The office is vast, luxurious, and suffocating in its silence. Pale marble floors, walls polished like mirrors with no reflection, minimalist furniture—everything here is designed to impose, not to comfort. The lighting is too white, slicing contours with surgical precision.
Octavia is already there. Composed. Rigid. Arms crossed. Her black uniform, perfectly tailored, cuts through the space like a blade through a block of ice.
When the door opens, she doesn't turn. The sound of footsteps is enough.
Vlad enters without a word. Long dark coat, upright posture. He never carries weapons. He doesn't need to. He places his leather gloves slowly on the marble table, like laying down a verdict.
He doesn't look at her.
— Still nothing?
Octavia nods, curtly.
— No signal. No active channels. Thermal and satellite scans show no suspicious activity in the peripheral sectors. He's vanished. No message, no claim. Nothing.
— Vanished... or absorbed.
Her brow tightens slightly, but she says nothing. Vlad lifts his hand. A screen unfolds. The image of a woman appears—seated, handcuffed. Drained. Calm. Dangerous, despite the fatigue. Olivia.
— He wasn't the target, he says. She was.
This time, Octavia turns.
— And you think they found her... by chance? On the same road? The same day she was scheduled for permanent isolation?
— I think they knew. And they waited for the exact moment. Or maybe it was just chance. Credit where it's due—they acted smart.
She presses her lips together. Annoyance breaking through.
— Mikel should never have been sent to that facility. He had neither the skill nor the authority. You know that.
— He was suitable, Vlad replies, voice level. I wanted him to be seen. To serve a purpose. The image worked. The Council liked him. So did the public.
Octavia clenches her jaw. She says nothing. That pathetic half-brother—precious, overgroomed, barely fit to survive outside a glass dome.
— You could have assigned me the transfer, she says. She'd already be dead.
— Exactly, says Vlad. That wasn't the objective.
He stares at Olivia's image. A cold tension slides into his voice.
— But now, they're likely reunited.
A silence.
Octavia understands. And she hates what she understands.
— You think she told him.
— It's almost certain.
He slowly turns his gaze to her.
— Olivia is his mother. Even locked away. Even erased. And if she had even a single minute alone with him—if she planted even a single doubt...
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
— Then it's already too late, Octavia mutters through clenched teeth.
Vlad nods slowly.
— He bore my name. He served our interests. But he wasn't made to last. Only to fill a role. Now that role is empty.
He moves to the window. Below, the city glows under artificial light. Calm. Submissive. For now.
— You don't think we can bring him back? she asks, barely masking the contempt in her voice.
— No. If he made contact with her, he's contaminated. And if what she said resonated... any attempt at recovery would only amplify the problem. Make it visible.
He stands still for a moment. Then:
— We're not trying to retrieve him anymore. We make sure he doesn't return.
Octavia inclines her head.
— Understood.
He slips his gloves back on. Adjusts the seams.
— If by some miracle he does come back... I want to speak to him first.
She doesn't reply. But in her eyes, a glint. Cold. Sharp. Ready.
Mikel is nothing now but waste. Finally in his rightful place.
---
The mat burns beneath my knees. My breath is ragged. Elijah just slammed me down with a clean, sharp move. I tap twice, annoyed.
"Victory," announces Gunther with a grin. "Nice one, Elijah."
"Ha! You see that?" my brother pants, glowing. "I won!"
"One time out of eight," I reply.
"It's the beginning of an era."
"It's the end of your delusion, yeah."
I roll to the side, wipe the sweat from my forehead. He sits up, all puffed-up pride, like a peacock overly pleased with its display.
Gunther watches us, arms crossed. He's been training us for weeks now. Patient, encouraging, always game for a joke—but merciless when it comes to posture or precision. Thanks to him, our moves are sharper, more efficient. We're starting to read each other. Elijah's no longer that frantic mess of nerves. He's learning to fake, to think.
I glance at Elijah. His black hair's gotten long—half-tied now, even longer than mine. It makes him look almost serious. Calm, even. We're both in better shape than we were. Stronger. More grounded. I feel it in my aching muscles, in my shoulders. We're getting somewhere, even if the road ahead's still long.
"Rematch?" I ask.
"If you want to lose with dignity, be my guest."
I offer my hand. He takes it.
And we're off again.
He goes for a leg sweep, but I see it coming, shift aside, grab his arm and pull him into my imbalance. He counters. I dodge. He strikes back. Gunther throws out a few pointers during the scuffle, but I barely hear them. The world narrows to the heat, our breathing, the tension coiling in my muscles.
I brace on his shoulder, feint a retreat, then pivot and bring him down with a lock he didn't see coming.
I hear him curse, half-choked.
"Yield, Elijah."
"... Shit. Okay. I yield."
I let go. He collapses onto his back.
"I'm gonna puke," he groans.
"That'd make it a flawless win."
I burst out laughing, breathless. It's only when I stand that I see him.
Ilya is there, leaning against the open doorway, his dark eyes fixed on us, a thin smile at the corner of his mouth.
"That was clean," he says.
I straighten, caught off guard.
"How long've you been standing there?"
"Long enough to see your brother eat dust."
Elijah mutters from the floor:
"Are you all conspiring against me or what?"
"We're raising you through pain," says Gunther, laughing.
Ilya steps inside. He's got that usual presence: quiet, composed, intense. He's dressed plainly—always too plainly. Suddenly I'm hyper-aware of my soaked tank top, of my hair stuck to my neck.
"I've got news," he announces.
He stops near us. Looks at Elijah, then at me.
"Boris gave the green light. We're going to prep the loop hack."
I hold my breath. Elijah pushes himself up on his elbows.
"For real?"
"Yes. But it's only plan B. First, we try to trade Mikel for intel. They might still need him."
"And if they don't?" I ask.
"Then we go through with the hack. And you'll be there. Not to touch anything—I'll handle that—but because it concerns you."
He pauses. His eyes linger on me a moment, and my stomach twists.
"Those files... They might tell you what they did to you in the loop. How. Maybe even give you back your last names. Show what happened to your mother."
I feel Elijah tense beside me. I stare at Ilya, speechless. My lungs burn. I picture a screen. A name blinking into existence. A blurry photo. A forgotten first name.
"You don't have to," Ilya adds. "But you have the right to know."
The silence is heavy. Gunther looks away, awkward under the weight of it.
"We'll be there," says Elijah quietly. "Do your thing."
Ilya nods. Takes a step back.
"I'll send you the details tomorrow. Good night, all three of you."
He turns. His hand brushes the door handle.
Then—just before leaving—he half-turns.
And looks straight at me.
"Miss."
It's soft. Detached. Almost ironic.
But it slices through me.
I stay frozen, unable to move. My heart slams against my ribs.
"... Wait," Elijah murmurs. "Did he just call you miss?"
I don't answer.
"Is he flirting with you?" asks Gunther, eyebrows raised, visibly curious.
"He is not flirting," I protest—too fast.
"You're blushing," Elijah notes.
"I'm just out of breath!"
"Sure."
"I'm about to wipe this mat with your face."
Gunther laughs. Elijah chuckles, eyes gleaming.
"Well, damn..."
I walk off without replying, but the word stays lodged in the back of my neck like a splinter.
Miss.
And that smile.