The truck was going downhill.
Mikel felt it in his gut. A soft pressure forward, the muffled echo of tires screeching against concrete. Like a tunnel. The sound changed. Deeper. The air shifted - damper, colder. The silence between jolts thickened.
Next to him, Tinka straightened slightly. She braced herself with one arm, grounded one foot, no wince. She stood, slowly, keeping her balance despite the bumps. She didn't look at him. Said nothing.
Two horn blasts.
Then the vehicle stopped short. The jolt threw Mikel forward, but he caught himself, wrists still bound. His back stayed straight.
The tarp flapped open. A head appeared.
- "Hey. Tinka."
A blond young man. Mikel recognized his voice. The driver.
He held out a canvas bag. Tinka took it.
- "I'll handle the rest. Go to the infirmary after."
She let out a breath. Not angry - just tired. Then, for the first time, she turned to Mikel. Looked at him. Her voice was dry, not unkind. Just worn out.
- "It doesn't have to be hard."
She pulled the bag over his head. The fabric scratched. It smelled like dust. The light vanished.
They pulled him out.
The ground was cold beneath his soles. He couldn't see, but the smell hit him: gasoline, rubber, stagnant damp. It reeked of abandonment. Of shadow.
Around him, movement. Quick footsteps. Fragments of voices.
- "They made it back?"
- "First truck went through the east side."
- "Hey, check out Tinka's face..."
A short laugh. Slaps on shoulders. A bell somewhere in the distance. Someone running. Life, here.
A hand gripped his arm. Firm. He thought it was the driver again. The voice spoke to someone else.
- "I'll catch up later. Gotta make a delivery first."
Mikel's blood froze. A delivery. He knew what that meant. They showed the videos in school. He pictured a basement. Tools. Screams.
He didn't speak. Just waited. Still. His heart pounding.
They walked. A long time. Turns. Then stairs. Concrete slippery underfoot.
- "Careful," said the voice.
He stumbled. The hand caught his shoulder in a sharp motion. Not brutal. Just efficient. He didn't fall.
That's what caught him off guard. That reflex. That word. Careful.
He didn't know why it got to him.
More stairs. Corridors. A door creaking open. Then they pushed him gently back. Cold metal touched his legs. He sat.
- "You'd better stay seated."
He nodded. Slowly.
The bag came off in one quick tug.
White light. A neon. Too bright. He blinked, dazed. Shapes came into focus. A gray wall. Rust stains. A cell. Small. A chair. A metal door.
In front of him: the driver.
Young. Barely older than him. Maybe twenty-five. Blond. A cigarette behind one ear. He'd taken off his combat vest but still had a gun at his hip. His eyes weren't mocking. Just... calm. Curious, maybe. Tired.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
- "Still breathing. Could be worse, huh?"
Mikel said nothing. He was wary. Watched him without moving.
- "Can I untie you without you jumping me?" the driver asked, nodding at the rope.
Still no answer.
He crouched down, undid the knots.
Mikel's wrists were free.
He didn't think. He lunged. Went for the weapon at the belt.
But the other had already stepped back.
A flat palm slammed into his chest - not hard, just enough to knock him back. He fell into the chair again, panting.
The driver laughed.
- "Not too bright."
Mikel looked down. Stayed silent.
He didn't get it. He'd expected punches. Teeth pulled. Screaming in his face. Something brutal. Something to break him.
Not this.
The guy didn't hit him. Didn't shout. He stood, smoothed out his wrinkled shirt.
He yawned. A real one. Not faked.
- "It's late," he said softly. "Others will come talk to you tomorrow. People who... care more."
He adjusted his sleeve absently, glanced at the door.
- "Try not to make too much of a mess," he murmured. "Some folks are sleeping."
One last look at Mikel. Neutral. No hate, no pity. Just a careful distance. Like he refused to feel anything - no empathy, no cruelty.
Then he left. The door closed with a dull thud. Not a slam.
Mikel was alone.
He looked at his red wrists.
He didn't know what they wanted from him.
And maybe that -
maybe that was the worst part
---
I wake up early-earlier than the Citadel's automatic nightlights. The apartment is quiet, except for Elijah's deep, steady breathing. I slip out of bed, pull on a tank top and my pants. Not a sound. I creep to the door and close it softly behind me.
The hallway is cool, almost empty. I walk quietly, heading toward the mess hall.
Inside, I see them. Gunther and Tinka. Tired, but in one piece. Tinka spots me first - gives me a real smile, not a forced one. I don't even have to think - I smile back.
Gunther waves me over, his voice gravelly, dragging a little.
- "Come on, Mira. Join us."
I don't hesitate. Just seeing them does me good. A grounding point. Something solid.
- "I watched everything from the comm room," I say, straight to the point.
- "Ilya let you stay?" Tinka asks, curious.
- "He's the one who suggested it, actually."
They exchange an amused glance.
- "Well, well," Gunther murmurs.
- "Did you see him on your way back?" I ask.
They both shake their heads.
- "Nope," says Tinka. "He didn't come through the west corridor, at least."
I nod slightly. I get it. He probably fell asleep in there.
- "Well, we're off to sleep," Gunther says, stretching his shoulders. "We drove all night - I'm too old for this crap."
Tinka gives him a teasing look.
- "You've been saying that since we enlisted."
He answers with a half-laughing grunt. They disappear down the dark hallway.
I veer off. Toward the comm room. The old lights above buzz faintly. The silence thickens around me.
I push the door open gently.
Silence.
Just the soft hum of machines on standby, a few blinking lights scattered in the dark. The air is heavy. Stifling.
And he's there.
Slumped over the desk, head buried in his arms. Well-one arm and a half. His prosthetic lies discarded nearby. He looks asleep. At first, I think he is.
But his breathing is too fast. Uneven. Almost... tense. As I get closer, I realize he's not asleep.
His face is clenched, neck damp with sweat. His jaw is tight. Trembling. He's in pain.
- "Ilya," I whisper.
Nothing.
I place my hand gently on his shoulder.
He jerks upright. Looks at me. As if just realizing I'm here.
He doesn't speak, but I see it. In his eyes. On his strained face. He's hurting.
I think back to last night. His hands on me when I was shaking, unable to ground myself. He hadn't said a word. He'd just stayed.
So I do the same.
I spot an old fan in the corner. Plug it in, turn it toward him. He groans, but exhales. I can tell it helps a little - he slowly straightens up, his breathing more under control.
I move without thinking. Sit behind him. Wrap my arms around him.
Like he did for me.
At first, he stays still. Then I feel his left hand rest gently on my forearm. Warm. Heavy.
He tilts his head slightly. And I think - I think I feel his lips brush against my skin.
So I rest my head on his shoulder.
And we just stay like that. The fan drones lazily. His breathing gradually evens out. Deeper. Slower.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do. But I know I want to stay. I don't want him to suffer alone.
- "Sometimes, even though I never really had it... my arm still hurts," he murmurs. Barely more than breath.
I don't answer.
- "There's no meds for that here. So... I bear it."
I tighten my arms around him a little. A silent reply.
After a pause, he adds:
- "You should go back to sleep. It's early."
I smile.
- "And you shouldn't be sleeping upright in a thirty-degree room."
He laughs. For real. Brief. Broken. But real.
I shift slightly. He keeps his hand around my wrist, and I don't pull away.
- "I was asleep," he breathes. "The pain woke me up."
- "Do you know how long you've been here like that?"
He shakes his head vaguely.
- "No idea."
He looks drained. Bone-deep exhaustion.
I look at him. I don't have the words. Don't have the answers. But I don't want to leave him like this.
- "You should get some real sleep," I say. "In a real bed. Not like this."
He nods silently. Grabs his prosthetic and starts strapping it back on. I watch him do it. Each motion looks heavy. Like putting on armor.
Just as he's about to leave, I stop him.
- "Wait."
I rise up a little and brush back some dark strands of hair stuck to his forehead. He looks at me, unmoving.
- "You looked like hell," I say.
He smiles. Just a little.
- "Charming."
- "Always."
We laugh.
We walk through the corridors without seeing a soul. Still early. Only a few cold lights blink on the ceiling. Everything feels suspended.
I walk with him to his apartment door. He looks wrecked.
- "Go sleep," I say softly.
He doesn't answer. Just nods, slowly. And just as I turn to leave, he reaches out - his left arm, the one he still has - and pulls me against him.
My back against his chest, his arm around my waist. His chin tucked into the curve of my shoulder. It's not rushed. Not teasing. It's... something else. Controlled, but real.
I don't move.
I feel his warmth against me. My heart beating too fast. The silence wrapping around us.
- "Yesterday, when you helped me get through that panic," I begin.
I pause. Searching for the words.
- "It was the first time it happened without Elijah around. I wouldn't have blamed you if you froze, but you didn't. You surprised me. In a good way."
He holds me a little tighter. Just once.
- "I'm not really the cuddly type," he murmurs.
I snort a laugh.
- "Says the guy with a girl in his arms."
- "Fair."
His voice is low, hoarse, so close I feel it in my chest.
- "But you needed that. So I stayed."
I shiver again. It's not the cold. It's his hand on me. His presence. It's the fact that I don't understand everything I'm feeling, but I'm feeling it anyway.
- "Gunther was surprised you let me into the comm room, you know," I say.
I feel his smile before I hear it.
- "Gunther doesn't know what he's talking about," he murmurs. "Or he thinks he does. Same difference."
I could stay like this. Maybe it's dumb. But it feels good. The world feels a little less heavy. Then he pulls back, gently. Releases me. I turn to face him.
Our eyes meet. I think he sees something in my face, but he doesn't say a word.
Then, with a half-smile, he leans in a little:
- "Good night, miss."
I laugh, caught off guard. My cheeks burn. It's stupid. I hope it doesn't show.
- "Technically, it's morning."
- "Then good morning. Only wake me up if it's an emergency."
Then he slips inside. Closes the door.
I'm left alone in the hallway.
One second.
Two.
Then I decide to go train. The gym should be empty at this hour. I need to move. To shut down whatever this is that I don't understand yet.