"Can a man possessing consciousness ever really respect himself?"
~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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The Amber Room glowed warmly in the soft afternoon light that filtered through its windows, yet the air was taut with tension. Nicholas sat at the end of a long table, his tea untouched before him. To his left stood Sergei Witte, his posture as rigid as his starched collar, while across from him, Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the polished table.
He was curious as to why had invited him out of all people... He had never seriously asked his advice before anyway... So what was the novity this time?
Nicholas broke the silence first, his voice steady. "I just concluded my meeting with the Kaiser. He has made several offers: investment, training, and military equipment. But of course, there are deeper implications."
Witte nodded, his expression thoughtful but guarded. "Germany's investments could accelerate our modernization. Their industries are unparalleled, and the Kaiser's willingness to engage signals an opportunity we should not squander."
The Grand Duke let out a faint scoff, his brow arching. "And the price for this generosity? Wilhelm never does anything out of sheer goodwill."
Nicholas inclined his head toward his uncle. "You're right, Sergei. The cost is subtle but real. The equipment they offer will almost certainly be outdated. Usable, but far from cutting-edge. The training? German officers would shape our military doctrine to their liking. And the investments? They come with expectations of loyalty, if not outright dependence."
Witte interjected, his tone pragmatic. "With respect, Your Majesty, we must not let mistrust blind us to practicality. If Germany's funds can build our railways and factories, and their training improves our military efficiency, then why hesitate? We can take what they offer and ensure our policies remain independent. About the outdated equipment, we don't have to become dependent on it. We can analyse it and improve it, creating our own industry."
"And how do you propose we ensure that, Witte?" the Grand Duke countered, his voice edged with skepticism. "Their advisors will not simply leave once their lessons are done. They will linger, influence our officers, perhaps even our strategies. This is not aid; it is a leash."
Nicholas raised a hand, silencing the brewing argument. "This is why I've called you both here. Witte, your expertise in managing these investments will be critical. We will accept their funding, but under strict terms. Joint ventures with Russian oversight, and priority given to industries that serve our national interests. Steel, arms, railroads. As for the equipment, we take only what we need to fill immediate gaps, while using it as a foundation for domestic production."
Witte gave a small nod, his mind already calculating the logistics. "And the training?"
"That," Nicholas said, turning to the Grand Duke, "is why I called you here. I want your opinion, uncle."
The Grand Duke leaned forward, his expression firm. "My opinion? The answer should be obvious, Your Majesty. This arrangement risks too much. First, there is the integrity of the Russian military. Our army must remain Russian in thought, structure, and spirit. Allowing German officers to train our men is an invitation to dilute that identity. Second, there are political ramifications. France will see this as a betrayal. The Franco-Russian Alliance is not just a treaty; it is the cornerstone of our foreign policy. Alienating them now could destabilize our position in Europe."
He paused, his voice growing colder. "And then there is the issue of sovereignty. This is a dangerous precedent. Accepting German officers may be seen as an admission that Russia cannot stand on its own. It weakens us, Nicholas, not strengthens us. Do you want history to remember you as the Tsar who handed the reins of his army to Berlin?"
'Mabye I am still thinking as a 21st century man. I am used to countries co-operating in doctrines, joint training, joint exercises, especially in NATO... I sometimes forget about the political ramifications. The nobles would definitely exploit this mistake of mine.. I have to be more careful. I have become complacent!' Thought Nicholas, almost in horror.
Finally, he looked up, his blue eyes meeting his uncle's. "Perhaps you're right," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "We cannot allow our military to become an extension of German influence. We must modify the deal. Witte, notify the diplomats and specialists drafting the agreements. The training will be scaled back. German officers may offer advice, but they will not lead or dictate. Our own generals will oversee every step of the process."
Witte inclined his head. "As you wish, Your Majesty. I will ensure the terms reflect this."
The Grand Duke nodded, though a faint trace of doubt lingered in his gaze. He has made the right decision, but how firmly will he hold to it when Wilhelm presses him again?
Nicholas stood, signaling the end of the discussion. "Thank you, both of you. Your counsel is invaluable."
As they left the Amber Room, the Tsar lingered for a moment, then he returned to his desk, the golden walls of the Amber Room gleamed and even reflected in his face.
...
The room was dimly lit, a faint haze of smoke curling from the agents' cigarettes. Outside, the winter wind howled, but inside the modest office, the air was still. Two newly promoted Okhrana agents, Yakov and Mikhail, stood vigil by the window, their eyes darting to the street below. They were waiting for someone to come.
There were whispers in the air, growing louder with each passing day. Their target was a man many had never heard of before, an agitator, a writer, a lawyer in profession. Yet, despite his obscurity, he had a way of drawing people to him. At least, that's what the Okhrana had found out digging about him these last few says.
The agents had been ordered to keep an eye on him. His presence in St. Petersburg was alarming, his ideas dangerous. But who exactly was this Lenin? They had yet to learn much about him. He wasn't a known figure like others...
"What exactly is he planning? What does he want?
Oh, don't misunderstand. I'm just curious as to why they chose this guy. I'm not against taking him out." He said and then shrugged nonchalantly.
Yakov turned away from the window.
Just then, Lenin turned to the street the agents were monitoring, oblivious this would be the last street he turned into. His coat damp from the snow, his face tired but resolute. He looked like any other man, his eyes carrying a quiet intensity, a man with something to prove.
Mikhail stiffened but Yakov gave a curt nod, signaling the plan.
Before Lenin could even process the situation, Mikhail moved, the sharp flash of a knife in the cold air. Lenin didn't have time to respond. The cut was clean, efficient. He collapsed to the floor, his blood staining the cold marble.
The two men stood over him, their faces expressionless.
"It's done," Mikhail muttered.
Yakov gave a nod, his mind already shifting to the next step. "We'll make it look like an accident. A common street altercation. No one must know what truly happened here. Steal his coat and wallet to make it look like an ordinary robbery."
Right at that moment, as he spoke to Mikhail and focused on his face, a flicker of a movement caught the corner of his eye. Glancing quickly, he noticed a young teen, no older than 14 or 15 years old, standing in the shadows, clearly having witnessed the entire event.
The teen stood in the dim corner, barely more than a shadow himself. His face was gaunt, the sharp bones of his cheekbones protruding unnaturally beneath pale, sallow skin that seemed too thin for his frame. His clothes were ragged, hanging loosely from a malnourished body, the fabric worn and frayed at the edges. His eyes, wide with a mix of fear and disbelief, were sunken deep into his face, dark circles shadowing them like bruises. His hands trembled, clasped tightly in front of him, the knuckles starkly white against the dirt-smeared skin. He looked like a ghost of a boy, emaciated and beaten by life, yet somehow still standing, a silent witness to the brutality unfolding before him. He was so terrified he couldn't even move...
Mikhail and Yakov glanced at each other, concern visible on their faces.
Yakov took a step forward, instinctively moving toward the boy, but Mikhail swiftly intercepted him, his arm extending to block his path.
"Let me handle this," Mikhail pleaded softly, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something unreadable.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and approached the teen, his boots muffled on the floor as he walked toward the fragile figure in the corner. The boy flinched at his approach, shrinking into the shadows.
Mikhail finally approached him, put a hand on his shoulder and pulled out his knife, terrifying the young teen to his bones.
The knife, blood still dripping from it, looked terrifying.
"You see this knife, kid?" Mikhail asked. "The blood is still fresh. Did you notice how fragile us humans are? You don't want this to be you..."
The poor teen repeatedly nodded, scared out of his wits.
Then, Mikhail lowered his back and whispered in his ear while caressing his arm with the knife.
"Kid, you forget a thousand things a day, let this be one of them..."
And then he shouted: "Now get outta here! I don't ever want to see your face again!"
After that, the kid ran as fast as he could. Mikhail turned to Yakov and said.
"Let's go."
...
In a room in Tifilis, a faint haze of tobacco smoke curling upward as another pair of Okhrana agents, Boris and Fyodor, stood in silence, contemplating the orders they had received. They had done their fair share of work. Eliminating agitators, watching dissidents, ensuring the stability of the Empire. But something about this one felt different.
"Why him?" Fyodor's voice broke the silence, his tone low and uncertain. "A sixteen-year-old kid… What threat is he? He's barely out of his teens."
Boris stood by the window, watching the street below as he processed Fyodor's words. "Fyodor. Here's an advice from your senior. In our line of work, we don't ask questions. If we receive orders, we carry them out. Asking many questions is a quick way to lose your head."
Fyodor's fingers tightened around his cigarette.
"He's young, he's unknown. What could he do?"
Boris turned to face him, his expression hardening. "The orders are from above. Rumor even says it's very high above even though I'm oblivious to how high."
Fyodor looked uneasy, his eyes shifting toward the door.
Then, the door creaked open, and in walked Stalin, a thin, almost gaunt figure, his young face hard with an air of quiet determination. His youth was clear, but there was something else in his eyes. Something that unsettled the agents. He moved confidently, unaware of the looming danger.
Fyodor hesitation grew stronger as Stalin entered, his gaze flicking from the boy to Boris.
'Why do we do this?' Fyodor murmured to himself. 'He's just a child.'
Boris's face hardened, and he stepped forward, pulling the small vial from his coat pocket. "It's necessary, Fyodor. For the Empire, for our future."
Before Fyodor could voice another objection, Boris quickly administered the poison into the glass of water Stalin was about to drink. It was quick, silent, and effective.
Stalin, still unaware, took the glass with a small nod of gratitude, and in one fluid motion, drank it down.
It took only a few moments for Stalin's face to twist in pain, his body suddenly shaking as the poison took effect. He clutched his chest and stumbled backward, gasping for air.
Fyodor looked on, conflicted, as the young man collapsed in agony.
'Is this really the way?' Fyodor whispered, his gaze dropping to Stalin's lifeless body.
Boris turned away, his face impassive.
Just like that, two of the most infamous Communist leaders of all time met their end, vanishing from history before they could leave their rightful mark, for better or worse.