Soviet of the Vampire World

Yeletsky had ​lost his soul.

His heart ​stopped beating—if only for a moment.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Sir... did I come at a bad time?"

A timid voice came from the doorway.

Viktor stood there, ​hesitant, his small frame ​shivering in the cold.

"I... I still have some money for you. Old Rudolf got it back from those bad men."

Seeing the ​utter despair on Yeletsky's face, Viktor ​averted his eyes, not daring to disturb him.

"I'll leave it here. Call me if you need anything. I'll be outside."

The sight of the ​hanging corpse terrified the boy, even though he'd ​seen death before.

He ​set the money down and ​bolted—but then, remembering something, he ​peeked his head back in.

"Sir, be careful! The ​Night Watchers will take dead people and feed them to ghouls!"

"If you don't mind... you could throw her into the ​Gordon River. The swamp dredgers changed bosses—they ​bury the bodies now."

Yeletsky knew about the ​Night Watchers—men who ​patrolled with ghouls, collecting ​unclaimed corpses.

Once, it had been a ​sanitation measure.

But after the ​Holy Blood Council cut the ghoul corps' rations, they ​stopped caring whose bodies they took.

If the dead weren't ​hauled out of the city by daylight, they became ​dinner.

Yeletsky was ​drowning in despair, but ​reality demanded action.

Struggling to his feet, he ​climbed onto a chair, reaching for the ​sturdy white cloth tied to the beam.

THUD.

The weight ​hit the floor.

Yeletsky ​refused to look down, forcing back tears as he ​gently laid his wife on the bed.

Silently wiping his face, he ​stepped outside.

"Sir! You're out!"

Viktor ​hugged his knees, keeping watch for ​Night Watchers.

Seeing Yeletsky, his ​grubby face lit up—like a ​firefly in summer, a tiny light in the dark.

"Viktor... can I ask you for a favor?"

Yeletsky's voice was ​hollow.

"I'm listening, sir."

"This is my house key. There's money in the cabinet. I'm... going away for a while. Can you ​look after this place?"

Viktor didn't catch the ​finality in his words.

"I can! But I ​won't take the money!"

The boy ​shook his head fiercely, stubborn as ever.

"You're letting me stay—that's enough! I ​can't take more!"

Yeletsky wasn't surprised.

"Then do this for me—use the money to buy firewood. See that ​big thing in the kitchen?"

Viktor peered inside, spotting the ​massive steam furnace.

"That's a ​shrine—to the ​God of Steam and Machinery."

"Every night, you must ​offer a black bread and pray. Then ​eat it—exactly as I say."

Yeletsky's expression ​turned grave.

"Remember—pray sincerely. And ​eat the bread. Or... ​bad things will happen."

Viktor ​memorized every word, even the ​complicated "prayer" Yeletsky taught him.

The boy ​trusted him completely—too innocent to doubt.

But he ​sensed the sorrow clinging to the man.

Fidgeting, he asked softly:

"Sir... are you ​not coming back?"

Yeletsky didn't answer.

He just ​shook his head, smiling ​sadly.

"The second floor is my study. ​Read the books. Memorize them. If you don't understand... ​wait for me to teach you."

Hearing he'd return, Viktor ​brightened, nodding eagerly.

Handing over the key, Yeletsky ​took the boy's hand—but before they could step inside, Viktor ​clasped his other hand over Yeletsky's.

"Sir, your hands are ​so cold! Let me warm them!"

The boy's ​grubby fingers smudged Yeletsky's skin, but his ​innocent words were the ​first warmth Yeletsky had felt in days.

His lips ​trembled.

He ​looked up, ​turned away, letting the tears ​burn inside him.

"Thank you..."

In the kitchen, Yeletsky ​showed Viktor how to "pray"—teaching him, step by step, how to ​operate the furnace, ​clean it, ​maintain it.

Then he ​made a nest by the hearth with an old blanket, ​tucking the boy in.

Only when Viktor ​fell asleep did Yeletsky ​sneak back to his room.

He ​edited the deed, changing the name from Aleksei Ivanovich Yeletsky to ​Viktor Tubayev, adding a ​signed letter of transfer.

Now, he had ​repaid his last debt.

Only ​one thing remained.

Yeletsky ​dressed in his finest—a ​morning coat, ​Derby shoes—unworn since his wedding.

At the bedside, he ​stroked his wife's cheek, whispering:

"Alyosha... when we married, we were too busy surviving."

"I owed you a trip."

"Now... let's go."

Cradling her body, he ​stepped outside—just as a ​small voice called:

"Mr. Yeletsky! I'll wait for you!"

"You ​have to come back!"

The hopeful farewell was his ​final send-off.

His shadow ​lengthened under the streetlamp, then ​vanished into the night.

The ​Gordon River flowed silently, its dark waters ​singing an old lament:

"Quiet waves turn upon the river,

Beneath them lie all Syderosi's sorrows..."

His wife had ​often hummed this tune.

Now, standing on the ​bridge, the ​cold sea wind biting his face, Yeletsky felt ​strangely at peace.

The river—mother to all Syderosi—would be their ​final resting place.

"Alyosha... I'm coming."

He ​leaped, embracing his wife as they ​plunged into the dark.

The icy water ​swallowed them, the world ​spinning, ​chaotic, then—

Silence.

Stillness.

Yeletsky had ​never felt so calm.

Warmth.

A ​soft, orange glow, like a ​mother's touch.

Voices ​murmured in his ear.

He ​struggled to open his eyes, his vision ​blurred, but one phrase ​cut clear:

"Comrade, you're awake! Are you alright?"