Internal Conflict

After a fierce but brief battle during daylight, the Soviet army succeeded in dispersing the bulk of the demonstrators. Over 70 armed insurgents were captured, and more than 20 were killed. During the sweep, soldiers from the 4th Motorized Infantry Regiment uncovered a hidden cache of weapons in an abandoned warehouse—over a dozen loaded rifles and even an RPG launcher. The discovery was immediately reported to command.

Lieutenant Colonel Barankenov relayed the findings to General Rodionov. Within hours, the highest level of martial law and a strict curfew were imposed across Tbilisi. Soviet troops and armored patrols now filled every major street, asserting a tense order. Many hoped the day's violence had marked the end of the unrest. But beneath the surface, a darker storm was gathering—one that would plunge the city into chaos.

It began with a deafening explosion in the Chavchavadze district, shattering the night and jolting half the city awake. The flicker of fire danced across drawn curtains, illuminating anxious faces peering out into the darkness. The crimson glow of the blast stood out like a wound on the sleeping city.

Fear surged again. Tbilisi had already bled in the daylight, and many who had once embraced the nationalist fervor began to feel the weight of reality. In the quiet aftermath of carnage, patriotism gave way to uncertainty. Had their dreams of independence become a nightmare?

Under the cover of night, extremists resumed the fight. The first strike came at a checkpoint where a Soviet armored vehicle stood guard. A rocket-propelled grenade hit its mark, killing six soldiers. The attacker melted into the shadows before the dust settled—his aim surgical, his escape flawless.

Elsewhere, a more gruesome scene unfolded. A gang of masked assailants set fire to a home in a quiet neighborhood. The target: a long-serving Communist Party official. The old man, caught unaware, was savagely beaten unconscious, doused in gasoline, and burned alive in his home. A crude wooden sign was nailed outside: "This is the fate of Georgians who serve Moscow." Below it, a swastika.

By the time emergency services arrived, it was too late. The house had collapsed into a heap of smoking ruin. Outside, an elderly woman—his wife—sat sobbing hysterically. The thugs had forced her to watch as they immolated her husband. Then they threatened her into silence, turning her grief into a weapon of terror.

Fear now spread like wildfire. These weren't political statements—they were acts of terror, calculated to send a message: anyone who cooperated with the Soviet army would suffer.

And while ordinary Georgians trembled in the dark, one group toasted their own perceived success. President Zviad Gamsakhurdia and his inner circle—Kostava and Chanturia—sat in a private residence, away from the flames, sipping wine.

Though the Soviet army had occupied Tbilisi for over 24 hours, Zviad had refused to make a single public appearance. When Moscow called, he claimed illness. Behind closed doors, he was orchestrating what came next.

The riots, deemed spontaneous by official statements, were anything but. Kostava and Chanturia believed they were leading the resistance. In truth, they were pawns—useful fools executing Zviad's plan, unaware they would be discarded.

Zviad wore his usual thin smile, eyes cold as he watched the two men drink. They thought they were patriots. But Zviad was playing a different game. By keeping his hands clean and letting others take the fall, he would walk away the victor—no matter the cost.

"Tonight is Georgia's night of freedom!" Chanturia proclaimed, raising his glass. "Let the Soviets tremble in their boots. We've shown them we won't bow. To our victory!"

"Cheers!" they echoed. But Zviad only took a sip, setting his glass down with a sigh.

"You seem troubled," Chanturia said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Zviad feigned concern. "I worry we're celebrating too soon. The night isn't over."

"What do you propose?" Kostava asked, suspicious. His gaze narrowed, searching Zviad's face.

"Let me continue negotiations with Moscow," Zviad offered. "You two lead the fight on the streets. Together, we can push for the best deal with the smallest sacrifice."

In truth, Zviad had no intention of fighting. He had seen enough to understand Moscow's resolve: they would never allow Georgia to go free. Not without leveling everything first.

He didn't want a war—he wanted leverage. He would play peacemaker while the others spilled blood. Then, once the dust settled, he'd seize power outright.

But Kostava wasn't fooled.

"Zviad, why not attend the negotiations as a united front? Why not speak for us all? Or... are you cutting a separate deal with Moscow behind our backs?"

Zviad hesitated.

Kostava pressed. "Are you planning to betray the cause—and us—when it suits you?"

Chanturia looked from one to the other, confused. "What's going on? Why are you arguing?"

Zviad finally responded, his voice frostbitten. "Nothing. We're only discussing who will lead—once all of this is over."

His smile returned, sharper now. But Kostava saw the truth behind it: betrayal was coming. And soon.