They named him Dima.
Not because he deserved a name selected by committee, but because it stuck.
“Too confusing,” Dima-the-lawyer had protested. “Get your own traumatized vampire.”
“It’s not my fault your mother picked a popular name,” Mira had said. “We’ll call him… Younger Dima.”
“Young Dima,” Sergei had suggested. “Baby Dima. Dimochka.”
“I will… murder you,” Dima-the-vampire had muttered.
The nickname stayed.
He lived, for now, in a property Irina’s network controlled: a basement flat with barred windows and more locks than seemed reasonable. He was not a prisoner, she’d insisted. Just… protected.
“From whom?” he had asked sullenly.
“Everyone,” she’d said.
Mira visited two days after the cannery.
Aleksandr went with her, perched on the arm of a chair like an anxious cat.
Irina was there, of course, sitting in the one comfortable armchair like a monarch.
Young Dima slouched on the sofa, chains gone, a mug of something steaming in his hands. He looked… less feral. Slightly.
“You look like shit,” Mira said by way of greeting.
He snorted. “You sound like my mother,” he said.
“Is she… alive?” she asked gently.
He shifted, gaze dropping. “Don’t know,” he muttered. “Don’t… care.”
She filed that away for later.
“How are you… feeling?” she asked.
“Like I got hit by a bus,” he said. “Twice. Once from each direction.”
“Accurate,” Irina said.
Mira sat on the other end of the sofa, tucking one leg under her.
“We’re not… here… to interrogate,” she said. “Just… check in. Make sure… you’re not… gnawing on the furniture.”
He glanced at her. At Aleksandr. At Irina.
“Why?” he asked. “Why… do you… care… if I… break… your… toys.”
“Because you’re… not… our… enemy,” she said. “Not… yet. And because… if you… break… the furniture… Irina will… make… us… pay… for it.”
Irina’s lips quirked. “True,” she said.
Young Dima huffed a laugh despite himself.
“I don’t… get… you,” he said to Mira. “Any of you. You… old ones… make… big speeches… about… rules… and… stability. Then you… break… into labs… and… kidnap… people. You…” He pointed at her. “Write… about… missing… workers… and… old… crimes… while… sleeping… with… one of… the… monsters.”
Mira bristled. “He’s not—”
“I am,” Aleksandr said calmly.
She shot him a look. He shrugged.
“I am… not… human,” he said. “That is… the… definition… of… monster… in… your… stories. Whether… we… deserve… it… all… the time… is… a… separate… question.”
Young Dima snorted. “At least you’re… honest,” he said.
Mira exhaled. “What do you… want… from us,” she asked him.
He blinked. “Who said… I want… anything,” he said.
“Everyone,” she said. “You… agreed… to stay. To… talk. That’s… wanting… something. Even if you… don’t… know… what.”
He stared into his mug.
“Kalugin… found me… at a club,” he said abruptly. “I was… high. Broke. Pissed off. He… bought me a drink. Listened. Said… things… that sounded… like… sense. ‘You’re… better… than this. You… shouldn’t… be… pushed around… by… cops… and… bosses… and… landlords. You… should… be… the one… they… fear.’”
Mira’s chest ached.
“That sounded… good,” she said quietly.
He laughed bitterly. “It sounded… like… oxygen,” he said. “He… made it… sound… like… choosing… to… be… turned… was… a… revolution. Like… refusing… to… be… meat… anymore. He… didn’t… mention… the… leashes.”
“Of course not,” Irina said. “Never… mention… the… fine print.”
Young Dima’s jaw clenched. “You… talk… like… you’re… better,” he said to her. “Like… your… generation… didn’t… do… the same… thing.”
“We did,” Irina said. “In… different… clothes. That is… why… we… are here. Trying… to… not… do it… again.”
“You’re… failing,” he said.
She smiled, humorless. “Often,” she said.
“But we’re… trying,” Mira said. “And you… being here… is part of that.”
“I didn’t… agree… to be… your… project,” he muttered.
“You didn’t…,” Mira said. “You… agreed… not… to run. Yet. That’s… all.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You keep… offering… me… choices,” he said. “All of them… shit.”
“Welcome… to adulthood,” she said dryly.
He barked a laugh.
Silence lapped.
“You really… think… you can… take… him… down,” he said eventually. “Kalugin.”
“Yes,” Aleksandr said.
Young Dima scoffed.
“You… tried… before,” he said. “Men… like him… fall… and… someone… worse… takes… his… place.”
“Yes,” Aleksandr said. “That… may… happen. But… we… still… owe… the world… the attempt.”
“You owe… the past,” Mira said. “And… the present. And… whatever… excuse… for a future… we… have.”
Young Dima looked at her.
“What do *you*… owe?” he asked.
She opened her mouth.
Shut it again.
“Too much,” she said finally. “Not all of it… mine. But I’m… tired… of… paying… in… silence.”
He studied her, then looked away, jaw working.
“You… got… files… from… the lab,” he said. “About… the others. The… ones… who… didn’t… get… out.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you… going to… say… their names,” he asked. “In your… articles. Or… your… hearings. Or… is it… just… ‘Subject 17’… forever.”
Her throat tightened.
“I want to,” she said. “But… I have to… be sure. Names… are… sharp. If I… use… them… wrong…” She thought of families who didn’t know. Of ancestors who’d been numbers in other records. “I don’t want… to… exploit… them.”
“You’re… already… using… them,” he said. “Even… without… their… names. They’re… your… rallying cry. Your… fuel.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “And that… hurts.”
He laughed once. “Good,” he said. “Means… you’re… not… a… politician.”
She smiled weakly.
“If you… want… your… name… said,” she said, “if you… want… to testify… to… anything… we… can… make that… happen. On… your… terms.”
He stared at her.
“You’d… put me… on… TV,” he said. “A… bloodsucker… with a… story.”
“Yes,” she said. “If… you… wanted. Anonymously. Or… not. It’s… your… life.”
He shook his head. “You’re… insane,” he said. “You’d… get… eaten… alive.”
“Only once,” she said. “Then it’s… done.”
He snorted.
“I’ll… think… about it,” he muttered.
“Good,” she said. “That’s… all… I’m… asking.”
When they left, Irina walked them to the door.
“You are… poking… a very… young… bear,” she said.
“I know,” Mira said. “He… asked… good questions.”
“Yes,” Irina said. “That is… what… frightens… me.”
Outside, the air bit her cheeks.
Aleksandr walked beside her in silence for half a block.
“What?” she asked finally.
“You used… his… name,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “That’s… the point.”
“You… saw… how… it… cut,” he said. “It… ties… him… back… to… before. To… something… other… than… Kalugin.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s… the… idea. Power… comes… from… naming. We… take… numbers… and… make… them… people.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“You did… that… for me,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“In the crypt,” he said. “When I… woke. I was… ‘Morozov.’ ‘Subject’ in some… file. You… insisted… on… my… full… name. Aleksandr. Aleksa. You… kept… saying… it. You… tied… me… back… to… myself. Before… the… stone.”
Her throat tightened.
“I didn’t… think of it… that way,” she said. “I just… didn’t… want… to call… you… by… your… house.”
He smiled, small.
“Intent… does not… erase… effect,” he said.
She looked at him.
“You… have… a million… names,” she said softly. “Predator. Monster. Subject. Asset. Liability. Knife. Pawn. Prince—”
He winced.
“—vampire,” she finished. “I… like… Aleksandr… best.”
He stopped, for a heartbeat, in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Mira,” he said.
“Yes?” she asked, suddenly breathless.
“Do not… die,” he said quietly.
She laughed, startled. “I’ll… put it… on my… to-do list,” she said.
He didn’t smile.
“I am… serious,” he said. “If… Kalugin… or… Mikhail… or… any… of them… touch… you…”
He trailed off, jaw tight.
“You’ll… be… very… angry,” she said, trying to lighten it.
“That… is… not… all,” he said.
Her heart stuttered.
“What else?” she asked.
“I will… burn… this… city… down,” he said, very calmly.
She shivered, not from the cold.
“Try… not to… give yourself… that… job,” she said.
“I am… trying,” he replied.
They resumed walking.
Snow threatened again in the air, metallic-tasting.
They had cannery data tucked into flour, donors with patched wrists, a young vampire with too many bad options, and a plan that looked less like a straight line and more like a web.
It wasn’t neat.
It was never going to be.
But it was theirs.
And as Mira tucked her scarf tighter and slid her gloved hand into Aleksandr’s, she allowed herself one dangerous, necessary thought:
They might actually win.
Not cleanly. Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to make it worth the cost.
Enough to write a different ending than the one the files expected.
Enough to justify the blood and ink and nights spent staring at ceilings.
Enough to look at him, centuries wrecked across his face, and think:
We changed something.
Together.