When Elijah walks into the computer room, I don't even have time to straighten up.
He sees me. He understands immediately.
His brows knit together, his steps quicken, and I feel his arms wrap around me before I even lift my eyes.
"What happened?" he whispers near my ear.
His voice barely trembles, but I can feel the tension in him. Like he's been running, or like something inside is holding back a scream.
I close my eyes against his chest. His sweater smells like the cold hallway and gunpowder.
I raise my hand, grip the fabric lightly in my fist. My eyes still sting.
He says nothing else. He waits.
"Sit down," I murmur.
He hesitates, then obeys. He pulls the chair next to mine, his knees brushing against mine. I look at him. His eyes search mine, but I can already tell he knows. He's sensed what I'm about to say.
"I remembered... us. When they took us to the Loop."
He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.
"There was this room. Tiny, kind of damp... A flickering ceiling light. You remember it?"
He nods slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
"We sat next to each other, backs to the wall. You were cold, I think. We didn't have our coats. We weren't talking. But you held my hand."
My heart beats harder. I see it again. Him, me, curled up in that nothingness. Waiting for something, not knowing what.
"And then they came," I say.
My throat tightens.
"They tried to separate us. You stood up, held onto me. And I screamed. I screamed your name. They tried to pull me away from you, but you wouldn't let go, Elijah. You wouldn't let go. They—"
"They hit you," he cuts in.
I turn toward him sharply. His eyes have gone blank. His face too. He's staring into the void, straight ahead. Like he's looking through the room, through time.
"You were struggling too much," he says, voice hollow. "So they hit you. I remember."
His fingers clench on his knees.
"They threw you to the floor. You hit your head on a pipe, you were bleeding. And me... I lost it."
I lower my eyes. An image returns, swift and vivid. Blood. Screaming. My screams.
"I bit one of the guards. I was screaming like an animal. I just wanted them to leave you alone. So they grabbed me and hit me too. Again and again. Until I passed out. I think."
Silence. A void. Just Elijah's ragged breathing. Then, a breath to my left.
Ilya. I'd almost forgotten him. Sitting in front of the main screen, his prosthetic resting on his knees. He says nothing, but he's watching us.
His expression has changed.
Harder—and softer, all at once.
His eyes flick between me and Elijah. And in that brief movement, I see something flash through him. Fleeting. A flicker in his gaze, like a crack. Not pity. Something deeper. Heavier.
A pain he recognizes. Not ours, not exactly—but close enough that it resonates.
As if, right now, he just understood what it's cost us. What we carry. What we've been through, in silence, teeth clenched.
And it hits him. I feel it. His heart's breaking a little for us, even if he's doing everything to hide it. Especially from himself.
I look away. I shouldn't have seen that. It's too much. Too raw, too real. Like pressing on a bruise without meaning to.
And despite myself, it rattles me.
Because it's Ilya.
Ilya, the tough one, the cynic, the one who looks at the world like it doesn't touch him.
And here, just now, he let the mask slip for a second. For us. Maybe for me.
I'm not sure. I don't want to think about it.
Not now.
"There's something off," Elijah murmurs.
I turn to him.
"That memory... I'm too young in it. I just know. I'm not seventeen. I'm... fourteen, maybe. Fifteen at most."
I freeze.
"You sure?" I ask, my throat dry.
He nods slowly.
"I was skinnier. Still had that weird teenage voice. And you too. You had that awful haircut, remember? The one you gave yourself."
I laugh. Weakly. Then I look at him.
"You think we were kept there longer than we thought?"
He looks at me, and I see the same terror cutting through his gut that's twisting mine.
"We always thought they took us at seventeen. Senior year. Because that's the last clear memory we have of before. School. The cafeteria. The bus."
I'm speaking faster now. My heart races.
"But what if... What if they took us earlier? Since sophomore year? Since we were fourteen?"
I can't think straight anymore.
Three years.
Maybe more.
Stolen.
Elijah puts a hand on my arm. Squeezes. Hard. And I know he's thinking the same thing I am.
That it's worse than we thought.
And we still don't know everything.
I feel my heart twist. A wave of dizziness hits me. But Ilya stands up, pats his thigh gently with his good hand.
"OK. Stop. I don't want you spiraling," he says, with that calm voice that tries to cut through without wounding. "I have to stay here until the trucks are back tomorrow morning. But you two should go get something to eat. It'll help."
Elijah nods, already getting up. His face is shut tight, every line pulled too hard.
"I can bring you something, if you want," he offers.
"I'm good. I've got what I need."
I look at Ilya. He shows almost nothing. But I feel something under the surface. His hand runs absently over his prosthetic, then through his dark hair, like he's brushing off a shiver he won't admit to.
He's trying to stay solid. For us.
I step closer to him.
"Thank you, Ilya. For letting me stay here during the mission. And... for earlier."
He nods. Brief. Almost distant. But I see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers, the too-quick pulse in his temple.
He's absorbing it. Holding steady for both of us.
So I leave without saying more, Elijah right behind me. And inside my chest, the memories still throb—like a painful echo I'm trying to quiet.
---
It's cold, despite the tarp. A smell of diesel and scorched metal clings to the air—stale and thick like a lid pressed down. The truck jolts along roads he doesn't recognize. The tires skip sometimes over gravel, and Mikel tenses with every bump.
He says nothing.
Seated on a makeshift bench, wrists bound in front of him, he keeps his back straight. Proud. Composed. The way he was taught. The way a Gagarin is supposed to carry himself. But his heart is pounding in his chest. He thought they were going to kill him—right there. They had the chance. They didn't take it. That's the most frightening part.
To his left, the girl is still bleeding a little. A strip of filthy cloth presses against her arm just below the shoulder. She grits her teeth. She's young, maybe a little older than him. She shot him a look at first—quick, wary, almost hostile. Since then, nothing. She ignores him.
He hasn't dared speak to her.
The engine noise muffles the sharper thoughts, but he can't shut them out entirely. He keeps replaying the scene. The shouting. The gunfire. The chaos. And her—the prisoner they were pulling out. A gaunt woman. Hollow-eyed, but alive. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could've run. He didn't. He saw everything.
He should be dead.
His gaze drifts to the tarp flapping against the truck's frame. He doesn't know where they're going. He doesn't even know how long they've been driving. Maybe two hours. Three. Time feels slippery. He tries to stay alert, to remember everything—for when he's released. Because he will be. When his father finds out. When they realize. They must already be taking action.
He swallows. A taste of iron lingers in his mouth.
Maybe they'll torture him first. Extract information. That's what people say. What the screens show. He knows. He's seen it.
A rattle. A small hatch slides open between the cab and the rear. Mikel flinches, strains to listen.
— Tinka, your arm?
The voice is young. Male. Worried.
The girl barely turns her head.
— It's fine. Just a scratch.
Silence. Then she asks:
— The others?
— They're fine. Piotr's got a headache, but, well... his skull's thick enough.
A faint rustling. A lit cigarette passes through the opening. She takes it, draws once, hands it back. The hatch shuts.
Mikel doesn't move. He's watched the scene from the corner of his eye, motionless. He doesn't quite understand what he's just seen. That tone. That small gesture. He expected something else.
Not that.
He doesn't know why it surprises him. He can't explain it. It doesn't matter. They're terrorists—he mustn't forget that. That's what he knows. What he's been taught. What the Republic teaches everyone. He must not let himself be distracted.
He sits up straighter, eyes on the flapping tarp. The truck keeps speeding through the night.