The Last Bullet, The First Flame

[Zak]

​

The heavy oak doors creaked open, closing behind Emilia Slabunova with a dull thud that echoed ominously through the vast chamber. The room was dimly lit by a crystal chandelier overhead, casting fractured light across the polished marble floors and dark wood paneling etched with imperial motifs. Outside, the Moscow skyline faded into twilight, the golden domes of the Kremlin’s cathedrals glowing faintly against the encroaching night.

At the far end of the room, Vladimir Putin stood motionless, silhouetted against the window. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, a familiar posture of unyielding control. His steely gaze fixed on Emilia as she stepped inside, her heels clicking sharply on the stone floor.

“Slabunova,” Putin’s voice broke the silence, low, deliberate, and carrying the weight of command. “You’ve been... persistent.”

She met his gaze steadily, unflinching beneath the cold scrutiny. “Persistence is the duty of those who represent the people, Mr. President.”

Putin took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them with measured precision. “The people do not always understand what is best for them. Stability comes at a price.”

Emilia’s jaw tightened. “Stability imposed by fear and silence is no kind of stability at all.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Putin’s lips, a predator’s smile. “You tread a dangerous path. You wield your words like weapons, but words can be contained. Actions cannot.”

She folded her arms, voice unwavering. “Then consider this my declaration. Russia deserves a future that isn’t dictated from the shadows.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the tension coiling like a spring ready to snap.

Putin’s eyes narrowed, his tone dropping to a whisper that echoed like a verdict. “You are brave. Dangerous even. Admirable, in a way. But bravery alone does not grant immunity.”

Emilia stepped closer, their faces inches apart now, the clash of wills palpable. “Perhaps. But history remembers those who dared, not those who ruled with fear.”

He regarded her silently for a moment, then turned away, gazing once more at the city sprawling beneath the Kremlin walls.

“We will speak again, Emilia. Soon.”

Without another word, the meeting ended, but the game had only just begun.

As the heavy doors shut behind her, Emilia stood for a heartbeat in the dimly lit corridor, the echo of her own footsteps the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. The weight of the room, of Putin’s presence, still lingered like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

He sees me as a threat. The thought wasn’t new, but hearing it so plainly confirmed a harsh truth in his eyes, she was no longer just an opposition politician. She had become a symbol. A problem to be contained.

Her mind replayed his words. “Bravery alone does not grant immunity.” The subtle warning beneath his polished voice was a reminder that courage in this place was a dangerous currency.

She swallowed the unease curling in her stomach. Fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Not now. Not ever.

They will watch me. Track me. Try to find a weakness. She thought of the FSB, the silent eyes that moved like ghosts behind the scenes. How many steps ahead could she think? Could she outmaneuver a machine built to silence dissent?

But beyond the calculations, a deeper fire burned inside her which was a quiet, steady flame fueled by conviction.

If not me, then who? The faces of her supporters, the whispers in hidden gatherings, the letters from towns beyond Moscow and they all demanded one answer.

Emilia clenched her fists, feeling the familiar surge of resolve. This wasn’t about power. It was about Russia’s soul. About the voices stifled beneath the veneer of order.

She allowed herself a moment to breathe, then pulled her coat tighter against the chill. There were speeches to prepare, alliances to build, and the delicate dance of politics to master.

Let them watch. She thought. I will not be invisible.

As the corridor emptied behind her, Emilia stepped forward and was ready to face whatever came next.

 

[Zak]

​

The Kremlin’s great doors groaned shut behind Emilia Slabunova as she stepped into the cold Moscow twilight. The weight of the meeting with the President still clung to her shoulders like iron chains, but her face showed nothing. Calm. Composed. Every step deliberate.

But the game had already shifted.

Across the square, hidden in the wash of streetlamps and shadows, two men fell into her trail with practiced ease. Dark coats. Unremarkable faces. The unmistakable scent of state orders clinging to them like frost. FSB.

They stayed well back as she crossed Mokhovaya Street and threaded her way through the thinning evening crowd, her sharp silhouette against the amber-lit city. Her posture was tight, her eyes flicking to alley mouths, reflections in windows. She felt them. She knew.

Yet she walked on, toward Bolshoy Kamenny Bridge, the span of steel and stone arching over the slow black ribbon of the Moskva River.

The bridge was empty at this hour. No traffic. No noise but the distant hum of the city and the muted splash of water far below. Emilia paused at the midpoint, the river’s oily surface reflecting the last pale light of dusk.

A step behind her. Then two.

The men closed the distance silently, no shouts, no warnings. Their breath barely misted in the cold air.

She turned.

For a heartbeat, there was recognition in her eyes. A flicker of something sharp. Defiant.

The taller man stepped in close, gloved hand rising fast, gripping the front of her coat.

No words.

Just a brutal shove.

Emilia’s body lurched back, arms flailing against the sudden void, mouth opening in a silent gasp as the wind tore the sound from her throat. The low stone wall of the bridge bit against her spine as she toppled, legs kicking once, twice, before she vanished over the edge.

A long fall into the dark.

The cold water swallowed her without a sound.

For a moment the two men stood in silence, staring at the black ripples below.

“Confirmed,” one muttered into his mic. “Target eliminated. No witnesses.”

The other glanced down the length of the bridge. Empty. Clean. Just as command had ordered.

They turned and walked away, boots striking the old stone with quiet finality, fading into the shadows of the Kremlin walls.

Behind them, the Moskva River rolled on, silent and indifferent, carrying away the last breath of Emilia Slabunova.

The city never noticed.

And the state was satisfied.

 

[Zak]

​

Dawn broke over Moscow in a gray, sullen wash of light, casting long shadows across the riverbanks. The city stirred slowly, oblivious, as always, to the quiet tragedies swept under its frozen skin.

But on the southern bank of the Moskva River, beneath the ancient stone of the Zamoskvoretsky Bridge, something broke the smooth flow of the water.

A shape.

Pale. Motionless.

It was a fisherman who saw it first, a man in a threadbare coat, casting lines in the bitter morning chill. His gaze snagged on the dark bundle caught against the ice-crusted pylons, a single lifeless hand floating above the surface like a drowned leaf.

His muttered curse broke the dawn silence as he pulled out his phone with trembling fingers.

Within an hour, blue flashing lights spun across the riverfront. Police tape fluttered in the wind. Uniformed officers clustered near the embankment, their breath rising in thin plumes, their boots crunching against the frozen stone. A body bag, black, gleaming wet, lay on the pavement like a sealed secret.

Senior Inspector Orlov stood grim-faced beside it, jaw tight, hands stuffed deep in his coat. His eyes flicked to the two detectives crouched by the body.

“ID confirmed,” one said quietly. “It’s her.”

Orlov didn’t need the confirmation. He’d known the moment he saw the face, pale and slack with the emptiness of the dead, framed by sodden blonde hair. Emilia Slabunova. Leader of the Opposition. Dissident. Problem.

Now solved.

The forensics team worked in silence, cameras clicking, gloves snapping. There were bruises along her collarbone, faint impressions where fingers had gripped the fabric of her coat. Marks of a fall, uncontrolled, violent.

“Accidental fall?” the junior detective muttered, doubt creeping into his voice.

Orlov shot him a sharp glance.

“She slipped. Late night. Cold bridge. No witnesses. No camera footage. That’s the report.”

The younger man hesitated. “But sir, her position in the party, the Kremlin meeting yesterday...”

“Doesn’t matter,” Orlov cut in. His voice was flat. Final. “No evidence of foul play. Official cause is accidental drowning. Nothing else to write.”

The detective swallowed hard and scribbled the words onto his pad.

From the edge of the cordon, two men in dark civilian coats watched. Silent. Expressionless. FSB. Their presence needed no explanation.

One gave a faint nod to Orlov before turning away, vanishing into the crowd of uniforms like smoke.

The inspector lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, exhaling into the cold air.

“Poor woman,” he muttered under his breath. “She should’ve known better.”

A final photo was snapped,the cold lens capturing Emilia Slabunova’s lifeless face for the last time, before the body was zipped away and loaded into the waiting van.

The city moved on.

The river rolled on.

And the official line was written, neat and quiet:

Accidental death. Case closed.

 

[Zak]

​

Word of Emilia Slabunova’s death swept through Moscow and the rest of Russia like winter wind, quiet at first, then rising into hurried whispers in offices, private apartments, and underground cafés where opposition voices still dared to gather.

By noon, her face filled every news feed, framed with solemn headlines and cold, official language. “Accidental Drowning Confirmed, Investigation Closed.”

But in the old apartment on Tverskaya Street, where her closest aides and supporters had gathered, the air was thick with something colder than grief.

Boris Mikhailov stood by the frosted window, staring out at the gray city. His phone lay on the table behind him, buzzing with messages he ignored. The silence of the room was broken only by the low voice of Anya, their young press coordinator, her hands shaking as she read aloud from the news alert.

“...no signs of foul play. expected funeral arrangements to be announced soon. Kremlin officials declined to comment.”

Boris turned sharply. “Declined to comment,” he repeated bitterly. “Of course they did. And we are expected to accept this. Like fools. Like children.”

In the corner, old Galina Petrovna, one of Emilia’s earliest supporters, sat weeping softly into a scarf, her shoulders hunched against the blow none of them had dared to speak aloud.

“It was no accident,” Anya whispered, her voice cracking. “She was followed when she left the Kremlin. She told us they would watch her. She knew they meant to silence her.”

Boris slammed his fist against the wall, the sound sharp in the cramped apartment.

“No cameras. No witnesses. No record. And now no justice. This is how the machine works. Quiet. Clean. Forgotten.”

The room fell into a heavy hush.

On the table lay Emilia’s last speech draft, pages marked in her careful, looping handwriting. Unspoken words meant for the rally that would never happen.

Anya ran a trembling hand across the papers. “We can’t let this end here,” she said softly. “We can’t pretend it was an accident. The world has to know.”

Boris looked at her, his face hard. Older, suddenly.

“Then prepare the statement. Call the foreign press. Tell them everything. Names. Dates. Her fears. The Kremlin meeting. We speak now, or we let her die in silence.”

In the distance, sirens wailed faintly. The city moved on.

But here, in this small, dim apartment on Tverskaya Street, rebellion stirred once more.

Because Emilia Slabunova was gone.

But the cause was not.

And the FSB’s quiet victory was already cracking.

The hours after Emilia’s death crawled by with the weight of dread and purpose.

By dusk, the small apartment on Tverskaya was no longer quiet.

Phones buzzed. Laptops clicked. Low voices whispered names, warnings, fears. Faces familiar to the underground movement filed in, their eyes dark with grief and anger. Old activists, new students, exiles returned from the shadows.

Boris stood at the center of it all, his jaw clenched, the edges of a statement draft trembling in his hand.

“It’s done,” Anya said softly, setting her phone down. “I sent it to the BBC. The Liberty Standard. All of them. Her last message, her fears, everything. They’ll run it. Tomorrow, maybe tonight.”

A murmur ran through the room. Hope, or the bitter taste of defiance. Maybe both.

From the corner, Pavel, a tall, quiet man with military posture, stepped forward, his voice low but clear.

“FSB will come,” he said. “They won’t like that this is leaking. They thought they finished it on that bridge. They didn’t.”

Boris met his gaze. “Let them come. We’ve already told the world.”

Pavel shook his head. “That won’t stop them. You think they care about Western headlines? About protests in London or Paris? No. They’ll want to finish the clean-up. Fast. Quiet. Like before.”

The room stilled.

“What are you saying?” Anya asked, her voice small.

“I’m saying we have to move. All of us. Now. Before the vans arrive. Before the knocks on the door at midnight.”

For a long, grim moment no one spoke.

Then Boris folded the paper in his hand carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“Take what you can carry. Phones. Drives. Notes. Everything. We leave in ten minutes. Find new places. Quiet places. Stay low.”

“And you?” Anya asked.

He smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it. Only steel.

“I’m staying to finish the uploads. Her speech. Her last words. It goes everywhere. Even if they come through that door tonight.”

FILE UPLOAD TO NEWS BROADCASTERS

“To those who hear this... I speak not as a politician, but as a daughter of this land. My Russia. Our Russia.

They will try to silence me. They may succeed in ending my life. But they cannot end what I have stood for.

This country does not belong to the Kremlin’s shadows, nor to men who rule through fear. It belongs to the people, the workers, the mothers, the students, the forgotten and the brave.

Truth does not die in prison cells. Hope does not drown in rivers.

If you listen to this, know this simple truth, you are not alone. And you are not powerless.

We are many.

And together, we are stronger than they fear.

Do not stop. Do not forget.

For Russia’s future, for our freedom, keep speaking. Keep standing.

Even if my voice falls silent forever.”

A flicker of fear sparked in her eyes, but also pride.

“You won’t get out,” Pavel warned.

“I know.”

The lights in the apartment flickered once. Faint. As if the city itself held its breath.

Outside, a black van slid quietly into position across the street.

In the gloom of the stairwell, heavy boots began to climb.

The clock ticked down.

And somewhere far away, on servers beyond the Kremlin’s reach, Emilia Slabunova’s last words were waiting to be heard.