I'm sitting next to Ilya, a lukewarm cup of coffee in my hands, eyes fixed on the screens.
In front of me, six windows are open, each showing a different video feed from the embedded cameras: Gunther, Tinka, Piotr, two on the trucks, and another woman I don't recognize. GPS maps, lines of code scrolling down one of the side monitors, rhythmic beeps marking the encrypted comms between teams. Ilya is focused, leaning against the edge of his seat, his stump fitted into the strange lever he uses instead of a mouse. He never looks more alive than when he's piloting his machines.
"The signal's good," he says. "They're approaching the blockade point."
I nod, saying nothing. Nerves tighten in my chest.
Suddenly, the door swings open. Boris.
He steps in sharply and stops cold when he sees me.
"What's she doing here?"
Ilya doesn't even glance his way.
"She's watching. That bother you, boss?"
"This isn't protocol."
"My room, my protocol," Ilya replies, with a faint smirk. "She stays."
Boris grunts, but doesn't push it further. He remains standing, arms crossed, next to us. I try to make myself smaller, not daring to speak.
Ilya types a few commands. The screens flicker.
"I'm cutting the sector cams. Radios get jammed right after. It's now or never."
A metallic click. On one of the screens, I see Gunther behind the wheel of one of the trucks. His face is masked, like all the others. Beside him, Tinka adjusts her armband. Behind them, a second truck, identical, waits in reserve.
The first truck swerves across the road, blocking it. Moments later, the transfer vehicle appears—a gray armored van bearing the ministry's insignia.
"In position," Tinka murmurs. "Three, two, one..."
The impact is sharp, clean. The resistance truck forces the convoy to a halt. Two of ours rush in, guns raised. The official driver is pulled out and neutralized almost silently. The soldier beside him struggles briefly before he's pinned to the asphalt.
I hold my breath. Everything is happening so fast. I hear Piotr: "We're in."
But the rear doors aren't open yet. I hear Ilya mutter a curse under his breath.
"Heads up," he says. "Another vehicle incoming."
I see it on one of the side feeds. A black sedan. Official plates.
"No..." Boris breathes. "Not now."
The car brakes hard at the sight of the stopped convoy. Too late. Piotr turns on it.
"Out of the car!"
But the soldiers up front open fire immediately. A gunshot cracks. Piotr's mask snaps back—he falls. Tinka cries out, a red slash blooming across her sleeve.
"Tinka's hit," Ilya reports. "Piotr, how's your head?"
Piotr's voice comes through the comms.
"I'm good. Helmet took it."
Gunfire erupts. Too quick for tactics, too brutal for negotiation. But there are only two in the car—our four shooters have the edge. The soldiers drop fast. When the dust settles, the woman I didn't recognize smashes the rear window of the sedan.
Inside, a young man sits frozen.
He doesn't move.
"Shit," Boris mutters. "It's Mikel."
I stare at him, stunned.
"Mikel?"
"Gagarin's son."
Seconds stretch. Piotr yanks him out of the car like a sack of grain. He doesn't resist.
"We're taking him," Boris says. "If we leave him, he'll rat us out within the hour. He's coming."
"This wasn't part of the plan," Tinka says through the mic.
"That's why we've got two trucks. No decoy, that's all."
Gunther opens his truck's rear doors. Tinka climbs in, wincing. Piotr pushes Mikel inside, forces him to sit. He looks dazed, lips pale, eyes vacant.
On the other feed, the other resistance fighter drags out the prisoner.
I choke.
She's so thin, so pale, she looks like she's made of paper. She can barely walk. Piotr is carrying her more than holding her up.
They load her into the second truck.
She's the one. The target they risked everything for.
When the cameras flick back to Mikel's face, I freeze. My brain overloads.
I've seen him before. On TV, on posters, in newspapers. He visited my city years ago. Always smiling, always perfectly groomed, always in control.
Now he looks like a child. And I feel sick.
"Stick to the planned routes," Boris orders. "We've got until tonight before they realize the transfer was intercepted—and less than that for Mikel's kidnapping. No time to drag our feet."
Gunther responds affirmatively. Boris exits, saying he has to alert the others to the change in mission. The door slams shut.
I stay there. Motionless.
But my eyes won't leave the screen.
Mikel's face is still visible. He blinks slowly, dazed. He hasn't said a word.
And suddenly, it all comes back.
The memories hit me like a pack of wolves. First blurry. A bike, sidewalks, an old shop, the smell of bread. Then a room. Too small. Grey walls. Me, curled up. Elijah, beside me. We don't know where we are. We don't know what they want.
And then, chaos. They tear us apart. Rip me from him. His screams, mine, my throat raw, my nails clawing at a door, cold hands on my neck.
The room tilts around me.
I think my legs give out. My breath shortens. My vision blurs.
Flashes. The tattoo. 036. The needle. The smell of sweat, of fear. The first injection. Blood on the sheets. Electrodes on my head.
I can't see anymore. Just scraps of before, piling on top of each other. Pain, shame, rage. All at once. All too much.
Someone's speaking.
A distant voice.
"Ilya?"
I hear his name in my head, but I don't know if I actually said it.
He comes closer. I feel him more than I see him.
"Mira?"
His voice is calm, but tight.
I think he understands. Or at least, he senses it. He doesn't say anything else. He switches off Tinka's camera—the one still showing Mikel's face—and replaces it with the truck map. Just colored dots moving on a gray screen. Easier to look at.
Then he gets up, moves closer.
I'm still curled in on myself, heart racing, hands shaking. The flashes keep coming, though less frequently now.
He kneels in front of me. Speaks again, but it sounds like I'm underwater.
Then he makes a gesture.
Slowly, he wraps his left arm around my shoulders. His only arm. The movement is awkward, a bit stiff—but it's there. He holds me gently, not forcing anything.
I let him.
I breathe into him. My forehead on his collarbone. My fingers clutch his sweatshirt like I'm drowning.
And little by little... the flashes stop.
He stays. Silent. Just his presence—steady, solid.
I catch my breath. I'm soaked. Winded.
I pull back a bit. Look at him.
"Sorry," I whisper.
He raises an eyebrow.
"I should be the one apologizing. If I had both arms, you'd have calmed down twice as fast."
I laugh. A small, shaky laugh. But it's real.
"Want me to call Elijah?" he asks.
I look at him, surprised. I wasn't expecting that... that kind of care. Not from him.
I nod.
"Yeah. I'd like that."