За твоё возвращение, Алёша

The desk had been designed for ordinary correspondence and ordinary men. Ivan Stanislav had little use for either.

He sat in the narrow basement room of a Chicago Airbnb, separated from the other members of the Survivor house by a closed door, a flight of stairs, and whatever patience remained inside him. Living with three outsiders had already strained the boundaries of acceptable coexistence. Sharing a residence with the entire remaining field represented an experiment whose inevitable failure Ivan preferred to observe from a fortified distance.

Only Kenny Freeman qualified as a welcome presence. Even Nathan Lake, with whom Ivan believed he had established some form of understanding since Pittsburgh, remained vulnerable to the influence of the others. Ivan had no desire to discover how durable that understanding might be.

Besides, there was work to do.

The desk trembled beneath his forearms whenever he shifted his weight. Its drawers had been removed after one jammed against his thigh, and two folded towels had been wedged beneath the rear legs to correct a persistent tilt toward the wall.

The supplied chair had already been moved away. It now stood in the corner beneath the PRIME Intense Championship, serving with greater distinction as a display stand than it ever could have as furniture. Ivan worked from the edge of the mattress he had dragged onto the floor after discovering that the bedframe threatened to collapse under his bulk.

A framed, generic photograph of the Chicago skyline remained crooked above the displaced furniture. The city presented itself beneath a clean blue sky, every tower upright and untroubled. Ivan had considered removing it, but the room contained too few places to put the thing once it came down. Instead, a small Soviet flag had been fixed beside it, its red fabric hanging across a portion of Lake Michigan.

The effect lacked grandeur, though it improved the room considerably.

Ivan stared at the arrangement before returning to the pages spread across the desk.

The latest Intense Address occupied nine sheets of paper, though the first page had been rewritten often enough to produce three discarded versions. Black ink covered the margins. Whole passages had been struck through with such force that the pen had torn the paper. His handwriting, already large and uncompromising, became increasingly severe whenever Lindsay Troy’s name appeared.

Beside the pages sat the preliminary bar-crawl instructions. The Brick rested next to them.

Ivan looked at the phone, but the screen remained dark.

He adjusted his glasses and returned to the address.

“Members of PRIME,” he read quietly.

Those words had survived every revision.

“Comrades across the world. Workers employed throughout Chicago’s hospitality sector.”

He paused, drew a line through “throughout,” and wrote “within” above it. The sentence sounded cleaner that way, though he doubted any Chicago bartender would appreciate the distinction once Survivor descended upon them.

Ivan continued reading beneath his breath. The address opened with the proper ceremony, acknowledged the third round of competition, and warned the city that PRIME had chosen to test its remaining competitors through organized alcohol consumption. He had resisted the temptation to describe the event as an attack upon public order. Such language would be accurate, but it would distract from the central issue.

Besides, how much public order remained in the current state of America?

Kerry Kuroyama’s name appeared midway down the fourth page. Ivan’s pen rested beside it.

He had rewritten that section more carefully than any other. Despite his anger, he tried to avoid any falsehoods. Kerry’s talent could not be dismissed without making Ivan appear dishonest.

Kerry was capable. He had also been eliminated. Both facts belonged in the address, and Lindsay Troy’s decision became more damning when neither one was denied.

Ivan crossed out a sentence accusing Kerry of cowardice. He read the replacement twice.

A capable man should be permitted to earn his opportunity. Favor has denied Kerry Kuroyama even that dignity.

Ivan grunted in approval while the Brick, his oversized, personalized phone, remained silent.

He set down the pen and checked the phone anyway. There were messages from PRIME, an automated weather alert, and a request from Russian media for clarification regarding a statement Stanislav had made at ReVival 91. Nothing had arrived through the secured channel from Moscow.

Ivan opened it despite the absence of a notification.

The most recent update remained where he had left it, which was vague enough to essentially say nothing. He knew the fact: Alexei had opened his eyes. Yet no useful information had followed. There was no confirmation that he understood where he was, that he recognized anyone, or that the moment of consciousness had lasted.

He locked the phone and placed it facedown.

To the rest of the world, Alexei Ruslan remained “on vacation.”

It was an absurd lie, which made it suitable for public consumption. PRIME had accepted stranger explanations for prolonged absences. Alexei had cultivated enough suspicion around himself that most people assumed his disappearance involved secret negotiations, political interference, or some insidious operation that would only become apparent once the damage had already been done.

Ivan allowed himself a small smile.

Alexei would have been proud of that.

Ivan had initially included a paragraph addressing the matter. The discarded page now rested on the floor near his boot, folded beneath the pressure of his heel.

Comrade Ruslan continues his well-earned leave and remains unavailable for comment.

The sentence invited questions. Removing it had been the responsible decision. PRIME had no right to demand Alexei’s location, schedule, or condition.

Ivan had repeated this reasoning to himself several times.

The explanation remained sensible. It provided no comfort.

His eyes moved toward the closed suitcase beneath the window. He had unpacked nothing beyond the necessities. Shirts remained folded beneath trousers, and the spare suspenders were still tucked beside the small case containing his medals. His uniform hung from a hook on the door. He had lived from luggage often enough to understand that unpacking created an expectation of permanence.

He wished for none while trapped in America.

Ivan returned to the final pages, where the address moved from accusation into doctrine. Preparation for the bar crawl had been described with deliberate seriousness. He would eat beforehand, consume water throughout the route, and refuse to allow another person’s pace to determine his own.

Johnny Dorn remained a wildcard, though Ivan had thrown him through a van in the past. The dolt was hardly a cause for strategic concern.

The desk shifted beneath Ivan with a wooden groan.

“Do not start,” he warned the furniture. The desk stopped complaining.

He placed the pages in order and read the document from beginning to end. The language remained forceful without spilling into incoherence. The argument returned consistently to the contradiction at the center of Survivor. PRIME required the remaining competitors to endure its challenges for an opportunity already granted to a man who had failed to survive the opening round.

Ivan had written that he would continue anyway.

Leaving would release Lindsay Troy from the consequences of her decision. Defeat would allow her to present Kerry’s reward as an unrelated act of executive judgment. Victory would force both facts into the same record. Kerry Kuroyama had been eliminated and received the opportunity. Ivan Stanislav had endured the process and could not be refused without exposing Survivor as theater.

The conclusion required one final adjustment.

Kerry Kuroyama lost, and Lindsay Troy rewarded him. I will win and earn my place.

Ivan read it again.

The sentence carried sufficient threat without becoming childish. He left it untouched.

The argument was sound. Kerry’s opportunity undermined Survivor. Lindsay Troy had protected Vae Victis from the ordinary consequences imposed upon everyone else. Ivan would prepare properly for the crawl, maintain discipline, and endure.

Every word was true.

Yet, despite all his words, the document remained dishonest.

The address told PRIME that he would remain, but it didn’t tell them where he wished to be.

His gaze moved toward the Brick.

The public argument said Kerry had been spared the cost of failure. Ivan’s anger came from somewhere deeper. Kerry had been eliminated, returned to the comfort of his own life, and received the promised opportunity anyway. Ivan remained confined to Survivor while a secured channel carried fragments of information about the man who had stood beside him for most of his adult life.

He was expected to crawl through Chicago bars while wondering whether Alexei Ruslan could still recognize his name.

The pen bent slightly between his fingers.

Ivan retrieved the discarded page from beneath his boot and smoothed it across the desk. The vacation sentence remained visible beneath the crease.

Comrade Ruslan continues his well-earned leave and remains unavailable for comment.

He stared at the words until they became offensive.

Alexei was not resting beside some quiet sea. He was not irritating hotel staff, bribing tour guides, or complaining about breakfast portions. He was not plotting Ivan’s Survivor strategy from a deck chair while pretending to read an intelligence report.

He lay in a hospital beyond Ivan’s reach.

Ivan drew a line through the sentence. It tore through the paper.

He should have discarded the page again. He should have signed the completed document, scanned it, and allowed the official version to enter PRIME’s circulation. Alexei would have insisted upon that course. Ruslan had devoted decades to ensuring that the public received only the version of Ivan Stanislav that served their purpose.

Ivan looked at the silent phone.

For once, Alexei was not present to stop him.

He lowered the pen to the empty space beneath the ruined sentence and began again.

Comrade Ruslan is not on vacation.

—

I know some suspect something far worse.

I encouraged those assumptions because they protected him. They also protected me.

Alexei opened his eyes. That is the extent of what I have been permitted to know. I have received no confirmation that he recognized the room, understood the voices around him, or remained conscious.

I am expected to wait. And while I wait, Survivor continues.

PRIME gathers its remaining competitors inside one house, invents another public trial, and assures us that the Universal Championship opportunity at the end will justify each demand. We have slept in unfamiliar rooms, depended upon strangers, and subjected ourselves to judgment from people who are unfit to judge. Now we will be marched through Chicago and encouraged to drink until our discipline falters and we become spectacle.

I remain here because the reward was supposed to matter.

Those who have lost no longer carry the burdens of those who have survived. They are released from the uncertainty and degradation of this competition.

Kerry Kuroyama, one of Lindsay Troy’s favored men, has been granted the opportunity promised to the eventual victor despite his elimination. The reward was supposed to matter because everyone who pursued it had to bear the cost of Survivor. Lindsay has reduced it to something she may distribute according to preference.

Kuroyama is capable. I will not weaken a legitimate grievance by pretending otherwise. At one time, I believed he could become a formidable member of The Red Army because I understood what he might become. He had the opportunity to fight and work toward a goal under my leadership, but instead he chose Vae Victis and accepted the handouts that accompany his station.

While the remaining competitors and I must endure Survivor to earn a Universal Championship opportunity, Kerry failed and received one anyway. Had I been eliminated, would such a reward have been given to me?

My anger is not based upon the contradiction alone.

Kerry has been permitted to return to his life. He may prepare for his championship match according to his own schedule, surrounded by whomever he wants. He does not sleep beneath a Chicago skyline. He does not keep a telephone within reach because the next vibration may determine whether the oldest friendship of his life still exists in any recognizable form.

I remain here.

I could leave this house, board my plane, cross the ocean, and force my way through every locked door between myself and Alyosha. The thought has returned each night since I learned he opened his eyes. It returns when the Brick remains silent. It returns whenever PRIME announces another challenge as though nothing beyond this competition could deserve my attention.

I have considered leaving. Abandoning my post.

That admission alone makes the words that I write impossible to publish. And I know it.

PRIME would call it weakness. The remaining field would be told I could not endure. Kerry’s opportunity would remain untouched. It would be useless.

Alexei would have demanded I stay.

You would already have studied Kerry’s opportunity from every angle, Alyosha. You would speak of precedent and favoritism. You would insist Lindsay had exposed a weakness in her own system. Then you would tell me to place my hands around that weakness and squeeze until the entire structure cracked.

You would be furious if I abandoned Survivor for you.

You are every reason why I want to leave, and the single reason why I remain.

You would say that history remembers the man who remains standing after the comfortable have been carried away. You would remind me that Lindsay’s contradiction can become our weapon. You would assure me that your condition is temporary, even if we struggled to believe it.

You would have leveled a broadside attack against Lindsay Troy already. You would have a Think Red written and another on the way. You would have hounded, harassed, and shouted down the hypocrisy before our eyes.

But now, I have to try to perform both roles instead. And it is tiring, Alexei. Less because of the work, and more because each and every time I am forced to notice your absence.

And when I complain, like this, I imagine you telling me to stop bellyaching and get back to work.

So I will work.

I will remain in this house. I will walk into every bar PRIME places before me, drink according to my own discipline, and emerge prepared for whatever follows. I will finish Survivor because allowing Kerry’s reward to stand without consequence would make every sacrifice meaningless.

And if he somehow defeats Daytona? Then I will show him what a true challenger has earned, rather than what was given.

I remain for the man who would order me to stay, even while I would give anything to hear him say it.

—

The pen remained suspended above the page, its tip dark with ink. He read the closing sentences again, then returned to the beginning and worked through all nine pages without making another correction.

The argument had changed somewhere along the way.

It began as an indictment of Lindsay Troy and the contradiction surrounding Kuroyama. By the end, PRIME had almost disappeared. The remaining competitors became incidental. Even the Universal Championship opportunity, the stated purpose of Survivor, had been reduced to something optional.

Alexei occupied every page.

Ivan removed his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The frames landed beside the Brick with a quiet clatter.

No one in PRIME knew the truth. The vacation had held because it fit what needed to be built. Alexei’s absence invited conspiracy, but not concern.

The pages would destroy that protection. Ivan’s words revealed the lie and the pitiful fragments of information granted to him by his superiors. It admitted he considered abandoning Survivor.

He knew Lindsay would never read this. Neither would the individuals arriving upstairs. He questioned their literacy, anyway. But, he gazed at the final line.

I remain for the man who would order me to stay, even while I would give anything to hear him say it.

His jaw tightened. Alexei would have crossed it out. He’d have struck through half the document, complained that Ivan had confused political communication with public self-mutilation, and demanded a new draft before allowing so much as a comma to reach PRIME.

Alexei understood that truth required management. Private pain was useful, but only after it had been cut into the correct shape and aimed appropriately.

Ivan gathered the pages into a neat stack.

For a moment, he stared at the small wastebasket beside the desk. He could tear the document apart and reduce the confession to strips of paper. No one would ever know it existed.

Instead, he folded the pages once. The crease ran through Kerry Kuroyama’s name.

Ivan opened the suitcase beneath the window and lifted the small case containing his medals. The unpublished Address fit beneath it, hidden between the hard bottom of the luggage and the symbols of a life spent performing certainty. He lowered the medal case over the hidden pages, closed the suitcase, and pushed it back beneath the window.

The truth remained inside.

He returned to the desk and opened a blank document on his enormous laptop. The white screen illuminated his face while the Brick rested beside him, silent and watchful.

He began again.

Members of PRIME.

Comrades across the world.

Workers employed within Chicago’s hospitality sector.

The words arrived more easily the second time. He removed the hospital and restored the political argument. Kerry remained capable. He also remained eliminated. Lindsay Troy’s favoritism remained an insult to every competitor still subjected to Survivor.

Alexei vanished from the words.

Ivan wrote of preparation, discipline, and the structural inadequacies awaiting him throughout Chicago. He described the bar crawl as another assignment and promised to reach its conclusion upright. The private urgency behind that promise survived, though its source had been removed.

The official Address presented Ivan Stanislav as PRIME expected to encounter him, furious at the injustice and fully prepared to endure it.

He typed his full name and title beneath the final paragraph, then reviewed the document once more. After correcting a misplaced comma and increasing the size of the heading, Ivan uploaded the address through PRIME’s internal system.

A confirmation appeared on the screen. The public statement now belonged to PRIME.

Ivan closed the computer. The basement returned to silence. He turned the Brick over.

No update. How many times had he checked it over the past weeks?

Ivan stared until the screen dimmed. He unlocked it, checked the volume, then placed it carefully on the desk once more.

With a sigh, he retrieved a bottle of vodka from the bottom of his suitcase, along with two glasses. He poured the first measure and set it before himself. The second received an equal amount, though Ivan studied both before adding a small splash to the glass across from him.

“You would complain otherwise,” he muttered.

The empty side of the desk offered no disagreement.

Ivan lifted his glass. His reflection bent across its surface, widened by the curve until even his own face was unfamiliar.

“За твоё возвращение, Алёша.”

To your return, Alyosha.

He took the only drink that would truly mean something in Chicago.

The vodka carried warmth through his chest, but the sensation passed quickly. Ivan lowered the empty glass and looked toward the one he had poured for Alexei.

It remained full beside the silent telephone.