Page 1 of The Fire Beneath the Frost

ChapterOne

Petyr

The clock above the auditorium door ticked like a metronome of my slow death.

Ten minutes.Just ten more, and I’d be free to blink like a normal person again.Maybe even shift in my chair without the guy two rows up shooting me a look like I’d insulted Stalin’s mustache.

Vera stood on the little stage, all glowing virtue and Party righteousness, gesturing with both hands like a conductor of ideological nonsense.Her voice—steady, polished, very official—rose and fell in a practiced cadence as she waxed poetic about the great successes of our “nationally unified textile output” and the “evolution of centralized economic metrics.”

God, what a phrase.That one alone should’ve come with a warning label.

No one was listening.I mean, technically, we were listening—just not in the way that counted.The guy next to me had fully surrendered to sleep, chin on his chest, his mouth open in a way that made me wonder if I should drop a peanut in there for fun.The women up front looked half-catatonically engaged, eyes glazed and polite smiles frozen in place.It was Friday, after all.We were here because we had to be, not because anyone gave a damn about weekly Party meetings in a damp auditorium that smelled like wet coats and floor polish.

My attention drifted again to the clock.The second hand gave a jolt forward.

Eight minutes.

Vera wrapped up with a quote from Lenin—standard issue, reliably soul-numbing—and the moment her words died off, there was a clap.Just one.Hesitant, awkward.Then others followed like dominos.Dutiful, scattered applause.The kind of applause you give because you’re supposed to, not because you mean it.

She smiled modestly, bowed her head, and descended the stage.Her steps were quiet, graceful.She always made things look effortless.

She slid into the seat beside me and took my hand like we were every bit the perfect, loyal Party couple.

“You did great,” I whispered.

“I know,” she said under her breath, squeezing my fingers.

Five minutes now.

The man at the podium—Comrade Something-Or-Other, I’d stopped keeping track—cleared his throat and gave his closing remarks.More boilerplate.Unity, strength, vigilance.He thanked Vera, thanked the workers, thanked the Party.

The second he said “dismissed,” the room exploded.

Chairs scraped back.Boots thundered.Someone cursed loudly in the stampede toward the doors.It was like a prison break, only with less enthusiasm.People moved in thick waves, desperate not to miss the 7:15 train—always a risk thanks to these meetings that went ten minutes longer than they ever should have.

Vera stood with me, her hand still in mine, her face all bright smiles and wifely charm as we joined the exodus.We waved at a few coworkers, gave polite nods, and moved with the crowd.

We were halfway down the steps when Pavel and Andrei cornered us near the coat rack.

“Petyr!Vera!”Pavel shouted over the noise.“We’re going to the dacha this weekend.Vodka, cards, sauna, you know—fun stuff.You two should come.”

I gave them my best crooked grin and leaned a little closer.“Ah, if only.But this one’s locked me up for the weekend,” I said, jerking a thumb at Vera.“Says we need some alone time.And I haven’t been stupid enough to say no to her in years.”

They both howled with laughter, Pavel slapping me on the back like I’d just confessed to something heroic.

“Lucky bastard,” Andrei said, winking at Vera, who rolled her eyes like a woman used to such remarks.

We ducked away from them with more smiles and waves, leaving the sound of laughter behind us as we hit the main doors and stepped into the frigid air.

Outside, the evening had draped itself over the city like a heavy coat.Factory smoke lingered above the rooftops, backlit faintly by the dying light of day.The buzz of chatter and hurried footsteps filled the courtyard as dozens of workers rushed toward the train stop down the block.

But Vera didn’t steer us that way.

Instead, she tugged me across the street, toward a battered bus stop, its bench half-frozen and its glass covered in peeling posters for soap and canned peas.The shelter reeked faintly of piss and cigarettes, but hey—at least it was out of the wind.

“We’re not taking the train?”I asked.

Vera didn’t answer immediately.She just looked at me with that secret smile of hers, the one she only used when no one was looking.

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