Citadel — Infirmary
Olivia sits curled in a narrow chair, legs tucked beneath a coarse blanket. Dark circles hollow her face. Her black hair, hastily pulled back, reveals greying temples. Her blue eyes, though tired, remain clear. Sharp. Broken, yes. But not extinguished.
She hears Boris's footsteps before he enters. That measured gait—always the same. He taps lightly on the metal wall, then steps inside without waiting for an answer.
— "May I?"
She nods, weary but alert.
— "I'm guessing you're not here to talk about my vitals."
A faint smile flickers across Boris's face.
— "No."
He stands for a moment, then slowly takes the seat across from her. Silence falls—the kind that precedes words that won't come easily.
— "You've been through a lot. Too much. I won't circle around it."
She lifts her chin slightly, guarded.
— "Go on."
He watches her. He knows there's no phrasing that will make this less brutal, less unreal.
— "Your son is with us."
She doesn't understand at first—he sees it. Her eyes blink once. Then narrow.
— "Mikel?"
— "Yes. He's here. At the Citadel."
A breath escapes her. Soundless. Her hands grip the armrests. Her back straightens, but she says nothing. The words hang there, absurd. Then:
— "Here?... Since when?"
— "Same time as you. He was exfiltrated with you. It was risky. But we pulled it off."
She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to hold back tears. She doesn't cry. Not yet. She doesn't dare.
— "And you didn't tell me."
It's not quite an accusation. Just a wound, raw and open.
— "We had to wait. You were too weak. And he... he's still caught in between."
— "Does he know who I am?"
— "Not yet."
She closes her eyes. Leans back into the chair, suddenly old.
— "He still thinks I'm dead."
Boris nods.
— "That's what he was made to believe. Since he was five."
A long silence.
— "Does he look like his father?" she asks, her voice trembling just a little.
— "He looks like you. More than you know."
Her eyes glisten at last, but she looks away. She whispers:
— "I want to see him."
— "You will. But not yet. He needs to understand a few things. And you need to regain your strength."
She presses her lips together, takes it in. The hope she kept locked away has cracked open—a searing, living breach.
— "Then I'll get better fast."
Boris allows himself a smile—quiet, respectful, almost moved.
— "I don't doubt it."
He rises. Heads toward the exit. Just before he steps out, she says softly:
— "Thank you, Boris."
He stops. Nods without turning around.
— "For news like this... there's no right time. But there was a less wrong one."
And he vanishes into the corridor.
Olivia remains still. Her gaze fixed on something unseen, somewhere ahead.
She does not move.
But now, she breathes differently.
---
COMMAND CHAMBER — CENTRAL GOVERNMENT
Approx. 17:43
Screens flicker. One by one, public broadcast points across the city begin to cut out—replaced by a hijacked sequence. A message flashes in stark white letters on a black background, lighting up several districts of the capital:
MIKEL G. IS ALIVE.
HE IS IN SAFE HANDS.
THE PEOPLE DESERVE THE TRUTH.
WE DO NOT WANT WAR.
WE WANT MEMORY.
RELEASE THOSE YOU'RE HIDING.
Inside the secure control room, high-ranking officers freeze. Silent alarms activate in the background.
Octavia stands with arms crossed, unblinking. She knew. Her gaze is fixed on Vlad Gagarin, who remains upright, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the main screen.
A smile creeps faintly across his lips—a joyless one.
— "They've just made their biggest mistake," he murmurs.
— "You knew," Octavia says softly, unsurprised.
He doesn't reply. He simply gives the order:
— "Let it run. Eighteen seconds. Then blackout. Prepare the address. 8PM. No further comment."
The silence that follows is cold. Heavy. Absolute.
The order is executed with military precision.
---
20:00 — GOVERNMENT PRESS ROOM
The room is packed. Cameras are locked in. Every national channel is streaming live.
Vlad Gagarin enters.
Black suit. Closed face. Military posture. He embodies restrained grief—wounded power, untouched authority. He approaches the podium slowly, silencing the room with a single glance.
— "Tonight, I speak to you as a father. And as your Head of State."
A pause. His voice is low. Controlled. Perfectly measured.
— "Mikel Gagarin—my son, our collective hope—was cowardly murdered. Not by a foreign power. Not by illness. But by those who claim to defend the people."
He lifts his eyes to the cameras.
— "Those who call themselves the Hawk. Terrorists. Criminals. They kidnapped my son. Used him. Turned him against his own homeland. And now they dare to spread a shameful lie—boasting of holding him captive, when in truth, his body already rests in silence."
He lets the lie take root, every word planted like a seed of dread.
— "Do not be deceived. The message they broadcast today is a ploy. A performance. A desperate attempt to fracture our unity and shake your trust. They manipulate your emotions—just as they manipulated Mikel."
A studied sigh. One hand rests deliberately on the podium.
— "We will not yield. As of tonight, we are escalating operations to locate their lair. Their nests will be overturned. Their hiding places—obliterated. And every accomplice, every link in their network, will be hunted, tried, and erased."
A chill runs through the room. He goes on, voice calmer now. Colder.
— "Mikel did not die in vain. His memory will live on in every act we take. And those who defiled his name... will pay."
He leaves the podium without taking a single question, dragging behind him a heavy silence.
The press does not question. It echoes.
The people, shaken, begin to wonder.
And in the shadows, the Hawk knows: the countdown has begun.
---
Ilya's footsteps echo down the corridor, a jagged mix of ragged breath and the metallic clink of his prosthesis. He runs—something rare for him, a sign that something is wrong.
The few resistance members he passes step aside, surprised. He doesn't spare them a glance.
He rushes down a stairwell, rounds a corner. His left hand grazes the walls for balance. His face is closed, tense.
Gunther waits at the end of the hallway, leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed. He looks up at the sound of hurried footsteps.
— "Ilya?" he says, frowning. "What—"
— "It's bad," Ilya breathes out. "I need Boris. Now."
Gunther straightens. Ilya never runs. He never panics.
He asks no questions. He falls into step.
They find Boris in a side room, bent over a retro-projected tactical map. He barely looks up as they enter.
— "He just spoke," says Ilya, drawn and tense, holding out a tablet.
Boris takes the device and starts the video. The room fills with the image of Vlad Gagarin—cold, upright, unyielding. The press conference is sober, controlled. The declaration falls like a blade:
"Mikel is dead, assassinated by the terrorists of the Hawk."
His tone is solemn. His gaze sharp. He accuses, condemns. He manipulates.
Boris watches the whole thing silently. Then he slowly sets the tablet down. His calm is unsettling.
— "He won't negotiate," Ilya murmurs. "It's over. He's closed the door."
Boris nods.
— "Then we go in," he says simply. "Keep preparing the Loop hack. We'll use it."
A silence. Then Gunther, still staring at the screen, breaks the tension.
— "And... Mikel? What do we do with him now?"
Boris looks at him. His gaze is hard, but not cruel.
— "We show him," he says. "If he sees how his own government abandons him, maybe he'll understand better."
He grabs the tablet and hands it to Gunther.
— "Take this down to him."
Mikel's Cell
The lock grates. The door opens. Gunther steps inside.
The cell is bare, carved out of rough stone. A cot. A basin. Mikel sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head lowered. He looks up as the door opens.
He looks terrible. Purple shadows under his eyes. An unkempt beard, like he forgot it was growing. Dark hair falls in disordered strands over his forehead. He looks like he's slept fully dressed—but without really sleeping.
When he sees Gunther, his gaze sharpens, then falters.
Gunther doesn't wear his usual expression. No defensive posture. No calm irony. He hesitates, then steps forward, holding out the tablet without hostility.
— "Your father answered our offer."
Mikel takes the tablet wordlessly.
The screen lights up. He recognizes the room. The voice. The man—tall, firm, solemn. Vlad. His father.
He listens.
And after a few seconds, his face freezes.
"Mikel is dead."
The sentence snaps through the silence. Mikel doesn't move. He rewinds. Plays it again. As if the words might change.
He doesn't understand. Or rather—he understands all too well.
His father... declares him dead. Publicly. Officially.
His heart pounds. He feels frozen and burning at once. A vertigo, a dry nausea. He fixes the image of his father's face, but the words twist, dissonant.
"Victim of the Hawk"
"My son... assassinated."
He clenches the tablet, knuckles white. His eyes glaze over. He doesn't want to believe it.
But it's there.
It's real.
His father isn't coming. Won't come.
He's not trying to save him.
He erased him.
A dull ache squeezes his chest. A sudden void. Like falling without end.
Everything he's been taught. Everything drilled into him since childhood. Honor. Blood. Family.
All of it... swept away.
He feels a weight in his throat. He swallows hard. He doesn't want to cry.
Gunther stays silent. He doesn't know what to say. He watches Mikel, and for the first time, he no longer sees a prisoner. He sees a boy his age struggling to breathe. Betrayed.
Finally, Mikel slowly sets the tablet on his knees. He doesn't lift his head right away.
— "He didn't even hesitate," he whispers. His voice is hoarse. Fractured. "He... erased me."
Gunther says nothing. There's nothing to say.
He turns on his heel and leaves the cell, leaving Mikel alone in the silence, with the echo of his collapsing certainties.