In the attic of a decaying tenement, where the groans of the wooden beams competed with the howling winds outside, Viktor Yegorov sat at his writing desk—a misnomer, for the desk was a rickety collection of salvaged boards, riddled with splinters. The candle before him burned unevenly, its meager flame waging a losing war against the oppressive darkness that seemed to seep from the very walls. He stared at the yellowed pages of an old book, the words blurring into incomprehensible patterns.
It wasn't the dim light. It wasn't fatigue, though his weary frame suggested otherwise. It was the quiet scream of failure echoing in his mind.
Viktor, twenty-seven, was no stranger to deprivation. His black hair hung in untamed strands around his gaunt face, his cheekbones sharp as blades beneath skin that had lost its youthful sheen. He wore a patched coat even indoors, the threadbare fabric doing little to guard against the chill. But it wasn't the cold or the hunger that gnawed at him. It was the unshakable knowledge that he was inconsequential in a world that demanded power and pedigree to be heard.
He reached for the pen at his side, dipping it into the nearly dry inkwell. The nib scratched against the paper as he wrote:
> "To exist without consequence is the quietest form of death."
Viktor paused, staring at the words. They mocked him. The candle flickered, throwing a shadow over the line, as if the world itself conspired to erase his thoughts. He tossed the pen down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. Outside, the city grumbled with distant noise—cart wheels on cobblestone, drunken laughter muffled by the snow, and the occasional bark of a street vendor.
He hated St. Petrograd.
The city reeked of decay and ambition, its grandeur long faded, replaced by a veneer of desperation. Once a jewel of trade and culture, now its streets teemed with orphans, criminals, and the destitute. The aristocrats still lived in their gilded mansions, throwing lavish balls to escape the reality of a collapsing empire, while men like Viktor scavenged for scraps of dignity.
A sharp knock at the door shattered his thoughts.
"Viktor!" a voice called—hoarse, but tinged with affection.
It was Elena Makarova, his neighbor and, perhaps, his only friend. Viktor hesitated before rising, pulling his coat tighter as he shuffled to the door. When he opened it, she stood there, her cheeks flushed from the cold, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Her dark eyes sparkled with a kindness that Viktor could never quite understand.
"I brought bread," she said, holding up a small loaf wrapped in cloth.
"Elena…" Viktor's voice trailed off.
She pushed past him into the room, her boots thudding softly against the creaking floor. "You'd waste away if I didn't come by," she said, setting the bread on his desk and glancing at the scattered papers. "Writing again?"
"Trying," he admitted, closing the door.
"You shouldn't waste your time on this." She gestured at the pages. "You could tutor more students. Earn enough to move somewhere warmer."
"And leave this?" Viktor said with a bitter smile, motioning to the sparse room. "This palace of dreams?"
Elena sighed, brushing snow from her scarf. "Viktor, the world doesn't reward dreamers. It devours them."
"I know," he said quietly. "But I can't stop."
She looked at him, her expression softening. "You'll starve before anyone reads your words."
"Better to starve for something than live for nothing."
They fell into a silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.
---
Later that night, after Elena had gone, Viktor stood at the window, staring down at the city. A thin layer of snow blanketed the rooftops, muting the chaos below. From his vantage point, the city looked almost serene—a lie, like everything else.
A figure moved in the street below, cloaked and purposeful, their face obscured. Viktor's eyes lingered on them. He knew that figure. Sergei Ivanov, a name whispered in hushed tones among the desperate and the defiant. The man was a ghost in the underworld, known for his fiery speeches and the trail of blood that followed him.
Viktor had heard of the Black Veil—an enigmatic group of revolutionaries who spoke of justice and vengeance in the same breath. They were said to be ruthless, willing to burn the world to build a new one.
He watched as Sergei disappeared into the shadows, his silhouette swallowed by the night.
For the first time in years, Viktor felt something stir within him—a spark.
He turned back to his desk, picking up the pen once more. The ink flowed, words pouring onto the page with a clarity that had eluded him for months.
> "To exist without consequence is the quietest form of death. But to defy consequence is to embrace life itself."
The words did not mock him this time. They ignited him.
As the candle burned low, Viktor resolved to find Sergei Ivanov. If the world was determined to devour dreamers, perhaps he could become something else entirely.
And so, the spark was lit.