John Hopkins

The revolution depends on factories like this one.

The workers lean in to catch his words.

Some nod, a few clap when he finishes.

His audience already dissipating, Lenin steps down from the platform and turns towards the waiting car.

Fanny takes her cue.

Moving slowly, deliberately, like someone whose fate is already decided, she slips her hand into her coat pocket and grips the revolver, heavy and cold.

Her quarry is only a few paces away now, framed by workers shifting aside to let him pass.

She raises the gun.

The first shot splits the air, but for an instant the yard holds its breath as if the sound has not yet been understood.

Then she fires again.

Lenin jerks, his body folding slightly at the waist.

With the third shot, panic detonates across the yard.

Most workers scatter, but others lunge towards Fanny, grabbing her arms, wrenching the weapon from her grasp before she can fire again.

Lenin is caught as he stumbles.

Blood seeps darkly through his jacket.

He is pale but conscious, insisting through clenched teeth that he is alright.

Fanny does not struggle as she is forced to the ground, wrists pinned, boots thudding around her.

And though she has not killed Lenin, the echo of her shots will travel far beyond the factory gates.

hers will not be the only arrest that comes from this.

Lenin survives the attack, but by nightfall, Moscow already feels different.