscow
Date: September 7, 1988
Subject: Observations on Non-American Cultural Influence and State Media Policy in the USSR

Since the Start of Stalin's rule, the Soviet Union has allowed and encouraged the circulation of foreign cultural products, primarily from Europe, Japan, and Latin America. This trend continues in the present decade and, in some respects, has accelerated significantly. While American cultural imports are not formally banned, their circulation remains subject to significant restrictions. U.S. books, films, and music may be possessed only for private use, and all such materials must be registered with the Committee for State Security (KGB). This requirement—effectively a form of surveillance over cultural consumption—applies exclusively to American content; media originating from other nations is exempt from this process, with the exception of politically charged media that is perceived to a challenge to Soviet ideology, which is subject to the same registration requirements.

In recent years, the global popularity of Japanese and European animation, comics, and music, as well as Latin American television dramas and pop culture, has created a strategic opportunity for Soviet authorities to increasingly marginalize American cultural influence without resorting to overt repression. Rather than relying solely on confiscations, prosecutions, or police raids—methods typical of other authoritarian regimes—the Soviet government appears to be employing a deliberate policy of cultural saturation. By flooding the domestic market with non-American foreign entertainment, officials can effectively dilute demand for American media, pushing it to the fringes of the black and grey markets.

Japanese and Latin American exports have proven especially popular among Soviet citizens. Brazilian and Mexican telenovelas, Spanish-language pop singers, and various television serials from across the Southern Hemisphere are broadcast regularly on state television and have even toured the country. In many cases, the original language audio is preserved, ostensibly as a nod to authenticity and cultural exchange. However, by retaining the original soundtrack, Soviet censors are able to control public interpretation via subtitled translations that omit, soften, or entirely reframe politically sensitive dialogue. In practice, this allows the regime to claim openness while still exerting tight editorial control.

A recent and illustrative example is the nationwide theatrical release of the Japanese animated film Akira. The film was screened widely across Soviet cities earlier this summer. As with other imported works, the authorities permitted the original Japanese audio but carefully edited the Russian subtitles to remove or neutralize politically charged content—particularly dialogue that might be construed as commentary on state power, social unrest, or generational disillusionment. The result is a version of the film that retains its visual and technical appeal while muting any elements that could provoke political reflection.

By embracing non American foreign imports, the regime can present an image of cultural openness to its citizens and the international community while safeguarding ideological boundaries. The broader effect is a gradual erosion of underground demand for American cultural products, not through fear of punishment, but through the calculated offering of sanctioned, state-filtered alternatives.

---

December 31, 1917
Smolny Institute
Petrograd, Russia

I woke to the pale light of winter crawling across the ceiling, the kind of light that made the air feel colder just by existing. This room — a former classroom with peeling chalkboards and cracked plaster — had been our home inside these walls. Mine and Aleksandra's.

I sat up slowly, my eyes drawn, as they had been every morning, to the side of the bed where she used to sleep.

No more Aleksandra. No more leaning over to kiss her awake. No more burying my face against her shoulder after a long day. No more of her laugh cutting through the gloom. No more of her scent.

I leaned over to her pillow and pressed my face into it, inhaling. The faint trace of her scent and perfume was still there — floral, warm, unmistakable. And then it hit me again, like a bayonet sliding between the ribs. My throat tightened, my eyes burned.

"Sashiko…" The word came out as a whimper, a plea. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The smell wouldn't last. I knew that. Scents are treacherous — they fade, like morning dew burning off in the sun. In a few weeks it would be gone entirely, and all I'd have left would be her memory. And memories were crueler than death because they stayed long enough to mock you.

I stood and crossed to her drawer, pulling it open. Everything was still there, untouched since the night before. Her clothes were folded in the same meticulous way she always insisted on, like even fabric deserved dignity. I let my fingers rest on each piece.

The beautiful red dress she wore when we stayed in, the one that seemed to glow under candlelight. The polka-dotted dress I gave her for her thirty-fifth birthday — she had laughed at it at first, then wore it until the seams threatened to give. And tucked neatly in a box at the corner, the jewelry I'd bought her with the money I skimmed during my time as a cop. Stolen rubles turned into silver and gemstones — a fitting transformation, I'd thought at the time.

I lifted the box, ran my thumb over the clasp, and opened it. The pieces caught the morning light, throwing little shards of red and gold across the wall. They looked just the same as the day I gave them to her. The only difference was that she'd never wear them again.

The grief was a physical weight pressing down on my chest. For a moment I wanted to smash the box against the wall, scatter the jewelry across the floor like shrapnel. But I didn't. I closed it gently, set it back in place. It was going to be a long day, I went and got changed then went to get breakfast, I couldn't murder on an empty stomach.

The walk from my quarters to the dining room felt longer than it ever had, every step echoing in the stone hallways. I passed guards in black helmets who snapped to attention when I walked by. And saluted. I didn't return the gesture. I didn't even look at them. I just kept moving until I pushed open the heavy double doors and the smell of porridge and black bread drifted out.

They were all there already. Aleksander — my brother-in-law — sitting stiffly with his hands folded on the table. Keke, my mother, rocking Besarion in her arms with a slow rhythm, her eyes downcast. Stalin was seated off to one side, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling up toward the chandelier, I didn't bother to stop him like I always did, what was the point? Yakov — the nephew I'd raised like my own — stared down at his bowl, not touching the spoon. Across from him were my children: Aleksander, Kato, and Iosif, all quiet, all staring at their plates like they were afraid to make eye contact with me.

The room was silent except for the scrape of a spoon against a bowl.

I took my seat at the head of the table. My voice came out low, even. "I'm sorry."

Every head turned, except for Stalin, who just kept smoking and watching me through the haze.

"My carelessness got Aleksandra killed." The words tasted like metal in my mouth. "I let her be exposed, and I let someone close enough to do it. That won't happen again. To any of you."

I set my elbows on the table, leaning forward, eyes moving from face to face. "From now on, all of you have guards. All the time. Five minimum. Helmets. Bulletproof vests. No exceptions. If you don't like it, too bad. This isn't a debate."

Keke's eyes lifted, just for a moment. "Mikheil—"

I cut her off with a glance. "No exceptions, Mother."

She closed her mouth and looked back down at the baby in her arms, stroking his hair.

I went on. "I'll have my men teach the kids how to shoot. How to defend themselves. If someone comes for you, you put them down and you don't ask questions. The only way I'm burying any of you is if you die in bed, of old age, surrounded by family or illness. Anything else, and I'll make the man who caused it wish he'd never been born and kill his whole family."

The silence was heavier now.

Aleksander (my brother in law) gave a slow nod, though his eyes were shadowed. Yakov looked uneasy, like he wanted to say something but didn't dare. Kato's hands clenched in her lap, a mix of fear and excitement flickering across her face — she liked the idea of learning to shoot, but not why she'd have to. Iosif just nodded, sniffing a little.

Besarion gurgled softly in Keke's arms, the only sound in the room that wasn't soaked in tension.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly, my hands curling into fists in my lap. "I feel like someone tore my heart out," I said, my voice low, "and I refuse to feel that again. For anyone. You hear me? Anyone touches you, I will kill them and everything and everyone they ever loved. There will only be corpses to bury."

Nobody answered. They didn't have to.

We began to eat.

The silence that followed my words was almost physical — a thick, pressing thing that settled over the table.

They didn't argue. They didn't even nod. They just… kept eating. Spoons scraping bowls, teeth tearing at black bread. Even the sound of Stalin's cigarette tapping against the ashtray seemed loud in the room.

Aleksander (my brother-in-law) focused on his food like it was the most important job in the world. Keke fed Besarion with her free hand, never looking up. Yakov's jaw worked steadily as he chewed, but I could see him glance at the children every so often, worry etched in the corners of his eyes.

Kato ate slowly, mechanically, like a soldier on rations. Iosif picked at his bread more than he ate it. The younger Aleksander — my brother in law's namesake — finished quickly but stayed seated, staring at his empty bowl and sobbing a little. Besarion babbled softly in Keke's arms, blissfully unaware of the lead weight in the air.

Nobody said a word. Breakfast had become an exercise in pretending the man at the head of the table hadn't just laid down rules with the finality of a firing squad.

When the plates were empty, chairs scraped back one by one. I stood, pushing mine in slowly. Stalin rose too, smoothing his coat, and Aleksander followed, buttoning his jacket.

Before leaving, I stepped around the table. First to Keke — I bent down, kissed her forehead. She smelled of bread and soap. "I love you so much mom," I told her quietly. Her hand squeezed my arm, but she didn't speak.

I moved to my children. I kissed the top of Iosif's head, gripped Kato's shoulder until she looked up at me, hugged Aleksander hard enough that he squeaked. "I love you so much," I said to each of them. Not goodbye. Just the truth, as raw as I could make it.

Besarion was still in Keke's arms. I kissed him gently, feeling his tiny fingers curl around mine. "Especially you, little one," I whispered.

Then I straightened, nodded to Stalin and Aleksander, and the three of us walked out together. The doors shut behind us, leaving the smell of bread and tobacco behind.

The cold hit me the second we stepped outside of Smolny— that sharp, dry winter air that felt like it could slice your lungs if you breathed too deeply. Stalin walked at my right, silent and watchful as ever, a faint plume of smoke trailing from the cigarette clenched between his fingers. Aleksander was on my left, his collar turned up against the wind, his face tight and pale.

We crossed the courtyard toward the main gates, the frost crunching under our boots. Beyond the iron bars, a convoy waited — black-lacquered trucks idling, their exhaust curling into the air like lazy ghosts.

Yagoda stood at the head of it, wrapped in his heavy overcoat, his hat pulled low. Tukhachevsky was beside him, looking as immaculate as always, his gloves spotless, his posture the sort of thing that made parade-ground instructors weep with joy. Behind them, men stood in formation, rifles slung, black helmets catching the pale sunlight.

I walked straight up to Yagoda. "Genrikh," I said flatly, "you're expanding the guard."

He gave a small nod. "How far?"

"Five guards minimum for every Central Committee member and their families, down to the fucking babies. Mandatory bulletproof vests and helmets. No exceptions."

I jabbed a finger at his chest. "Pick the best of the best. Separate them from the Revolutionary Guard Corps entirely. They'll be their own unit — the Guard Regiment. Elite. Unbreakable. You organize it however you want, but if you fail me…" I let the pause hang until his eyes met mine, "…it'll be your head on a platter."

Yagoda's lips pressed into a thin line. "Understood."

I stepped past him to Tukhachevsky. "Mikhail, are the men ready?"

He gave a sharp nod. "They're equipped and standing by."

"Good," I said, my voice dropping into something darker, almost casual. "We have SRs to massacre."

Tukhachevsky didn't flinch — if anything, I caught the faintest flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Behind me, Stalin exhaled smoke through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. Aleksander glanced between us, his jaw tight, but said nothing.

"Let's get moving," I said, stepping toward the lead truck.

---

December 31, 1917
Winter Palace – throne Room
Petrograd, Russia

The Winter Palace throne room was colder than Smolny, and it wasn't just the draft. The high ceilings and marble floors seemed to suck the heat out of the air. Dzerzhinsky was waiting when we arrived, flanked by his National guardsmen — hard-eyed, in long coats that hid their weapons but not their intent. A table had been cleared, maps of Petrograd pinned down by pistols and paperweights.

He didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Per Lenin's orders," he said, his voice flat and clipped, "they are to be taken alive unless they resist."

From inside his coat, he produced a folded sheet of paper and handed it to me. I unfolded it slowly. The names glared up at me in neat handwriting — each one a Left SR leader, each one walking around this city right now, breathing air Aleksandra would never breathe again.

I read the list once, committing each name to memory. My eyes didn't leave the page, but my mind was already walking into their apartments, already hearing the screams, already deciding which ones would 'resist.'

I looked up at Felix. He was watching me with that granite face of his, trying to read whether I was going to follow Lenin's orders or my own.

I didn't say a word. I just nodded once.

Dzerzhinsky gave a short nod in return and stepped back, signaling his men to start preparing. The room moved into motion — boots on marble, the click of rifle bolts, the scrape of chairs as maps were pulled closer.

Stalin, standing off to the side, watched me over the rim of his cigarette. Aleksander was by the door, leaning against the wall, silent but alert. Tukachevsky had taken up a position by the maps, already tracing routes with his finger, his mind turning over logistics.

I slipped the list into my coat pocket, close to my chest. I could feel it there like a second heartbeat.

Alive unless they resist.

By the time the trucks rolled out, the city was still half-asleep under a sheet of frost. The streets were quiet except for the growl of engines and the crunch of tires on snow. The Guard Regiment rode in the lead trucks — red helmets, black coats, rifles resting between their knees. Behind them came Dzerzhinsky's National guard detachments, their long overcoats hiding the steel underneath.

The list in my pocket was warm from my body heat, every name etched in my mind.

We hit the first address just as the sun was turning the snow on the rooftops to gold. The guards went in hard — no knocks, no warnings. Doors splintered, boots slammed against the floorboards, shouts in Russian and Georgian filling the air. Most of them froze when they saw the rifles. A few ran. One pulled a pistol and got a bullet through the arm for his trouble.

The orders were to take them alive unless they resisted. My men knew how to make "resisting" a very broad category, but we stuck to Lenin's line for now.

The trucks filled quickly. The arrested were shoved inside, wrists tied, heads down. Some tried to shout slogans — "Long live the Socialist Revolutionaries!" — but it always trailed off when a rifle butt nudged their ribs.

By midday, the convoy was a chain of trucks snaking back to the Winter Palace. The gates opened for us, and the guards waved us through. The snow in the courtyard was already churned into dirty slush by boot heels and tire treads.

Inside the throne room, the arrests were funneled into lines. The imperial grandeur made it all the more obscene — the Left SRs standing where the Tsar once greeted ambassadors, now with their hats in their hands and the cold still clinging to their coats.

They were herded into groups under the chandeliers. Dzerzhinsky stood off to one side, clipboard in hand, calling out names and checking them off. I walked the lines slowly, hands behind my back, letting my eyes sweep over each face. Some glared at me. Some wouldn't meet my gaze at all.

One of them — an older man with a thin, ragged beard — muttered, "This isn't justice."

I stopped in front of him. "No," I said evenly. "It's not. It's vengeance."

I moved on.

By nightfall, the throne room looked less like a seat of empire and more like a holding pen. The air was thick with sweat, tobacco, and fear. The list in my pocket was almost completely ticked off — a few names still at large, but they wouldn't get far. Not in this weather. Not in this city.

The throne room was different in the dark. The chandeliers still glowed overhead, but the light felt harsher, throwing the shadows longer. The gilded walls and painted ceilings looked less like symbols of imperial grandeur and more like a stage set — and tonight, Dzerzhinsky was directing the play.

The men from the KGB had set up tables at one end of the room, papers neatly stacked, chairs pulled up for the prisoners. One by one, they were led from the lines, sat down under the watchful eyes of guards, and questioned in that clipped, mechanical style Felix preferred. Meanwhile the national guardsmen surrounded the room, guns ready. And the same questions were asked.

Name. Affiliation. Associates. Safehouses. Weapons.

The questions never changed, only the answers — and often not even that. Some lied, some stonewalled, some tried to bargain. Every time, Dzerzhinsky noted something on the sheet, passed it down the table, and gestured for the next one.

I stood off to the side, hands in my pockets, watching. The air in here was thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, tobacco smoke, and fear.

Felix worked like a clock — steady, methodical, no wasted motion. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His men knew when to step in. A tap on the shoulder meant a guard would lean in close and whisper something in a prisoner's ear that made their face go pale. Probably a threat against their families, looks like Felix picked up a few things from me. But aside from that, a simple nod could send a man to a side room from which no one returned that night.

I found myself studying the faces. The ones that sweated. The ones that trembled. The ones that still tried to glare like they thought it meant something. I wasn't looking for guilt — that was certain. I just wanted to savor it, anything to forget the pain.

A young woman — one of the names from my list — sat down in front of Dzerzhinsky. She gave her name without being asked, and then launched into a tirade about "true socialism" and "betrayal of the revolution." Felix let her talk. Didn't interrupt. Just wrote something down and passed the paper to a guard. She was pulled from the chair and led out. Her voice echoed off the marble for a moment before the heavy doors shut.

When there was a lull between interrogations, I crossed the room to where Felix was making notes on one of the case sheets. "I don't care how you get the information," I said quietly, "but I want control over the executions."

He didn't even look up from the paper. "That's not standard procedure."

"Neither is shooting my wife in a church," I said. "And yet, here we are."

Felix's pen hovered for a moment, then scratched across the paper again. "Fine. But it will be done cleanly."

"Clean enough," I said. "We'll start at midnight."

That got his eyes up. "Why midnight?"

I smiled without humor. "It's symbolic. New Year, new slate. The first sunrise of 1918 will shine on a Petrograd with fewer enemies in it. Consider it… a gift to the revolution."

Across the room, a guard slammed a prisoner's head down onto the table to stop him from spitting at the interviewer. The man groaned, blood dripping onto the polished wood. I almost laughed.

I glanced at the tall clock in the corner. The hands crept toward eleven. The air in the throne room was thick with tension and the faint smell of powder from the rifles stacked near the wall. The prisoners in the lines had gone quieter as the night wore on. They knew something was coming.

I turned back to Felix. "When the clock strikes twelve, I want them lined up in the courtyard. No speeches. No ceremony. Just the sound of rifles. We'll start the year as we mean to go on."

Felix gave a curt nod and turned back to his work. I walked away, hands in my pockets, whistling something tuneless.

It was almost time to celebrate.

---

January 1, 1918 – Midnight
Winter Palace Courtyard
Petrograd, Russia

Snow fell in lazy spirals, settling over the cobblestones and the boots of the guard detail. The prisoners were lined up in two neat rows, their breath fogging in the frozen air. Guards stood behind them, rifles slung, bayonets glinting in the light of the courtyard torches.

I stepped forward, revolver in hand. No speeches. No last-minute appeals to the Revolution. That wasn't why we were here.

One by one, I stopped in front of them. The routine never changed.

"Priest or cigarettes?" I asked the first man. His face was pale, eyes darting to the line of guards.

"Priest," he whispered.

I gestured, and Father Sergey stepped forward from the shadows. The priest's murmured prayers mixed with the faint jingle of the clock tower gearing up for midnight. When Sergey stepped back, I raised the revolver and put a single round through the man's forehead. He collapsed into the snow without a sound.

Next.

"Priest or cigarettes?"

"Cigarettes." His hands shook as a guard lit one for him. He took two deep drags before I shot him in the chest.

Third. "Priest or cigarettes?"

No answer, just a defiant stare. I shot him without comment.

It went on like that, the same rhythm — question, choice, bullet. Father Sergey moved like a shadow at my side, giving last rites to some, looking away for others. His eyes were hollow, but he kept doing the work.

By the time we reached the last few, the snow around us was no longer white. The smell of blood and burnt powder clung to the air. My hands didn't ache, my arms didn't tremble.

By the end of the first batch, I felt nothing. No satisfaction. No release. Just empty.

The last one fell into the snow as the great bells of Petrograd began to toll midnight, marking the start of the new year. The sound rolled through the frozen air, echoing off the palace walls.

I holstered the revolver, tilted my head back, and began to sing.

Slowly, quietly at first —
"Ohh baby you're my baby… so happy Christmas ton-"

I stopped, rhe words hung in the cold, my breath turning them to fog. I kept going, my voice flat, almost monotone, as the bells kept ringing. Not even Mikiko Noda's songs could cure how empty I felt right now.

The guards shifted uncomfortably. Father Sergey crossed himself.

I didn't bother finishing the verse as the last bell faded, the final body cooling at my feet.

A new year had begun. And there was still so many more to shoot.

The courtyard became a machine that night, reload, line up, question, shoot, repeat. The only sound was the crunch of boots in the snow, the click of the revolver's cylinder, the occasional snap of a guard lighting a cigarette for a condemned man.

"Priest or cigarettes?"
"Priest."
Bang.

"Priest or cigarettes?"
"Cigarettes."
Bang.

Over and over, my voice never changing, my aim never wavering.

At first, I thought I'd start feeling it after the first dozen, or maybe the first fifty. But the feeling never came. Instead, my mind drifted — not away from the courtyard, but somewhere deeper inside it. I thought about Aleksandra. The way her hair would fall forward when she bent to read. The way her eyes crinkled when she smirked at one of my worse jokes. The way her breath felt on my shoulder in the middle of the night.

And then the sound of the revolver brought me back. Always the same sharp crack, the same faint jerk in my arm, the same collapse of a body into the snow.

By the middle of the night, the snow wasn't white anymore. The red spread in uneven blotches, soaking into boots, freezing in thin crusts along the cobblestones. The bodies were dragged aside in piles by the gate — quiet, methodical work from the guards, like men hauling sacks of grain.

I didn't keep count. I didn't want to.

Sometime past dawn, when the sky had just started to pale, I lowered the revolver and looked at the courtyard — at the heaps of bodies, the trampled snow, the steam rising from the blood-warmed ground.

I turned to one of the guards, a young one whose eyes darted anywhere but at mine. "How many tonight?"

He hesitated. "Comrade, I… I lost count after a hundred."

I stared at him for a long moment. Then I laughed.

It wasn't loud. It wasn't joyful. Just a dry, ugly sound that came from somewhere too deep to be healthy.

And then, before I knew it, I was crying. Still laughing, but crying — tears freezing on my cheeks as I stood there with the revolver in my hand, bodies at my feet, and Aleksandra's face in my head.

The guard stepped back, like he wasn't sure if I was about to hug him or shoot him.

I holstered the revolver, wiped my face, and kept laughing until the tears were gone.

There were still names left on the list. But I was tired, I needed breakfast. And maybe some sleep.

I walked over, revolver still in hand, Felix stood in the entrance to the courtyard, watching me in silent judgement. "Felix," I said, "spread the word about what I did. Every detail. Let it go through the whole city. No. All of Russia. Continue with the executions, I'm going to take a small break and come back later."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"

"Because it'll concentrate all the fear and hatred on me," I said simply. "And the more it's on me, the less it's on the rest of the Central Committee. Let me be the monster they see in the dark. Makes your job easier. Makes them and you safer."

Felix studied me for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Fear is a useful weapon, if you can carry it without it destroying you."

I gave him a crooked grin. "Hopefully an assassin's bullet does the job before that happens. Then I can see my wife again. It's only been a day, Felix, but…" My voice dipped just slightly, "…I miss her."

He didn't reply right away. He just looked at me with that stone-faced expression of his, the one that didn't give away whether he was agreeing, judging, or just filing the moment away for later. Finally, he said, "At the rate you'll going you'll probably end up seeing her soon."

I laughed — short, sharp, and humorless. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

Felix didn't smile. He rarely did. But he nodded again, and that was as close to approval as I'd ever get from him. Then I walked back into the palace, breakfast, sleep, then back to killing.