The mess hall is almost empty when the five of us walk in. The fluorescent lights hum softly above us, casting a cold glow over the plastic tables. Someone left a radio playing low in a corner—guitar, a distant voice, some forgotten old song. The air smells like metal, steam, and a hint of industrial soup. Nothing special.
And yet tonight, I feel like I'm somewhere else. Still a little suspended out there, in the clear night, beneath the sky we thought we'd lost.
I sit between Elijah and Ilya. Tinka and Gunther take the seats across from us, their movements automatic, relaxed, familiar. Elijah hasn't stopped talking since we got back.
— I'm sorry, but we have to talk about this again. Did you see those colors? Those like—filaments? And the way the sky was rippling? I swear I was dreaming—like, deluxe edition.
— "Deluxe edition?" Tinka repeats, raising an eyebrow.
Elijah keeps going. He's excited, painting the scene with words and wild gestures. I let his voice drift around me. It feels good, his joy. He doesn't get to be light like this very often. A memory stirs, something sliding back into place. When we were little, he was always like that. Every new thing was a wonder to him. I can see him again, a kid with a jar full of fireflies, eyes glowing brighter than the insects themselves.
I pick at my plate absentmindedly, but my mind's elsewhere. The lentils taste like salty nothing.
I turn my head. Ilya is right there beside me. Quiet. Present.
His fingers tap against the edge of his tray. His breathing is steady. He seems to take everything in without saying a word. But I see him.
I feel him.
His knee brushes mine under the table. Barely there. But there. And he doesn't move. Doesn't apologize.
I glance down. Then, after a brief pause, I answer. I press my knee lightly back against his. Just a little. Not to test him. Not this time.
To say I got it.
To say thank you.
He doesn't say a word. But I see him turn his head toward me. And when I finally look back, he smiles. Just a small, lopsided smile. No irony. Just... soft.
— Miss, he murmurs.
I clench my teeth not to grin like an idiot. He has no idea what that word in his mouth does to me.
Or maybe he does.
Elijah keeps going:
— And that moment when everyone went totally silent? Just the wind, the cold, and the colors? I wanted to cry. Is that normal? Tinka? Do you ever cry when you're out on a mission?
— Only when people ask me stupid questions, she says, sipping her soup.
I laugh quietly. Lean back into my chair, Ilya's knee still against mine. Steady. Calm.
I lean just a little. Just enough for only him to hear.
I whisper:
— Thank you.
He finally turns his head fully toward me. And that look... it pulls me in a little. There's nothing heavy in it. Nothing grand. But he sees me. All of me.
— You needed some light, he says simply.
I freeze for a second. And I feel something shift inside. Slowly. Silently. Like a lock giving way.
I sit up straighter, suddenly afraid he's figured me out. He didn't say much. But he's still looking. A little longer than needed.
And under the table, his knee shifts again. Not to pull away. But to press a little more firmly.
He knows.
I exhale softly through my nose, like I'm trying to steady myself. Elijah's already on his feet, tray in hand, but his eyes are still shining.
— Okay, it's settled. Next time, I'm negotiating for binoculars.
He turns to Gunther and Tinka.
— You think we could ask for an educational field trip? Like, celestial weather and atmospheric effects?
Gunther chuckles, mouth still full.
— Ten bucks says he's gonna pester Boris nonstop for the next twelve hours.
Ilya leans slightly toward him without looking up from his tray.
— I give it six hours before Boris snaps and locks him in a closet.
I smile quietly to myself. Watch Elijah still waving his arms around as he talks, miming great aurora streaks in the air, arms raised like he's waiting for the ceiling to split open.
---
The overhead light casts harsh, clean shadows against the cell walls. Mikel is sitting on the cot, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched. He hasn't moved in a while. He's not even sure how long he's been here anymore. The hours blur together. Days bleed out and disappear.
His father abandoned him. That word twists in his head like a drill.
Not captured. Not sacrificed.
Abandoned. Erased. Discarded like inconvenient collateral.
And the worst part is—some part of him isn't even surprised.
Three short knocks echo at the door.
That's new. They usually come in without knocking.
The handle turns. It's Gunther.
Blond. Broad. Clear-eyed, but unreadable. Not hostile. Not warm, either. Just... steady. From the beginning, he's never hurt him. He just does his job. Professional. Precise.
— On your feet, he says calmly.
Mikel stands without a word and holds out his wrists. Reflex. He waits for the click of handcuffs.
But Gunther doesn't move. He watches him for a second, then shakes his head.
— Forget it.
Mikel slowly lowers his arms.
— Why?
— You'll see.
They walk into the hallway.
First time without cuffs. He can feel the air moving differently over his wrists. A tiny thing, but he clings to it. It's too unusual.
Unsettling, even.
Nothing in Gunther's step says urgency, or danger. But there's something off. A tension.
— What's it been—three weeks? Four? Gunther murmurs, eyes forward.
Mikel doesn't answer. He's not sure it was a real question.
— You're holding up better than some. That's all I meant.
He doesn't know why it irritates him. Or maybe he does.
He doesn't want praise for surviving a prison he never chose to be in.
They stop in front of a door. Grey. Unlabeled. Gunther opens it.
Two chairs. A table. One-way mirror. Another door, closed, in the back.
— Sit down.
Mikel obeys, wary. Gunther doesn't follow. He pauses at the threshold, about to leave.
Then he stops. Turns his head slightly.
And in his gaze—something else.
A flicker of doubt. Or nerves, barely masked.
— Good luck, he says.
And then he's gone.
After a few seconds, the door at the back of the room opens.
Not abruptly. Slowly.
As if it wasn't sure it should disturb the silence.
Mikel doesn't look up right away.
Then he hears footsteps.
Slow. Light. Too light to be Gunther's.
He lifts his eyes.
It's a woman.
Thin. Smaller than he expected. Her clothes are plain, a little loose. Her face is worn, lined with hard years, and her black hair is streaked with grey. She seems somewhere else—frozen in the tension of shallow breath and held-back emotion.
And he...
He doesn't understand.
Not yet.
He stares at her.
A flicker of confusion crosses his face.
She says nothing. Just watches him, like she's waiting. Waiting for him to see. To really see.
— ...This some kind of joke?
His voice is rough. Weaker than he wants.
He stands, slowly, guarded.
— What the hell is this?
He steps forward. Then again. Squints.
And something inside him falters.
The eyes.
That's it.
His eyes.
He's always had them. Too bright. Too sharp.
And so does she.
No.
No way.
He stumbles back a step.
The chair scrapes loudly behind him.
— No... that's not...
He shakes his head.
— No. No way. She's dead. Do you get that? She died. She died when I was a kid.
The woman doesn't move. Not yet.
Her face trembles slightly, but her hands stay open. Visible.
Then, at last, she speaks.
— No, Mikel.
Her voice is soft. Worn thin. But steady.
— I'm not dead.
— What the fuck is this?! he breathes. What is this? A test? Some twisted mind game?
His throat tightens. His breath quickens.
He turns toward the mirror.
They're watching.
They're always watching.
— What the hell are you doing to me?!
She takes a step toward him.
— I'm your mother.
And just like that—it hits.
Cuts through him like lightning.
Something in him collapses.
And suddenly, he's not twenty-five anymore.
He's five.
Five years old, staring at this woman from a faded photo. A voice he thought he imagined. A blurry face in a feverish child's dream.
He drops back into the chair without even realizing it.
— Why...
It's barely a whisper. Not a question yet.
Just a word, drowning.
She steps closer. Closer this time.
She doesn't dare touch him.
— I was already undercover, even before I married Vlad. The Citadel knew. I pretended to be loyal. I pretended for a long time. Until he started suspecting. Until he had me locked up. Made me disappear.
Mikel stays still.
The words slide off him.
His temples throb with a low, steady buzz.
— So what was I, then? he says hoarsely. A prop? A piece on your chessboard? Is that it? Was I just there to sell your little performance?
She flinches.
— No. No, Mikel. Never you.
He finally looks up at her.
His eyes shine. He hates it.
— Did you say that to him too? That you were pretending? Did you sleep with him thinking "it's for the mission"? Did you tell him you loved him too?
His voice cracks.
He regrets it instantly.
She doesn't back away.
But she lowers her gaze for a moment.
— I never loved Vlad. Not for a second. I endured him. Played him. Did everything I could to make him trust me. So I could listen. So I could warn the Citadel before raids. Try to save villages. Families. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. But I couldn't stop. Not while I was still useful.
She pauses. Then speaks again, more quietly.
— Then you happened.
She meets his eyes.
— You weren't planned. But you came. And I don't regret a single second. Not one. Even though you made everything a thousand times harder. Even though I lived in fear every day that you would pay for my choices.
She shakes her head, almost angrily, as if rejecting some silent accusation.
— You were never a role, Mikel. You're my son. My real son. I scolded Olivia when she was cruel to you. I loved you. I kept loving you. Even locked up. Even starving. Even in the dark.
She straightens, not to leave.
To come closer.
No sudden movement. Just one step. Then another.
She kneels beside him. Slowly. Carefully.
Her hands stay visible.
She lifts her right hand, trembling slightly, and gently places her fingers on the crook of his arm.
Where his sleeve is rolled up.
Where his skin is bare.
He doesn't push her away.
And she feels it.
The heat. The tension. The restraint humming beneath his skin.
In this young man with broad shoulders and clenched jaw, muscles drawn tight—
But right now, he's just a child.
A child lost in a world too big, too broken.
So she whispers:
— You're safe now. I promise you. Boris wants you to choose. You don't owe anything to anyone. Not even to me.
He shakes his head.
Not quite a no. More like a jolt.
And then suddenly—
the dam breaks.
A sob rips out of him. Short. Raw. Uncontrollable.
His head drops.
His shoulders fold inward.
And he cries.
Not quietly. Not with dignity.
He cries like a child.
Without holding back.
Years of absence, rage, abandonment, loneliness—
pouring out at once.
She doesn't move right away.
Then, slowly, she wraps her arms around him.
Like she used to.
Like she's dreamed of for twenty years.
Her arms don't quite reach around him anymore.
But she holds him like she can still keep him safe.
He buries his face against her shoulder.
And he cries.
For a long time.
And she holds him.
She stays still.
Says nothing more.
She just holds him,
as if the whole world can wait.
---
The apartment is quiet.
Just the low hum of the heater in the walls, the faint rustle of fabric as Elijah sinks into the old couch, a mug of hot tea in his hands. The same bland mint tea we've been drinking since we got here, but tonight, it comforts me. Like a familiar thread tying this shaky present to a past that, somehow, still belongs to us.
I sit across from him, legs crossed, back against the armrest. The living room is tiny. Two chairs, a wobbly table, a tinted porthole looking out onto the hallway. But this place—it's ours. It's the only place where I can breathe without needing to watch my back.
Elijah stares into space.
He hasn't spoken yet, but I can see it working through him. His jaw is tight, his fingers clenched around the mug.
Mine stays tucked between my knees. Warm. Steady. That's all I can manage right now—hold on to that heat, ground myself.
I break the silence, gently:
— You're thinking about it, aren't you.
He nods slowly.
— Yeah. Since tonight. Maybe even before.
He still doesn't look at me. He's speaking toward the wall, toward some blurred point in the distance. The words come out in bursts, held in too long.
— I wanted to crush them. The ones who did this. What they did to us. What they did to everyone else. I thought about Mom. The cell. Everything we lost.
Silence.
— And I thought... what the hell am I waiting for?
I close my eyes for a second. The memory hits too fast.
The blue hallway lights. Muffled screams.
The smell of metal and fear.
And the feel of his fingers gripping mine when everything else was falling apart.
I open my eyes again. This time, he's looking at me.
— And you?
I inhale, slow and deep.
— It's not rage for me. Not like you. Not that kind of strength.
I set my mug down, rest my head against the back of the chair.
— I've been thinking about it since we got out. Every time I see someone who's lost a brother. A sister. A parent.
I swallow.
— I don't want to fight for revenge. I want to make sure no one else goes through what we did. It's not the same thing.
He stares at me for a long time. Then nods.
— You're always the good half.
I give a faint smile. No real joy behind it.
— That's what you like to think.
He lets out a short breath through his nose. Almost a laugh. But he's serious again almost immediately.
— If we do this... we do it together. I'm not letting you go in alone.
I reach out.
He leans in without hesitation, and our foreheads touch.
We've been doing this a lot, ever since we found each other again. This gesture. Forehead to forehead.
It's our anchor.
Our reminder: we're here. We're alive. We're together.
A pause.
Then, softly:
— When do we sign?
I look at him. His face is tense, but his eyes are bright. Not with fear—not really. With resolve.
I straighten up, roll the mug between my palms.
— Tomorrow... we could go see Boris. Ask what it takes. What the process is. What the terms are.
He nods. It sounds more real that way. Less overwhelming.
— Yeah. Tomorrow. We need to know. What he expects, what he's offering. And what it actually means.
Because signing up... can't just be putting your name on a piece of paper.
I meet his gaze and nod, serious.
He gives a tired smile.
— You're the brain, huh.
— And you're the fists.
We laugh—this time for real. A quiet, genuine flicker.
And in that laugh, there's the memory of everything we've survived.
I add, more quietly:
— Tomorrow, then. We knock on that door.
He exhales slowly. Closes his eyes.
— Yeah. Tomorrow.
That word still scares me.
But for the first time in a long while, it doesn't feel hollow.