Chapter Text
Mark Erokhin and Albert Isakovski met during their service in the First Army. Their regiment never saw major combat. Instead, they spent endless nights in tents, swapping stories over mugs of kvass or debating heavy topics like religion and politics—conversations that changed nothing but felt profoundly important.
Mark was a tall, imposing man. His thick beard, grown since youth, made him look decades older. Modest and quiet, the whole platoon knew provoking him meant trouble. When they were recruits, a veteran began spreading vicious rumors about Mark for no reason. Erokhin endured the insults silently for two weeks, then warned him once to stop. When ignored, Mark struck the man’s face repeatedly, shattering his nose and eye socket. Mark served two months in the brig—worth it, as no one bothered him again. That’s when Albert realized he should cling to this brute, even if his conversations were tedious.
Albert himself was unremarkable-looking but a master seducer. He avoided commitment, preferring flings with girls ten years younger. At twenty-seven, he deemed women his age "old maids." It shocked even him how easily teenagers believed lines like "Your eyes hold depths I’ve never seen" or "That smile could light up Ravka." Recycled compliments never failed.
Mark, a staunch traditionalist, condemned his friend’s exploits and how he "drugged young girls’ minds." Albert often teased him to join, but Mark always refused. Albert only learned why during a shared night watch: Mark confessed he was waiting for "the one," had never been with a woman, and didn’t know how to approach them. So when Mark fell for a waitress in a village near Os Alta, Albert approached her himself: "My friend hasn’t stopped staring at you."
Marina Chernova was beautiful unconventionally. No long hair, full bust, or plump lips—instead, she stood tall with short blonde curls and a fiercely expressive face. Combined with her startling kindness and elegance—rare for village girls—she became magnetic. Something about her commanded undivided attention.
After the war and discharge, Albert accompanied Mark back to the village. With her family’s blessing, Mark proposed. Marina said yes. Months later, they held a modest wedding. Albert drank heartily before slipping away with a bridesmaid. By all accounts, it was perfect.
Months into Mark’s quiet married life and Albert’s unbridled revelry, their army savings dwindled. They moved to Os Kervo, where Albert’s parents had relocated after selling their old home. The newlyweds took a tiny house; Albert lived with his parents. Both worked at a fish shop owned by a frail old man who couldn’t manage physical labor. The pay was meager, but with his parents’ pension, Albert lived comfortably—no rent or groceries to buy.
Albert relished it. After work, he frequented the tavern to drink or find company. Sometimes he dined with Mark, ignoring his friend’s prattle about window paint colors or their boss’s ramblings while stealing glances at Marina. But while Albert was content, Mark fixated on money. He forbade Marina from working, despite meeting her on the job. He also mentioned their struggle to conceive—a future child meant doubled expenses, and the shop couldn’t cover it. Mark took side jobs: fishing on days off, repairing war widows’ homes.
Still, he complained. He considered reenlisting—free room and board, all wages to Marina. She threatened divorce in tears: "I won’t live months wondering if you’re dead!" They compromised: Mark signed onto a merchant ship bound for Novyi Zem for three months. Neither liked it. Both consulted Albert; he insisted it would be fine.
The first weeks after Mark’s departure, Marina moved through life dazed. Albert, the devoted "family friend," "supported" her. He skipped the tavern for dinners at her house. It became routine.
Gradually, Albert escalated his attentions—pastries, chocolates, flowers. Marina flushed but accepted them when he called it "thanks for the meals." Trusting and naive, she believed him. He saw no sin in it: Her husband was gone; she had needs. Better him than a stranger carrying diseases.
One evening—six weeks post-departure—Albert brought cheap red wine. Marina refused, claiming she’d never drunk. He poured anyway, insisting "just a little." He convinced her porridge "clashed" with wine; she replaced it with sliced fruit, blushing.
A bottle later, Marina was flushed and giggly, hanging on Albert’s every word. He helped her stand. Her steps faltered. "Let’s get you to bed." In the bedroom, he kissed her, pulling her close. She stiffened—then surrendered.
When Albert visited the next day, the door stayed locked. He cornered Marina later; she stared at the floor, calling it a "mistake." He barely convinced her to stay silent. "Mark shattered a man’s face for less," he hissed. "If he learns, we die." She agreed, weeping. They never spoke of it again.
Until.
Four days before Mark’s return, Marina sobbed on Albert’s parents’ doorstep. She’d felt ill for weeks. The doctor confirmed: she was pregnant.
Albert almost laughed. What took Mark months, he’d done in one night. Then reality struck. He urged her to end it secretly—he’d pay. She refused, screaming: "Murderer! How can you kill your child?" Albert didn’t see the thing inside her as alive, let alone his. But Marina ranted about confessing to Mark, who’d "forgive."
Albert knew better. He couldn’t silence her. Couldn’t hide a child clearly not Mark’s. He shoved her out. Only one option: flee.
His parents were out. He ransacked his mother’s jewelry box, taking his grandmother’s gold rings. Then he lifted his father’s mattress—the hiding spot unchanged. An envelope lay there, stuffed with vlachki from their house sale. Roughly 100,000. Enough to start over.
Albert packed his army duffel: money at the bottom, clothes atop. He stuffed documents and 10,000 vlachki into his coat. Every Os Altan seemed to know his shame as he marched to the harbor.
"Purpose of visit to Ketterdam?" the customs officer asked.
"Tourism," Albert replied, boarding the Kerch-bound ship.
***
Kaz listened, disgust plain on his face, as his drunken new acquaintance slurred his story. They sat in Burke’s apartment—easier to lure the "specimen" here than drag it to the University District. The professor was dining with faculty and wouldn’t return for hours.
"I don’t get your logic. You didn’t even tell your parents," Kaz said, thanking Ghezen for the man’s stupidity.
"Boy, if I’d stayed, my soft-hearted mother would’ve made me marry that dull girl. Play family man. If Mark didn’t kill me first. Sound fun?" Albert’s tongue tripped over itself.
"Why sleep with her if she bored you?" Kaz studied the curtain pattern to stifle his urge to crack Albert’s skull with his cane.
"She got boring after I had her. Before? Fire. Besides, marry every girl who whelps my brat? I’d be miserable." Albert made a wet gurgle—a laugh, Kaz guessed.
"How many kids?" Kaz asked tonelessly.
"How should I know? Two brats in Balakirev might be mine. Know what I do with that?" Albert leaned in like sharing gospel.
"What?"
"Never go back to Balakirev." Albert cackled.
"Live by that, soon no cities left for you."
Won’t matter soon, Kaz thought.
"Flatterer. You’re a student—what problems can you have?" Albert’s speech decayed.
"My theology professor. Won’t admit her Saints are frauds." Kaz’s mouth flickered at the thought of Inej.
"That’s it?"
Plus six businesses, a hundred thugs, and half the Barrel, Kaz didn’t say. "That’s it."
"Boring life."
"Want another drink?" Kaz needed him unconscious.
"Still asking? Pour!" Two glasses later, Albert passed out on Burke’s bedroom floor.
***
Burke wished he’d seen this coming. He walked home buoyant after good food, wine, and company. Life felt perfect. He unlocked his door (two bolts, always) and entered the parlor—to find Kaz Brekker sprawled in his armchair, sipping his treasured scotch (a student gift from years ago), cane propped nearby.
"Mr. Brekker—what are you doing here?" Burke’s voice shook.
"Delivering on our deal," Kaz rasped. "Your ‘specimen’ is on the bedroom floor."
"Is he dead?" Burke paled, dizzy at the thought of a corpse nearby.
"Drunk. I promised a body. Didn’t say it’d arrive dead."
"But how?" Burke stammered.
"How it dies—that your question?" Kaz pulled something from his pocket—a small syringe—and placed it on the table. "Your job now. You’re a doctor. Intravenous injections won’t trouble you." Kaz stood, cane thumping as he left. "Evening, Professor."
Burke stared at the syringe, frozen. He didn’t know Albert wouldn’t live to see dawn.