Night has long since fallen. The cafeteria has quieted down, voices fading into a low hum. Elijah and I are sitting at a table, our trays barely touched, lost in the tangle of memories we're trying to piece back together.
Sometimes they line up-like flashes of childhood, me in clear water, other kids around. Maybe Elijah, maybe others from before.
Sometimes it doesn't fit. Like holding a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
"You said that girl talked to you," I say to Elijah.
He nods.
"Yeah. It was blurry, but... it hit me. I think I cared about her. Or at least, she mattered."
I smile faintly.
"I've had glimpses too. Moments where we were laughing, running away from everything. I see us by a lake, like it happened yesterday. But it's off somehow."
Then I feel someone approaching.
It's Gunther and Tinka, with Ilya close behind. They've got that serious look that puts us on edge right away.
Gunther sits down across from us, offers a small smile to ease the tension.
"No point dragging it out," he says. "Tinka and I are heading out on a mission tomorrow morning."
A chill runs through me.
"A mission? I thought things were supposed to stay quiet for a while."
"Here, yeah," he says. "But something came up-outside. We need to move on it."
Tinka nods, her gaze steady, calm but firm.
"We just wanted to let you know. So you're not left guessing. We'll be long gone by the time you're up."
"What's the goal?" I ask.
Gunther glances at Ilya, who shrugs.
"Extraction. Prisoner op. It's big. Ideally, we're in and out clean. Realistically, though... we might be pushing our luck."
Ilya chimes in, his tone colder than usual, stripped of sarcasm.
"I'm staying here. Tech support. Not much use out there with one arm."
I glance at Elijah, worried. We owe them everything.
They got us out. Pulled us from that loop. From hell.
Ilya catches my expression.
"Hey," he says, the sarcasm fading completely. "They'll be fine. I'll be in their ears the whole time. I won't let them mess this up."
The weight in my chest loosens a little.
Gunther straightens up and holds out his fist to Elijah.
"We'll be gone a few days."
Then he gives me a softer smile-a simple gesture, but it hits deeper than I expect.
Tinka, less demonstrative but just as sincere, adds:
"This is goodbye for now. We'll leave early. You two stay safe."
As they rise, Ilya throws one more comment over his shoulder, half-smirking:
"If you feel like it, drop by the control room. You can follow the whole thing live. Boris won't like it, but screw him."
I glance at Elijah.
We smile, just a little.
Reassured-for now.
---
We didn't sleep a wink.
Even without saying it, I know Elijah stayed awake as long as I did. It's in the way we move, the silent looks exchanged when we crossed paths in the early morning. The bed creaks when he shifts; I hear him turn over, sigh, stay still for a long moment before trying again.
We wait.
We hope.
We fear the worst.
When morning finally comes, we're already up before the hall starts to stir. Breakfast is swallowed almost mechanically, in a heavy silence. Elijah tries, though. He wears that crooked little smile, attempts a light joke.
"Think we'll ever have a normal morning again? You know, like toast and sunlight in the kitchen?"
I shrug, the corner of my mouth trembling a little.
"I don't think we'd know what to do with it anymore."
He chuckles softly, then sits up.
"I'm gonna move around. Can't just sit here doing nothing. I'll train a bit, loosen up my arms. You can join me later if you want."
I shake my head.
"I've got a check-up at the infirmary."
He nods, understanding I need some time alone. He presses my shoulder gently before heading off to the training room.
The infirmary is quiet at this hour. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and the sharp scent of disinfectant stings my nose. A nurse approaches - always the same one: Anya.
She's young, blond hair braided back, her movements soft but precise. She knows me well now. She's never asked too many questions; she respects the silences.
"Want to lie down?" she asks.
I nod. She readies the tourniquet, tubes, needle.
"Results are normal," she says after a moment, eyes fixed on the screen. "No trace left. Your blood's finally clean, Mira."
She looks at me.
"How are you feeling, really?"
I smile faintly.
"Depends on the hour. Physically, though, everything's fine."
She doesn't push. She knows the words will come someday - or never. She lets me leave without holding me back.
Outside, the air is cool. I could go back to the room, find the empty bed, Elijah's socks lying around, the sheets all messed up. But I stop. Something tightens in my chest-a mix of anxiety and curiosity.
I think back to what Ilya said yesterday.
If you want, come by the control room to watch it all live.
I haven't seen him in the halls. Not in training. Not in the common rooms.
So I turn on my heel.
I take the stairs down to the computer room, hoping the invitation still stands.
Hoping he's there.
Hoping... for something.
---
I knock softly. Once. Twice.
The door slides open with a faint electric click. Ilya appears, hair tousled, fresh dark circles under each eye, an empty mug in hand.
"You're early. Or maybe you didn't sleep well."
"Did I even sleep at all?"
He smiles without joy and steps aside to let me in.
"Welcome to my kingdom."
The room is cramped, low-ceilinged. Three screens hang on the walls, casting a steady blue glow-almost suffocating. Cables dangle like vines, tangled, sometimes labeled by hand. Two open towers hum quietly, green LEDs blinking softly. A small electric fan whirs at full speed in the corner. The air is dry, heavy with the scent of old plastic and cold coffee.
He settles back at his desk, quickly unfastens the strap of his prosthetic, sets it aside, then slips his stump into a metal lever fixed to the right of the keyboard. It's rudimentary but precise, articulated on several axes, with an aluminum handle welded to a base bolted to the desk.
I watch him without comment.
He notices.
"I built it myself," he says. "I got tired of banging my mouse with my stump. Plus, I shave two-tenths of a second off every command line."
"You timed that?"
"Of course. I'm no amateur."
He smiles a little more genuinely. I move closer to the large central screen. A map appears, with an arrow-shaped icon slowly moving along a side road.
"They're still on the way," he explains. "They're supposed to meet a contact on the outskirts. The kind of guy who lives in a ruined farmhouse, trades goods with a loaded rifle in hand."
I frown.
"Have you met this contact?"
"No. And I intend to keep it that way."
He taps a command quickly. A second map appears: a long, narrow building layout, with red and green lines marked by numbers.
"The complex isn't huge. A transit prison. The target was due for transfer in another district. So if we don't act now..."
"...she disappears," I finish.
He nods.
"Exactly."
I stand there for a moment, silent. The icon on the map moves slowly, almost serenely. Like nothing's urgent.
He glances at me.
"Coffee?"
I look at him.
"You offering me your personal poison?"
"I am. No pressure. But judging by your face, you need it."
I sigh but still go to the machine. The nozzle sputters and groans. The smell catches in my throat. I pour, taste. Bitter, burning, harsh. But it feels good.
"First time drinking it?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"I'm witnessing a rite of passage, then. Didn't plan a ceremony, sorry."
"You could've at least brought cake."
He cracks a very brief smile.
I settle on a wobbly chair beside him and look at the map, my mug still in hand.
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
"I'm sitting. Shoot."
I turn slightly toward him.
"Was that you... at the loop? The hacking, the alarm, the jamming? All of it?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"Technically, it was a team effort. But yeah. That was me."
"Could you... I don't know... try to recover some files?"
He stiffens slightly, turns his head to look at me.
"Files?"
I stare without answering. He understands.
"You want to find your last name."
I lower my eyes to my arm. The tattoo is still there. 036. Immutable.
"You have a starting point," he continues. "That number isn't nothing. If they kept a database, a correspondence, a registry... That's exploitable. But it's not something you improvise over two cups of coffee. If I launch a search without precautions, they could detect it. We need to prepare the ground."
"I know."
He studies me for a few seconds, then returns to the screen.
"We can do it. Not right away. But yeah. We can try. If we find your family name, yours and Elijah's, maybe we can find your parents too. But please, don't get your hopes up. It might not work."
I nod slowly.
He types a few lines silently. Then suddenly:
"Is Elijah training?"
I jump a little.
"Uh... yeah. How do you-"
"It's Tuesday morning. Your brother has his routines."
He sends a quick message.
"I'm letting him know you're with me. Otherwise, he'll wonder where you disappeared to. I handle your public image."
"Charming."
He shoots me a sideways glance.
"If you vanish without warning, someone's gonna raid my cave with a machete."
I roll my eyes. He smirks crookedly, then more seriously:
"That's part of my job too. Watching. I do my best to keep this place safe."
He says it like a joke, but I know it's true. He watches them. Not out of paranoia. Out of attachment.
"You care about them."
He doesn't answer right away. He scratches the back of his neck with his left hand.
"They've put up with me for two years. Let me tinker with the network, burn through firewalls, yell into the mics. And they've never looked at me like I'm half a person. So yeah. I won't let them go."
I look at him, and for the first time, I see something fragile beneath the sarcasm. A raw, sincere attachment.
So I stay there. With him. And we watch the little arrow slowly move across the screen.