Soviet of the Vampire World

The truth was clear now. Yeletsky let out a shaky breath, but then little Viktor extended his ​red, frozen hands, holding out a ​stack of coins.

"Sir, some money fell on the ground. I picked it up for you."

Yeletsky stared at the boy's ​young, earnest face.

His ​matted hair, his ​dirty cheeks streaked with grime, his ​chapped lips, and the ​fine cracks from the cold on his reddened skin.

But his ​eyes—bright and clear, like a spark of humanity in the darkest abyss.

"Th-thank you…"

Yeletsky's vision blurred as he ​tremblingly took the money, repeating his gratitude over and over.

"Mr. Yeletsky, it's cold out here. Let me take you to my place."

He didn't refuse.

Gritting his teeth, he ​stood up, leaning on Viktor as they made their way to the ​intersection where they'd first met.

Yeletsky wondered where Viktor lived—until the boy ​pried open a square manhole cover with a thick branch.

"Mr. Yeletsky, welcome to my home!"

Yeletsky ​fell silent.

The dark, narrow opening led to a ​storm drain—just a ​step away from the sewer.

"Kid… you live ​here?"

"Yeah! You wouldn't believe how warm it is! I pile up leaves, and it's cozy at night!"

Viktor scratched his head sheepishly.

"Only downside is it ​smells sometimes, and my hair gets itchy. But Sister Minna gives me baths! She's the best!"

The boy's ​cheerful voice made Yeletsky's heart ​ache.

His lips trembled as he looked down at this ​optimistic child.

"Kid, this place… is… ​really nice."

He had almost said, "This is no place for a child."

But seeing Viktor's ​pride in his tiny home, he ​couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Wow, Mr. Yeletsky, you ​get it! Sister Minna always complains, but this spot is perfect! I can start work ​super early!"

"No long walks, no getting caught by the guards—genius, right?"

"Yeah, Viktor. You're ​very smart."

Yeletsky ​bent down to praise him, but Viktor suddenly realized a problem.

"Oh no! My home's too small! You ​can't fit, sir!"

"What do I do?! What do I do?!"

"It's alright, kid. Just ​inviting me makes me happy."

Yeletsky reassured the ​panicking boy, and by now, he had ​mostly recovered.

Though his body ​ached everywhere, he needed to ​get home before midnight.

"Viktor, I have to go. But I'll visit tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay! Take the alley by ​Papa's Tavern—that's Old Rudolf's turf. He looks mean, but he's ​really nice!"

Following Viktor's advice, Yeletsky took the ​back alley near Blackwater Lane.

Just as promised, a ​grizzled old beggar—Rudolf—glared at him but ​said nothing, rolling over to sleep when he saw Yeletsky's ​bruised face.

Finally, Yeletsky made it back to ​Fisherman's Lane.

"Still have ​over 20 rubles… enough for Alyosha's treatment. If not, I'll ​sell the house."

After being robbed, Yeletsky ​recalculated his funds.

As for the ​factory's compensation?

He wasn't paying.

Angering Dragomirov meant ​no more factory jobs, but he could ​work at the docks.

His plan was set:

After tonight's blood tax, he'd ​move Alyosha to the old harbor district.

Sell the house—even at a loss if needed.

Once his wife recovered, he'd ​sign onto a steamship as an engineer.

Sure, he'd ​sold his certification, but his ​skills remained.

He was confident he could ​climb back up, even if it meant ​starting as an apprentice.

The only downside?

He wouldn't be able to ​stay by Alyosha's side every day.

With a sigh, Yeletsky ​stepped into his home, pausing to ​smear soot on his face—hiding his bruises from his wife.

"Alyosha! I'm back! I got the money! We don't have to worry about the blood tax!"

Silence.

The house was ​eerily still, as if ​no one lived there.

A ​cold dread gripped Yeletsky—but then he laughed at himself.

"Idiot. She's ​sick in bed."

He ​brushed off his coat, lit the ​kerosene lamp by the door, and took a deep breath.

Forcing a smile, he ​pushed open the bedroom door.

"Alyosha, I—"

His cheerful voice ​cut off abruptly.

CLANG.

The metal lamp ​hit the floor.

Luckily, it was ​a good one—the oil didn't spill, and the light ​still glowed, casting a ​dim yellow hue over the ​12-square-meter room.

But in Yeletsky's eyes, ​the world had lost all color.

Only black and white remained.

The ​empty crib lay ​overturned.

The ​wardrobe had been ​ransacked.

The ​table was ​covered in thread and fabric scraps.

And ​hanging from the ceiling—

His wife.

At her feet lay an ​unfinished baby garment.

"NO! ALYOSHA!"

Yeletsky ​rushed forward, clutching her body—but her ​familiar form was now ​ice-cold.

"No… this can't be real!"

His legs ​gave out, and he ​collapsed to the floor.

He ​couldn't accept it.

He ​tried to reach for her again, but his arms ​wouldn't move.

After a long struggle, his fingers ​only brushed the tiny garment.

The one ​Alyosha had been sewing before his illness.

The one she'd ​set aside to care for him.

The world had played a ​cruel joke on this poor man:

He had ​sacrificed his child to save his wife.

But that sacrifice had become the ​final domino—the one that killed her.