The office is nearly empty. Stark. Too clean to feel welcoming.
Pale wood. Bare walls. No photos. No emblems. No windows.
Mikel enters, flanked by Gunther. Rigid. Shoulders tight. His eyes dart around the room, scanning every corner, every object.
He expects to be restrained. To be wiped. For it to begin.
Boris is seated behind a desk, paperless, his hands calmly folded in front of him.
Gunther closes the door. Not a sound.
"Mikel," says Boris.
He doesn't rise. Doesn't offer a hand.
"Thank you for coming."
Mikel says nothing. His neck stiff. Fear showing at the edges.
"Please. Sit," Boris offers.
Mikel stays on his feet. Wary. Tense. As if sitting would mean lowering his guard.
Boris doesn't insist.
"You must have questions. I can't answer them all. But I can clear some things up. You weren't the target. The mission concerned a prisoner. You happened to be there. You saw. So we took you."
Silence.
Boris switches on the screen on his desk. A news anchor appears, perfect hair, flawless tie.
"...young Mikel Gagarin, on a diplomatic mission in the neutral zones, is currently engaged in a confidential program under ministry supervision..."
No mention of an attack. No images of the prison. Nothing.
Boris turns the screen off.
"Your government's saving face. They'd rather lie than admit a breach. Officially, you're 'on assignment.'"
Mikel clenches his jaw. It's not his government. It's his father. His stomach tightens a little more.
"They'll come," he says at last. "They can't not."
"Maybe. But we're not going to wait forever."
Boris interlaces his fingers.
"You're an asset. We intend to use you."
A pause.
"There are two options. First: your government agrees to an exchange. There are still children in the Loop. A few months ago, we extracted two of them. They're here. Twins. Strong."
Mikel doesn't respond, but his heartbeat falters.
"Second option: your sister makes it all public. The truth about the Loop. The recordings. The methods used there. Once that's done, we'll send you home."
The words hang in the air.
Mikel looks up, eyes hard.
"The truth?" he says, finally. "You really think people will believe your stories? Your doctored footage? Those kids... they're criminals. Violent. Unstable. Addicts. The Loop is a rehabilitation center. They're treated there. Put back on the right path."
The phrase lands sharp in the air.
It's Gunther who reacts, not Boris.
He steps forward, slow. His frame looms larger.
"Their names are Mira and Elijah," he says flatly.
Mikel flinches. First time he hears the names.
"They don't even know their exact age. Somewhere between seventeen and nineteen. You think that's normal? They were sick for weeks from withdrawal. They were pumped full of tranquilizers. Sedatives. Every day. In the Loop. Mira still wakes up screaming some nights. Nightmares without images. And Elijah... Elijah spends hours trying to remember his mother's face. He knows she existed. He knows he loved her. But he remembers nothing. Nothing."
Gunther's dark eyes bore into him. Full of fury.
"You know what it's like to miss someone you can't even picture anymore?"
Mikel stays silent. He hadn't expected this. Not these words. Not this kind of violence.
He thinks of his own mother. Gone when he was young. He still has fragments. Images.
Blurry moments, but real.
And that's already enough to hurt.
So he tries to imagine what it's like. That kind of absence. That faceless void.
Gunther isn't done. His voice rises, rough:
"You still want to talk about criminals? About kids who need to be 'rehabilitated'?
What was done to them isn't reintegration. It's reprogramming. Conditioning. Systematic erasure. If you want to call them unstable, fine. But I know one thing for sure — they weren't unstable before they crossed paths with your sister."
A breath. And then, sharply:
"Fuck..."
Thrown at the room itself. At the absurdity of it all. Gunther steps back, but his fists are still clenched.
Mikel doesn't speak. The fear is still there — but something in it has shifted.
Cracked.
A doubt.
A tremor.
The names echo in him.
Mira. Elijah.
Boris resumes, calmer.
"You don't have to take our word for it. You'll be staying a while. Watch. Listen. If your father kept you close, it's because you're a smart boy."
Mikel frowns. What is he implying?
Silence, thick and saturated.
Boris breaks it, voice sharp but even:
"Take him back to his cell."
Gunther nods, wordless. He circles the desk, casts one last glance at Mikel — not to monitor, but as if still assessing what he just witnessed.
Mikel doesn't move at first. He isn't cuffed, no one forces him, but he walks like someone expecting a blow with every step. He's been on edge since the moment he arrived.
The knot in his stomach hasn't loosened.
They walk down the corridor in silence. Calm, even steps.
A long moment passes. Then Mikel mutters, without looking at him:
"They said the twins were dead. That they found traces in the snow, then nothing. Everyone believed it."
Gunther turns slightly, keeps walking.
"Yeah. That's what they wanted people to believe."
Mikel hesitates, then asks under his breath:
"You were the one... who got them out?"
The silence stretches. But this time, Gunther doesn't avoid it. Eventually, he replies, voice low:
"Yeah. I drove. Two others found them."
He stops in front of a door. Takes out a badge, but doesn't use it yet.
"They were in a corridor. Looked like shadows. Elijah was holding Mira's sleeve. They didn't even remember each other, but he held on — like even the Loop couldn't take that from them. Their bond."
He goes quiet. Eyes distant.
"They were thin. Sick. Barely walking. Terrified. No words left. No bearings. But they were still standing. Together."
Mikel listens. Doesn't interrupt.
Something shifts inside. Soft. Rusted. Like an old hinge finally moving.
"...Are they better now?" he asks, almost against his will.
Gunther nods slowly, faint smirk on his lips.
"Yeah. Much better. Mira yelled at me yesterday because I put too much pepper in the pasta.
And Elijah makes awful jokes about my hair every time he's anxious. So I guess that's a good sign."
Mikel lets out a faint breath that might be a laugh. He hears himself ask the next question before he even decides to:
"You love them?"
And instantly regrets it. Stupid. Inappropriate. Too... human.
But Gunther doesn't mock him. He doesn't frown. Doesn't look away.
He stands still, by the door. And simply answers:
"Yes."
No more.
"Do you think they'll make it?"
Gunther tilts his head. Thinking.
"They want to. That already means a lot. So... yeah. I think they will."
He finally swipes the badge. The door unlocks with a soft hiss.
Mikel steps in, then turns around. Just before the door closes again, he says:
"Thank you."