The smell of metal and reheated soup hangs in the air. The mess hall is nearly empty at this hour. Just the five of us, gathered around a flickering lamp: Ilya, hunched over a tablet, focused. Gunther, staring into his empty cup. Elijah, slouched forward, not touching his plate. Tinka, watching in silence.
I can feel it coming. That hush before something breaks. That nameless weight.
It's Ilya who speaks first, without lifting his eyes.
— "He spoke."
My throat tightens. No need to ask who he means.
— "Vlad Gagarin officially announced his son's death. Publicly."
Silence snaps like a rubber band. Even Elijah looks up.
Gunther rubs his jaw, then exhales, bitter:
— "He didn't just leave him behind. He erased him."
He sets down his cup. It hits the table too hard.
— "He could've come. Tried to negotiate. Asked for proof of life. But no."
Ilya nods slowly. No surprise in his eyes. Just a colder kind of tension.
— "Now it's set in stone. He won't walk it back."
I feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
Elijah straightens, his tone sharp, almost brittle:
— "Why are you all so shocked? That man locked up kids in labs. That wasn't a slip. That's who he is."
I lower my eyes. I get what he's saying. But a part of me pushes back.
— "Mikel didn't ask for this. He was probably used as a pawn his whole life."
My voice is softer than I meant. Almost fragile.
Elijah frowns. Doesn't answer right away.
Then:
— "Maybe. But he carries the name of the man who did this to us. And that... I can't just forget."
A silence settles. Tinka, still calm, lifts her gaze from her mug and says quietly:
— "It's not the name. It's the choices. And he's about to have a lot of them."
Her words land clean. They stay in the air.
Ilya closes his tablet and pushes it aside. His eyes move around the table, one by one.
— "We hit the Loop as soon as possible. There's no point waiting for an exchange anymore."
A pause. He's talking to all of us, but I can feel him watching me, too.
— "We need it for your files. For the proof. For everything the government's still hiding."
My throat tightens. It's real now. No longer a "maybe someday."
I knew this was coming, I was ready... but it still feels like my lungs are folding in on themselves.
Elijah doesn't flinch. He nods once.
— "Just say when."
— "Give me a day. Two, max."
Ilya's voice is calm, methodical.
— "I need to reroute all the streams, rebuild a secure bridge out—without tripping alarms. This isn't something we can half-ass."
Gunther nods. Tinka gives a small, approving tilt of her head.
I keep my eyes on him. His are ringed with exhaustion. I know he's not sleeping, or barely. Too many thoughts at once. And still—he's standing. He's doing what needs to be done. He's doing it for us.
I sit up a little straighter.
His gaze finds mine—and lingers there longer than it did with the others.
And for the first time since we walked in, he smiles. Not an ironic smile. A real one. Small. Quiet. But honest.
It hits somewhere low in my stomach.
Gunther notices the pause, then lets out a short laugh.
— "Well, look at that. He smiled. World's probably ending."
Ilya rolls his eyes, mock-annoyed.
— "Noted. Next time, I'll stay gloomy."
Elijah allows a hint of a smile, but sneaks me a sideways glance.
I pretend not to see it.
---
The small apartment I share with Elijah is dimly lit by a single lamp. It's late, but neither of us can sleep.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, knees pulled tight to my chest, my gaze lost in the shadows.
Elijah is nearby, perched on a rickety chair. He's watching my hands, which are trembling slightly.
— "You know..." he begins softly, his voice a little hoarse, "I think we're going to find out some... hard things."
I nod, unable to speak.
Fear curls up in my chest, cold and heavy. Fear of what they wrote about us—names, dates, parents. All those fragments of us we've never known. Everything they did to us in those labs.
— "And what if... we're not really us anymore?" I murmur at last, barely above a whisper. "What if we've become someone else? With memories we never lived, thoughts we don't control?"
Elijah rises slowly, comes to sit beside me, and wraps an arm around my shoulders.
His touch is warm, steadying.
— "Then we become who we want to be. Not what they made us."
He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.
— "You'll still be my twin. And I'll still be your annoying brother."
My heart aches, but somehow, a small smile finds its way through.
— "You say that, but you're the more terrified one."
He gives me a mock-annoyed look, full of affection.
— "Maybe. But that doesn't mean I'm not planning to be strong."
I lift my head, meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark, but there's a fire in them—something unshakable—I wish I could borrow.
I whisper,
— "What if we read those files, and it messes with our heads? What if one of us breaks down... or both?"
He squeezes my shoulder gently.
— "Then we won't be alone. We can ask someone to stay with us."
I know who he's thinking of—Gunther, with his quiet strength and lopsided smile.
— "Gunther?" I breathe.
Elijah nods.
— "Maybe. But if we both crash at the same time, we might need a second person..."
I blush, because the first name that comes to mind is—
— "Ilya. He's... he keeps his cool."
I add it like a defense, trying to sound casual.
Elijah says nothing—just lets out a quiet, knowing laugh.
I lower my eyes, a little embarrassed.
He pulls me closer, folds me into his arms.
— "The first thing we remembered when we got out of the Loop... was each other."
His voice is low, thick with emotion.
— "No one can ever take that from us."
---
It's almost midnight when I push open the door to the computer room.
I make no sound — not because I'm afraid of waking him, I know he's not sleeping — but because everything here seems to absorb noise. The tangled cables, the screens glowing with bluish halos, the cold concrete. It's as if the room itself holds its breath, focused on every flicker of light.
Ilya is there, just as I expect, seated before his setup, immersed in a world I barely understand. His back is slightly curved, his profile lit by the reflection of scrolling lines of code. He hasn't put his prosthetic back on. His right arm, bare up to the shoulder, is slipped into the metal interface — that articulated lever he uses to manipulate systems faster than any mouse. I don't know exactly how it works. But I've seen him code like that for hours. He almost becomes machine himself. And it's not unsettling. Quite the opposite. He radiates an unusual calm when he works.
I linger for a moment in the shadows, watching him. Sometimes, he fascinates me. Even if I'd never say it.
— "If you keep staring at me like that without saying a word, I'm going to start thinking you're trying to read my mind."
I jump slightly. A smile immediately tugs at my lips.
— "I didn't want to disturb you."
He doesn't turn his head, but I hear a smile in his voice.
— "You're part of the very select group allowed to disturb me."
— "And that group's large?"
— "One person, for now. Very exclusive."
I smile, then close the door behind me softly. The sound is muffled. The space is ours.
I move closer to the edge of the table where he's laid his prosthetic. I sit on the corner of a secondary desk, facing him.
— "I wanted to make sure you're eating, drinking something other than cold coffee, and blinking regularly."
— "I take ten-second naps every forty minutes, during script restarts."
I laugh. He finally glances over his shoulder. His eyes are rimmed with dark circles, but bright. Sharp. Softer than I thought.
— "How long has it been since you slept?"
He shrugs.
— "What's the point? I'll sleep when I'm done with my work."
I watch him for a moment, then take a breath. Better get to it.
— "I also wanted to... ask you something."
He straightens a little, carefully pulls his arm from the interface, then turns slightly to face me. He grabs a towel and wipes his fingers, like he needs something to do with his hands.
— "Ask away, Miss."
I blink. He barely looks at me, but I can see his tired smile beneath his beard.
— "Are you going to carve that nickname on my door?"
— "No, I like keeping it just for myself."
— "You know that sounds almost affectionate?"
— "I know."
I roll my eyes, but it makes me laugh. He sees. He's waiting for that reaction, I can tell.
I fall silent for a second. Then I continue, softer.
— "Tomorrow, when we have the files... I'd like you to stay. In case... we don't handle it well."
— "I was planning to stay." He answers right away, without hesitation.
I look at him. He says it simply. Like it's obvious.
He puts down the towel, rests his elbow on the desk.
— "I worked like crazy to get us there. I'm not going to leave you alone facing that."
— "Even if we become... unmanageable?"
— "If I have to tie you to a chair, I'll do it with style. Crossed legs and all. I promise."
I laugh softly, then lower my eyes.
— "What if what we discover changes everything? What if we're not who we thought we were?"
A silence.
Then he says, softer:
— "So what? The Mira I know... she's more than worth knowing."
I look up, surprised.
— "Even if I was a spoiled brat before?"
— "Honestly? I don't care. You could've been rigid, sociopathic, even. I know you now, and that's enough."
I drop my head a little, blushing despite myself.
— "And..." he adds, "I kinda like when you come check on me to stop me from rooting myself in front of my screen. It's touching."
I laugh nervously.
— "Someone has to worry, after all."
This time he looks at me properly. For a long while.
— "You worry me too, you know."
My throat tightens. My heart skips a beat.
He looks away and goes back to work. But he speaks again. His voice low, almost laid into the air.
— "If you're scared tomorrow, you can turn to me. I'll be there."
I stay still. Speechless. He doesn't say it as a favor. He promises me.
We don't talk much after that. He codes, I watch. I slide down the wall, legs folded beneath me. My head finally rests against the back of the chair.
I think I doze off.
When I open my eyes, he's packing up his cables. The main screen blinks with a final message: everything is ready.
— "It's set. We attack tomorrow at 7PM."
I nod.
He puts his prosthetic on slowly, quietly. Then stands up. Stretches long, arms over his head.
I watch him. He's tired, but upright. His silhouette stands out against the still-lit screens. His hair falls a bit over his temples. He wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
He holds out his hand to help me up.
— "You should go to sleep."
— "You're not in a position to give that kind of advice."
— "I do what I want. This is my room."
I slip my hand into his. He pulls me gently toward him.
And he doesn't let go right away.
His fingers close a little more. His thumb brushes against mine. He doesn't look at me immediately. Then slowly, he locks eyes with me.
— "It's going to be okay."
I nod, but I feel my fingers trembling slightly. He notices.
So he repeats, softer. Closer.
— "I'm here, Mira. Whatever's in those files. Whatever you find out."
A long silence.
He tilts his head, a weary half-smile.
— "You'll handle it."
Simple. Certain. Like an anchor.
And this time, I leave.
Heart still tight, but a little less alone.