The computer room is bathed in dim light, the low hum of machines filling the air like a pulse. Boris stands by the door, his posture tense, expression serious—almost grave.
Ilya is already seated at the terminal, fingers dancing across the keyboard, poised to launch the operation.
Elijah reaches for my hand, gently, his grip steady and grounding. I squeeze back, knowing he needs this too—that quiet link between us, a shared anchor in the storm.
"I'll need your old ID numbers," Ilya says without looking up, focused.
I hold out my left wrist. The small black tattoo is still there—almost invisible now, but never truly gone: 036.
Elijah does the same. His reads: 047.
"Perfect," Ilya breathes. "That'll help."
He begins the search. On-screen, encrypted files and locked folders bloom like scars—some old, some recent, all barricaded behind layers of security. The air sharpens, every keystroke ringing like a heartbeat.
Ilya moves fast, but his jaw is tight. He's working around traps, dismantling firewalls. Every second stretches thin with tension.
"Some of these are locked down tight... They beefed up the system after the last breaches."
I squeeze Elijah's hand a little harder. He glances at me—worry mixed with quiet resolve.
"Take your time," I whisper.
He nods, and keeps going.
First, he downloads our files—packaged, encrypted, untouched for now. Then, with practiced instinct, he snags others—evidence: photos, notes, medical reports. Fragments that might help prove what was done to us... and to others.
The room holds its breath. Only the soft clatter of keys breaks the silence. Elijah's breath catches now and then. Boris's is steady, calm, watchful—still standing guard, saying nothing.
"I've got everything I can," Ilya says finally. "Ten minutes exactly. Right on time."
He transfers the data to a secure drive, then, with one smooth motion, hands it to Boris.
"You can start combing through it," he says. "I've gotta move."
Boris nods, silent thanks in the gesture, and slips out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Ilya stands, shakes out his arms, then looks up at us.
"Let's go somewhere else," he says. "This place isn't made for reading the truth in peace."
---
Gunther and Tinka's apartment is small, but warm. A couch, two chairs, a few salvaged pieces of furniture. The scent of wood and worn fabric lingers in the air. There isn't much—but it's a place where you can breathe. Where nothing is burning.
Elijah and I settle side by side on the couch. He sits in silence, tense, hands clenched on his knees. Gunther perches on the armrest next to him, like an anchor—a quiet, solid presence. Ilya pulls up a chair across from us, angled slightly so he can see us both.
He takes out two tablets. Hands them over gently—first to Elijah, then to me. The plastic is warm against my palm. My fingers glide across it, unfeeling.
"This is everything I could get. Your full files—or almost."
I feel Elijah's gaze on me. I turn my head. He's asking, silently, if we're ready. I don't know. But I nod anyway.
So we both tap the screens.
The first lines scroll past. Name. First name. Date of birth. I'm finally learning what they took from us.
Mira and Elijah Kovachev. Born in Sofia. Eighteen and a half years old.
The name hits like a blow to the chest, echoing in my skull like a dull explosion. Kovachev. It stirs something. A memory fragment. A man calling that name in a waiting room. A crumpled note.
I keep reading. "Entered the Loop: age 14."
A date. A string of numbers.
Then a photo.
I freeze.
It's me.
Fourteen years old. Face swollen. Cheekbone bruised, lip split. My eyes—blurry, vacant. Back against a white wall.
The Loop's gray uniform.
It was taken the day I arrived—of that I'm certain.
My throat tightens. A warm pressure lands on my shoulder. I turn—it's Gunther's hand.
He says nothing. But his eyes are heavy with pain.
He wants to speak, to absorb some of the violence flickering on that screen. But he stays there. Grounded. Steady.
I scroll down. The lines thicken. More technical.
"Administered treatments:
Stimulant Z42 – dosage: 20mg every 72h
Experimental sedative K11
Dream control level 2
Scheduled sleep restriction
Neurochemical agents
Traumatic memory testing
Sensory isolation – periods of 24 to 48 hours"
My hands are trembling.
But I read. Every word. One after the other.
The terms are cold. Clinical. Detached.
But I feel everything.
The prickling in my veins. The cotton in my mouth. The days without light. The voices through the glass.
The bite of plastic on my skin.
The ache in my muscles when I resisted.
Flashes surge through me. Blurred, too fast to grasp—but sharp enough to hurt.
My vision narrows. I see only the glowing rectangle in front of me. The black lines flickering.
My breath, thudding in my ears.
"Mira..."
It's Ilya's voice. Gentle. Careful.
He's crouched beside me now. One hand extended, not touching—just there.
I can't look at him. I'm trapped in the text.
Another paragraph. I read it aloud, barely a whisper.
"Mother: Anya Kovachev."
And everything breaks.
My throat closes. A sharp pain in my chest.
The name knocks something loose.
Memories slam into me.
A woman's hands peeling apples. Laughter in a kitchen. A voice singing an old song.
A jacket too big draped over my shoulders. A kiss on the forehead.
And then—nothing. The night she didn't come home.
The cold in the apartment.
The silence on the stairs.
I read the next line like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff.
"Transferred to Detention Center No. 9 under suspicion of treason."
A scribble. Then a note, written by hand, in dry ink:
"Center destroyed in the January 17th fire. No survivors."
The world stops.
I don't move. I barely breathe.
I hear my own blood pounding in my temples.
Beside me, Elijah has stopped reading.
He stares at his screen, wide-eyed.
His jaw is tight.
His fingers grip the tablet's edge.
Gunther glances at him, worried, but stays still.
Ilya shifts, hand still outstretched. He knows. He already understands.
"Center Nine..." he whispers.
I barely murmur:
"She died there."
Ilya goes pale.
He sits beside me slowly, saying nothing.
His hands fidget, restless—but he doesn't touch me.
Gunther squeezes Elijah's shoulder a little tighter.
He looks to Ilya, understanding instantly.
His face hardens.
Elijah bolts upright.
The tablet flies from his hands and smashes against the wall.
It shatters.
He's shaking all over. His breathing is ragged, erratic.
Gunther stands too, grabs him roughly by the waist.
Elijah struggles. Screams something I don't catch.
Gunther holds on tight.
"Breathe, dammit. Calm down."
But Elijah thrashes.
He slams his fist into the wall. Tries to break free.
Gunther doesn't let go.
He murmurs something low—maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, I can't tell.
His arms hold him tighter.
I watch Elijah collapse against him, still trembling with rage and tears.
I've never seen my brother like this.
And that's when it happens.
A single, burning thought pierces the fog.
A question. Unshakable.
I rise abruptly, the tablet clenched in my hand.
"I need to know," I say. "This wasn't an accident. It couldn't be. It's them. It's always been them."
My voice is cracked, trembling—but steady.
Ilya tries to get up, reaching for me.
"Mira, wait—"
I look through him. My body is fire.
My heart pounding so loud I can't hear anything else.
He steps in front of me, trying to block the way.
"Mira, breathe. We'll find out—we'll dig, but not like this—"
"There's only one person who knows," I cut in.
His face changes. Instantly.
"Mira—no. Not alone."
But I'm already at the door.
Elijah is curled into Gunther, still shaking.
Gunther looks at me, tense—he knows where I'm going.
He turns to Ilya:
"Don't let her go alone. I've got Elijah."
But I'm done listening.
I step out.
I rush down the stairs, fists clenched.
Behind me, I hear my name.
Ilya's voice—chasing me.
But I don't stop.
I go down.
All the way down.
Toward the cell.
Toward him.
Toward Mikel.
---
Mikel sits on his bed, back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. He hasn't moved in hours. His eyes are dry, but everything inside him is knotted.
His father's voice still echoes in his head. Vlad.
His father—who had the audacity to speak his name in the past tense.
Who erased him.
Crossed him out like a typo.
He's alive. Locked up, alone, but alive.
And he can't understand why that's not enough to bring relief.
He closes his eyes. Inhales. Tries to push back the loops of anger spinning inside him again—
And that's when a sudden, brutal noise rips through the silence.
A bang. Then another.
The door shudders. The walls vibrate.
Mikel bolts upright.
"Hey!" he shouts. "What the—"
But he doesn't finish.
A voice reaches him from the other side of the reinforced door.
Strangled. Rough.
"Tell me... tell me it was an accident. Center Number Nine. Tell me it was an accident, goddamn it!"
His brow furrows. His heart slams against his ribs.
"What? Who is this?"
But the voice doesn't answer. It just keeps going—
Breathless. Shattered.
"Center Nine... The fire. My mother was in there."
Mikel freezes.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
That voice—young, female, shaking with fury.
Something clicks into place.
He's heard of her before.
A survivor.
The girl who got out of the Loop.
Mira.
He steps toward the door. Slowly, like he's afraid to break something fragile.
"Mira?" he whispers, almost to himself.
She hits the door again—heavier this time. Dull and desperate, like she used her forearm, or her shoulder.
And then again, gasping, on the edge of collapse:
"My mother was there... She was there."
Mikel closes his eyes.
Now he knows what she means.
Detention Center No. 9.
A fire.
Two years ago.
No survivors.
And questions—never fully answered.
"They told me it was an accident," he says softly.
Louder now, for his voice to carry through the door.
"An electrical fault. They said it spread too fast because of faulty insulation. That they couldn't... that there wasn't time."
He stops.
That bitter taste in his mouth—it's doubt.
Because the truth is, there was never a public investigation.
The rescue teams took hours to arrive.
The footage was blurred. Names redacted.
Even he had to ask three separate times before he got half an answer.
He doesn't tell her that.
He doesn't know how.
Or why he should be the one to do it.
He presses his palm flat against the cold metal door.
"I'm sorry," he says simply.
No reply.
Just a sound—shaky, uneven breathing.
Sobs she's no longer holding back.
Then a faint thud.
A quiet, almost imperceptible vibration against the door.
She's leaned her back against it.
Mikel doesn't move.
All he hears now is her broken breath, caught between sobs.
And in the silence,
something cracks inside him too.
---
I stood there, against that door, longer than I can say.
My temples throb. So do my palms. My forehead is pressed to the cold metal. My fingers are shaking. I can't hear anything behind me anymore. Just the blood pounding in my ears. And my throat, too tight to swallow.
And then... footsteps.
I feel him before I see him. It's Ilya. He's running. He stops a few meters away, out of breath. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at me.
He opens his arms.
The real one and the prosthetic.
Without a word. No pressure. Just there.
I collapse into them.
I fall. I fall into him like into a shelter.
Everything comes out. All at once. My throat opens. And it's like I've been punctured. I cry without sound, then with. I gasp. I choke. My fingers grip his t-shirt — I cling to it like I'm going to drown. He doesn't move.
We slide down together against the wall. His back hits the concrete with a soft thud. I'm in his arms. He's holding me so tight it almost hurts. But I don't want him to let go.
Not ever.
He's holding me like he could absorb the pain. Quiet it for me.
I finally have my mother's face in my mind. Her hands. Her eyes. Her voice. And now I know. That she died without knowing we made it out. That we escaped. That we survived.
And that she died alone.
I lean harder into him.
He still hasn't said a word.
So I do, my voice shattered:
— She's... dead.
He nods. I feel it against my forehead.
I add:
— I didn't remember. Two hours ago, I didn't even know her name. And now I remember everything. And she's gone. She's gone, Ilya...
My nails dig into his shoulder.
— She died thinking we were still in there. And I forgot her.
— You didn't forget. They stole her from you.
He speaks softly, but not like you talk to a child. Softly like you talk to someone you love.
I shake my head.
— I'm ashamed.
He shifts slightly, cups the back of my neck, makes me look at him.
— She would be proud of you.
— How do you know that?
— Look at you. Look at what you've become. You escaped hell, you're strong, you're alive, in the one place you're finally safe, you beat your brother in training, you piss off all the right people. What else would she want for you?
I cry again, but it's not the same kind of tears. These ones are quiet. Slow. Like they're washing me clean.
— I left her, Ilya...
— It wasn't your choice.
He holds me tighter. And I let go.
My cheek is pressed to his shoulder. His arms are around me. He smells like coffee and sweat and a little like metal. He's warm. Grounded. Here.
At some point, I whisper:
— Elijah... is he okay?
— He calmed down. He's with Gunther.
I nod. My fingers are clinging to the hem of his sweatshirt. I think I could stay like this for hours.
He shifts again, gently, settling us differently. He sits against the wall, legs apart. And I'm sitting between them. His chest at my back. His arms around me. His chin resting on my temple.
— We can stay here all night if you want, he murmurs.
— I'm okay here.
— Good. 'Cause it's not like I have important things to do. Like, I don't know... overthrow a totalitarian regime.
A tiny laugh escapes me. Just one. But he catches it. And I feel his smile against my hair.
— There it is. She laughed. That's a good sign.
— You're gonna get cocky.
— That's the plan.
I close my eyes.
I breathe.
I feel him everywhere. In his arms. In his breath against my neck. In the way he won't let go. Won't ask the wrong questions. Just holds on.
It's always him, when I break.
Always him, I want.
And that terrifies me. But right now, I don't have the strength to think about it.
I fall asleep a little. Not long. Maybe ten minutes. But when I open my eyes again, he's still there. And he hasn't moved.
— I'm going to check on Elijah.
He slowly loosens his arms. Looks at me without saying anything. Then nods.
— I'm coming with you.
So we stand up.
And we go. Together.