I turn over in bed for what must be the hundredth time. The mattress creaks beneath me. Elijah is sound asleep on the other side of the room, one leg sprawled over the blanket, mouth slightly open, peaceful like a kid. I could count his breaths if I still had the patience to just lie there, waiting for sleep to come back.
But it doesn't. Too many things spiraling in my head.
So I get up.
I throw on a sweatshirt over my t-shirt, tie my hair back haphazardly, and slip out of the apartment on tiptoe. The hallway is quiet, lit only by pale night-lights flickering in the ceiling. My sneakers muffle my steps. I don't run into anyone. Good. I need air. Motion. Something to break the loop I'm stuck in.
The training room door is ajar when I reach it. Inside, I hear sharp, rhythmic sounds—thuds against a bag, heavy breathing, the drag of movement.
I push the door open, gently.
He's there.
Ilya.
Alone. Wearing a dark t-shirt, his left arm stretched out toward the punching bag, hammering it with almost feral focus. He's removed his prosthetic. His right arm ends clean at the mid-bicep. But that's not what I notice first. It's the way he moves. The power. The fluidity. Like his body is just an extension of his will.
I stay in the doorway, not moving, caught off guard by how mesmerized I am. He looks... different. Or maybe it's me.
He stops, and without turning:
— "You here to spar, or just to admire me a little longer?"
I blink.
— "God, you're so full of yourself. It's exhausting."
He turns, half-smiling, hair sticking to his forehead. He's breathing hard, but he doesn't look tired. Just alive.
— "Admit it—you like me better like this. Natural. Glorious. No audience."
I roll my eyes, but I feel the corner of my mouth twitching.
— "What exactly are you offering?"
He nods toward a corner of the room where two mats are rolled up. He grabs one, lays it out carefully, then the second. He doesn't say anything, but there's that glint in his eyes.
— "Friendly match? Might help with the insomnia."
I shrug. Why not. I take off my sweatshirt, kick off my shoes. My heart's beating faster than before. Probably just the adrenaline. Or the mood. Or him.
He steps onto the mat first. Light on his feet. In control. Then he waits for me.
— "Rules?" I ask as I approach.
— "No biting. No low blows. Everything else..."
He winks.
— "Surprise me."
I charge him. He dodges, obviously. He's fast. But not just that—he's playful. He laughs when I try an obvious feint, compliments me in a mock-serious voice when I manage to push him back. We circle. We slide. We test each other. His hands guide more than they block. And I let go. For the first time, I let myself match his rhythm. His way of flirting through movement.
Every touch sends a little shiver through me.
He's careful with me. I can tell. He could be rougher, quicker—but he's holding back. He wants me to stay in it. To keep playing.
Then, in a burst of instinct, I go for a move—pivot off his hip, twist my shoulder, unbalance. We fall together.
It's a soft landing. Because he slid his hand under my head.
I blink. We're lying there, tangled. His hand still cradling my neck. He doesn't speak. Just looks at me. It's quiet. Just the sound of our breathing, tangled together.
I feel his chest rise gently against mine.
And then, almost without thinking, I reach out.
I touch his cheek. Lightly. His skin is warm, a little damp with sweat. He doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on mine.
And then I feel it.
He tilts his head, just slightly. Like he wants to lean into my touch.
I don't move. I breathe. It's the first time I've touched him outside the chaos. Outside the yelling and the panic. The first time I've let myself be this close. With no excuse.
I whisper:
— "Do you always break someone's fall like that?"
His smile returns, softer now.
— "Only for the people I tolerate."
I smile back, despite myself.
— "So I'm in the 'tolerated' category now?"
He doesn't answer right away. Then, with a breath that brushes my throat:
— "You're in the category I catch."
I look at him, lips slightly parted. He said it so close, so easily. It echoes inside me louder than I want to admit.
He tilts his head a little, then glances at my shoulder.
— "Didn't hurt when you landed?"
I shake my head, a small smile curling my mouth.
— "I landed on a sleep-deprived cushion. Pretty effective."
He raises an eyebrow, mock-offended.
— "A cushion, huh? That's how you thank me?"
I hold out my hand. He takes it without hesitation—his grip firm, warm. He pulls me up with ease, almost too easily. And suddenly, we're standing again... too close.
I don't step back.
Maybe I should. But I can still feel the heat of him, the pressure of his palm at the back of my head, the surprising softness in his eyes.
And I think he feels it too.
He steps back—not far, just enough to lift a hand toward the center of the room.
— "Rematch?"
I roll my eyes, but my feet move before I even answer. We take position again without a word, and this time, it's different.
Faster. Smoother. Like a silent conversation. I read his movements before they happen. He reads mine like I'm an open book. We circle, we tease, we even laugh. It's light, but charged.
I slip past him, try a throw. He dodges. He tries to trip me, I twist away. He narrates the whole thing in a low, amused murmur:
— "Where'd you learn that? I'm starting to get suspicious..."
— "I don't show my hand on the first match. You should know that."
He chuckles, and that's when I catch his half-second of distraction and shove him with my shoulder.
His back hits the wall.
Not hard. Just enough to pin him there. Trapped between the bricks and me.
We're inches apart. He looks at me—surprised, maybe. Impressed, definitely.
— "Not bad," he murmurs.
My heart slams in my chest. He doesn't move. Doesn't try to flip it back.
I look up at him.
— "You letting me win?"
— "Maybe I like the view."
I flush. Hard. Damn it. I feel it rise hot on my cheeks and hate him a little for it.
He sees it. Of course he does.
His eyes sparkle, and a smile tugs at his lips. Not mocking—just playful. Soft.
— "You know," he adds, lower now, "if you keep looking at me like that, I'm gonna start thinking you enjoy this too."
I glance away for half a second, unable to hold the stare, but the smile stays.
His words are still on my skin, like heat.
I could say something. A joke. A "don't flatter yourself." But I don't want to. Not this time.
I stay right there. Close. Pressed to the wall. Pressed to him. He doesn't move. Neither do I.
We're caught in it, breathing each other's air. His eyes search mine, and I let them. My hands are still on his chest—I haven't pulled them back. He hasn't lifted his arms. His back stays against the wall, and I don't think he wants to leave.
Time stretches.
Then folds.
He says nothing. Me neither. But his gaze says enough. There's no mask now, no detachment. Just the way he looks at me—like he's seeing something he didn't expect. Something he maybe hoped for but didn't dare believe.
And me...
I surprise myself by not wanting to let it go.
But I'm the one who moves away, slowly. Not because I want to. Because I know if I don't, I'll do something I'm not ready to face.
He exhales—a soft, nearly silent sound. He gives me space again. Composes himself. Or pretends to.
— "You win this round," he says with a crooked smile.
I meet his eyes, half-teasing, still a little flushed. He sees it. And his smile deepens.
He leans down to grab his towel, runs a hand through his damp hair. His prosthetic sits quietly on the bench. I watch him reattach it with practiced ease, like it's just another part of him—which it is.
He glances over his shoulder.
— "You need to go back and get some sleep, or do you want to try kicking my ass at something else?"
— "You wanna lose at chess too?"
— "You play chess?"
I don't answer. I just smile. He raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
— "You keep secrets."
I shrug, hands in my pockets.
— "Maybe."
We head toward the door together. Our steps are slow, not quite in sync. But close.
The hallway is silent when we step out. Not a sound in the base at this hour. It feels like the whole world's asleep, except for us. And I like that. It's rare to have this kind of pause. To exist somewhere outside the rush.
Our arms brush once. Then again. He doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
We don't talk. But it's not awkward.
It's full. Gentle.
And more than anything... new.
I don't know what he's thinking. What he wants. What he imagines.
But I know this moment—this night, that room, that fall, that closeness—
I'll remember it.
For a long, long time.
---
Ever since he stopped being officially detained, Mikel has been discovering a strange kind of freedom—monitored, but real. Like a dream on a leash.
He sleeps now in a small room: four pale walls, a real bed, a creaky sink, and a wobbly table. Not much bigger than his cell, but at least he can open the door from the inside.
And more importantly, he's no longer alone.
Gunther is often around.
Not to talk—not really—but to follow, escort, watch.
Mikel could be annoyed by it, but something about the blond's presence settles him. Or at least stops the endless loop in his head.
Maybe because Gunther doesn't look at him like an enemy anymore.
Sometimes, he even gives him a smile. A real one. Not wide, not mocking. Just... a little human.
It throws him off almost as much as talking to his mother again.
They haven't had many conversations since that first shock of reunion passed. Brief, heavy ones. She looked exhausted, constantly pulled away by Boris or others at the Citadel. But she'd looked at him like it was still yesterday she was singing him lullabies.
Mikel had struggled to find words.
He still wasn't sure he had.
Now, he's waiting outside the infirmary. Routine check-up, they said. Nothing to worry about.
He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the tiled floor.
Gunther stands a little off to the side, frowning slightly as he taps at a tablet.
Then, from around the corner—voices.
Laughter.
Clear, young. Feminine.
Mikel lifts his head, curious.
He doesn't recognize the faces at first—but the voice, he knows.
That one, he hasn't forgotten.
The one that had pounded on his door, demanding answers. Who wouldn't back off.
Who had forced something open inside him, even if just for a moment.
She comes into view with someone else—a tall guy with dark hair, lively movements, big gestures. They're laughing together as they walk, in sync.
Her twin. Elijah.
Gunther had given him their names in Boris's office.
They're taller than Mikel had imagined. Stronger.
More... alive.
Gunther greets them with a smile and a nod.
Mira and Elijah approach almost as one—then freeze.
Their eyes just landed on Mikel.
And everything shifts.
Elijah's laughter cuts off instantly. His brows draw together, jaw clenched.
He stares at Mikel like he's just recognized a threat.
And in a way, he has.
But Mira—Mira lifts her hand. She brushes her brother's arm, murmurs something too low for Mikel to catch.
Elijah doesn't move right away, but he steps back slightly, still on edge.
Then Mira turns toward Mikel.
She takes one step forward.
He braces for anything. An accusation. A cold glare. A sharp word.
But not this.
— "Thank you," she says simply. "For the other day. For answering."
Mikel freezes.
Her voice is clear. Steady.
Not sarcastic. Not angry.
Just sincere.
And it knocks the air from his lungs.
He looks at her, hesitant.
His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. He draws a breath, deep.
— "You didn't leave me much of an escape," he replies quietly. "It was... brave. You deserved an answer."
He's surprised by the words. By how soft they sound. How honest.
She nods, not pushing further.
Then she walks off, rejoining her brother, who slides a protective arm around her shoulders and throws Mikel a look sharp enough to burn through concrete.
If looks could kill, Mikel wouldn't have hit the ground before he was already dead.
Gunther lets out a low whistle.
— "You're not sinking anymore," he mutters without looking at him, "but damn—you're not out of the sand with Eli either."
Mikel keeps staring down the now-empty hallway.
He hopes he'll make it out.
Out of the sand.
---
The nurse's name is Anya.
She doesn't say more than absolutely necessary. She gestures toward the chair with a nod, pulls on her gloves with a barely audible sigh. Her movements are quick, mechanical, precise. But she never really looks at him.
Mikel sits. Offers his arm without a word, lets his fingers dangle in the air.
He knows needles. The ones that put you to sleep, the ones that wake you up, the ones that break you.
This one's nothing in comparison.
She ties the tourniquet, tightens, inserts the needle. He doesn't flinch.
But he watches.
She has fine hands, a little dry, her nails cut short. Firm arms. A way of moving that says she's tired—but still standing.
She's pretty.
He hadn't expected that—or rather, he hadn't thought he was capable of noticing something like that again. Of seeing a silhouette, a face, and registering anything beyond the role, the function, the threat.
He watches her pack away the vials, the needle, all the little tools.
She says nothing.
But for a moment, she pauses—just a second too long. Like she's noticed his gaze.
Like she's choosing to ignore it.
She doesn't even glance at Gunther, standing in the corner, arms crossed.
She hands him a bandage, eyes elsewhere.
— "You're good to go," she says.
He presses the bandage to the crook of his elbow himself, rises slowly.
The two of them walk a while in silence.
Then, casually, Mikel asks:
— "Does she hate me?"
Gunther turns his head slightly.
— "Who?"
— "The nurse. Anya."
A short laugh slips out of Gunther. Really short—but still, a laugh.
— "No. Not because of you, anyway."
Mikel frowns.
— "Then because of what?"
Gunther shoots him a sideways look, a crooked smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
— "She's Tinka's ex."
Mikel takes a second to process that.
Tinka—that was what Gunther had called the young woman who'd shoved a sack over his head the day he arrived (was kidnapped?)
His eyes widen as the dots connect.
— "Tinka as in... your sister Tinka?"
— "Yep."
— "Oh."
A pause.
— "And she's tense because..."
— "She hates running into me. Or Tinka. Or anyone in our lovely circle. Goes all stiff—almost cute."
Mikel looks down, and despite himself, he smiles. Just a little.
It surprises him.
Gunther notices, of course. He follows up in a mock-serious tone:
— "But hey, if you'd rather believe everyone here hates you, I can stop talking to you. I do a great cold-and-distant act, don't worry. And we still have the sack, too, if you miss it."
A bark of laughter bursts from Mikel. Harsh, abrupt. He almost chokes on it.
It's not graceful. But it's real.
A real laugh. Maybe the first since he got here.
The hallway is quiet. The ceiling light buzzes faintly overhead, but the moment itself feels stable. Almost peaceful.
And Mikel finally looks up.
He thinks of his mother—Olivia—of the first time he saw her again. Her trembling hands. That voice he recognized even when he couldn't believe it.
Of Mira and Elijah in the hallway earlier. Elijah's hard eyes. Mira's unexpected words.
The way she'd looked at him, when she had every reason to look away.
He takes a deep breath. And turns to Gunther.
— "I want to help."
Gunther doesn't answer right away. Mikel continues, quieter now:
— "I'm ready. If the resistance will have me."
This time, Gunther looks at him.
No joke. No grin. Just that subtle lift of the chin, a blink, and a shift in his gaze. Serious now.
He steps closer. Places a hand on Mikel's shoulder. Not hard. Not testing. Just... a gesture.
Mikel flinches anyway. Reflex. A body trained too long to brace.
But Gunther doesn't pull away. He gives the shoulder a light pat. Almost like saying "Alright, good job."
— "You know what?" he says. "I think you've already come a hell of a long way."
And for the first time, Mikel doesn't need to reply.
Because what he feels in that moment—that blend of released tension, fear not gone but pushed back, something solid beginning to form—
That's enough.