The Last Editor

While Korotich basked under the Miami sun—his "exile" softened by American grants and whispered Soviet deals—Yakovlev's world narrowed to a single, dimly lit apartment in Moscow. He barely ventured outside. The air was thick with mockery. He had become the punchline of a cruel joke told across kitchen tables, bus stops, and bathhouses.

This time, the Pravda photo was damning. It showed him, battered, bloodied, and—thanks to a carefully chosen moment—refusing police help, his face twisted in defiance. To the public, it looked like arrogance. In truth, he had simply been afraid of being mocked further.

The caption beneath the image read:"Even when helped, he spits on the people. What more proof do we need?"

Every day, Yakovlev lay in bed, blank-eyed, watching the minute hand crawl across the dial. Once, he had been an editor. Now, he was a man stripped bare by propaganda—its target, its product, its casualty.

He hadn't even processed Korotich's betrayal until it was too late. The news hit like ice water: his former friend had accepted asylum. The last conversation they'd had replayed in his mind like a broken record.

"Leave here," Korotich had whispered at the airport."We're no match for the Soviet Union."

Yakovlev had clung to idealism. No, he'd thought. Someone must stay behind to carry the banner. But Korotich? He had already sold it.

And now, his name too had been desecrated in print—framed as a hypocrite, a slanderer of Soviet history, a lapdog of the West.

The price of moral clarity in a world of double agents is loneliness, Yakovlev realized.

One morning, a knock broke the silence.

Yakovlev shuffled to the door, peeked through the peephole, and saw two men in dark coats.

"Who is it?"

One raised an ID to the glass.

"KGB."

Yakovlev exhaled slowly. So, it comes to this. He straightened his shoulders, opened the door.

"Subversion of the state, right? I'll go quietly."

The man frowned."You misunderstand, Comrade Yakovlev. We're not here to arrest you."

Yakovlev blinked.

"The Propaganda Department requires editors well-versed in Western society. We'd like to offer you a position. In exchange, we'll withdraw the public criticism. You'll receive a new apartment. Privacy. Dignity."

Yakovlev snorted.

"So you want me to be your mouthpiece."

The second agent smiled.

"No. We want you to be their mouthpiece. Report American scandals. Crime. Inequality. Corruption. We're not asking you to praise the Soviet Union. Just tell the truth about the West."

Yakovlev hesitated, then narrowed his eyes.

"Korotich...""He agreed," the agent confirmed."He's already working for us—collecting stories under the guise of asylum. He's well-compensated. A loyal contributor."

The revelation hit like a bullet to the chest.

Korotich—his friend, his fellow idealist—was a double agent. A man who played both sides, sold both truths, and lived above consequences.

"Korotich, you bastard," Yakovlev muttered."You won. Gloriously."

The agent leaned forward slightly.

"Comrade Yakovlev, you thought you were fighting a totalitarian state. You were actually swimming in a sea of opportunists. Half your peers are now helping us. Not because they love communism. Because they love relevance. And rubles."

"You think you're a martyr. But you were just the last fool left believing in anything at all."

"Stop!" Yakovlev barked. "Just stop talking!"

His voice cracked—raw, wounded. For the first time in his life, he had no argument. Just the hollow ache of betrayal.

The agents didn't press further.

"Take care, Comrade Yakovlev. The Soviets are with you."

They left quietly, respectfully, like undertakers closing a coffin.

Yakovlev sat motionless on the floor.

Minutes passed. Then hours.

In the drawer beside his bed was a revolver. He had always imagined it as a final act of defiance—used the moment the KGB kicked in his door. Not like this.

Not like this.

He pulled it out slowly. Heavy. Cold.

On the desk, he scribbled a final note.

"You pretend to be free. But you are no different than what you claim to fight. You are all the same."

Tears blurred his vision as he placed the barrel between his lips. The steel tasted of dust and defeat.

He closed his eyes.

Click.