Tinka was right.
She didn't say anything else, of course. But her comment keeps echoing in my head. The whole "you two sound like teenagers sneaking off to a closet" thing... I laughed when she said it. At the time.
Now I wonder what she might've picked up on.
I don't have time to follow that thought any further. Her voice changes.
- "Wait... movement. One of the trucks is slowing down."
He sits up straight. So do I. I feel the shift in the air, like the room just dropped a few degrees. Ilya zooms in on the central monitor, jaw tight.
- "Shit. They're getting out. On foot."
He switches to another camera. Then another.
- "That wasn't in the plan."
I lean closer beside him. Two figures step down from the cab. More follow from the rear. Slowly. Organized. There's something methodical in the way they move that feels... wrong.
- "Surface patrol," Ilya mutters. "Two groups. One's heading for the riverbanks. The other..."
He stops. His finger taps the glass.
- "... the other's moving toward the silo line."
In the earpiece, Tinka whispers:
- "Should I move or not?"
- "No," Ilya cuts in. "Zero sound. Zero motion. Stay put. Don't even respond again."
I glance at him. It's a tone I don't hear from him often. No filter. No hesitation. He's in control. His hand glides across the controls. Calculating. Recalculating. The circuits must be heating up, but none of it shows on his face.
- "Mira, track the north group. See the coordinates? Stay locked. Report any deviation."
I do exactly as he says. Instinctively. Because I trust him.
And also... because he's fascinating, right now. Focused. Precise. Certain.
The way he leans slightly over the table. The intensity in the line of his neck. The way he carries that stillness, like something tightly coiled. It's a different Ilya. And yet, entirely him.
Tinka doesn't speak again. Just the sound of her breathing in the channel. I sit up straight, focused, but stress is starting to settle low in my stomach. Every movement from the figures on screen feels too slow, too quiet. They get closer. Pause. Change direction. My heart follows the same pattern.
Ilya guides Tinka - tells her to crouch, to move, to crawl.
Then, slowly... the patrol turns back.
Westbound.
A routine sweep.
Or just a detour.
Ilya watches the monitors a few seconds longer, lips pressed in a line. Then exhales. A real breath. Sharp. Like he'd been holding it in the whole time.
- "We're good..."
He taps a key. The screen resets. Still.
I see him lower his head. Not tired. Not relieved.
Just... tight. Still wound up.
- "Shit," mutters Tinka in the comms, lighter now. "I just aged five years in five minutes."
He doesn't answer.
Neither do I.
He's still somewhere else. Trajectories. Risks. Possible outcomes.
I stand up. Step closer.
I rest my hand gently on his shoulder, saying nothing. He doesn't move. So I lean down, slowly, and press a kiss to the top of his head. Light. But not rushed. I stay there, just a moment.
Then his arm moves.
He lifts it, slowly, and places it on my shoulder. Not to push me away. To hold me there. Just for a moment longer. His fingers are warm. Steady. Present.
I close my eyes. Somewhere, a screen clicks into standby.
When I finally straighten, he doesn't let go right away. Then he looks at me.
- "Nice work," I say softly.
- "You too," he murmurs.
And he smiles.
Not the one he shows in front of others. A different one. Softer. A little tired. But real.
I stay there a little longer. His hand still resting on my shoulder.
And honestly... I could stay like that all night, if no one came looking for us.
In Ilya's headset, Tinka's voice breaks the silence - calm, but just barely teasing:
- "You two... don't forget I'm still wired in. Have mercy."
I half-freeze. So does Ilya - I feel it in the subtle shift of his arm.
He doesn't respond. He waits, probably to see if she'll go further.
But she doesn't. Nothing more explicit. Just that one line. Casual, but not really.
As if nothing. But right on cue.
She knows. Or at least suspects. And she's chosen not to push. Not in front of the others. Not now.
That's something I'd do.
It feels familiar.
I straighten up slightly and hand him a water bottle. He takes it with his fingertips, and I feel a bit of the tension melt from his shoulder.
---
There's a knock at Boris's office door. Once. Twice. Elijah doesn't wait to be called in.
I follow in silence, arms crossed to hide the nervous shake in my hands.
Boris is already standing behind his desk, a folder open in front of him.
He looks at us - one, then the other.
He already knows.
- "I'm listening."
Elijah speaks first. His voice is clear. Grounded.
- "We want to sign."
Silence. A thick one.
Boris slowly closes the folder and pushes it aside.
- "This isn't a game."
- "We know."
- "No. You think you do. But that's not the same."
He sits down. Elbows on the desk. Fingers steepled.
I feel his gaze on me. Then back to Elijah.
- "You're young. Too young."
Elijah doesn't flinch.
- "Gunther and Tinka were too."
- "Gunther and Tinka were born here. Grew up inside these walls. Knew every tunnel and corner of the Citadel before they could read."
He pauses. Then his voice lowers.
- "Their parents were part of the resistance. Their father left on a mission. Their mother followed. They were twelve when both died. I had to take them in. And believe me... it wasn't their age that mattered. It was what they'd been through. What they could endure."
I swallow hard but don't look away.
- "We've endured too," I murmur.
Boris stares. Silent for a moment.
- "You've stayed standing, yes. And I'm not unmoved by that. But signing means belonging. It means being accountable. Being sent out. Risking not coming back. It's more than goodwill."
- "It's not goodwill," Elijah cuts in. "It's choice. Thought-out. Real. And besides... you already sent us out. You trusted us."
- "Escorted," Boris corrects. "And not front-line. That was a favor."
Silence. Elijah's jaw tightens.
- "The Hawk," he says, "is the closest thing we've ever had to a family. We want in. For real. Not just passing through."
I see Boris hesitate. Just a little. But I see it.
- "And Mikel?" Elijah adds. "He was detained. Alone. He gets to sign - and we don't?"
- "Mikel brought valuable intel. And he's paying for it daily, whether you see it or not."
- "And we don't deserve the same chance?"
My voice is quiet. Tired. But firm.
- "We want to help. We want to commit. Not to prove anything. Not for revenge. Just... because this is where we want to be. With you. With them."
Boris sinks back into his chair. Long silence.
He runs a hand through his beard, slow.
- "You're a pain in the ass," he says at last.
We don't move.
- "But you're sincere."
A breath.
- "I've watched you. Listened. Tested you, too. And even if I'm not sure the timing's right... I know I can't stop you from stepping forward."
He sighs. Looks tired.
- "Alright. You start tomorrow morning. Full eval. Six a.m. No exceptions. Report to the training yard. You'll sign there. Follow Gunther and Tinka's instructions to the letter. If either of you falters, it's over."
Elijah nods immediately.
- "Deal."
- "Same," I say, quieter.
Boris watches us for another beat.
And this time, behind the silence, there's something else. Pride.
A sadness too, almost paternal.
But not indifference.
- "Get some sleep," he says. "You'll need it."
We leave without a word.
When the door clicks shut behind us, I feel it - something's shifted.
It's done.
It's real.
We're in.
Out in the corridor, barely two steps from the office, Elijah turns to me. His eyes are bright.
- "We're signing," he breathes. "Holy shit, Mira, we're signing."
I don't even have time to reply.
He throws his arms around me, lifts me clean off the ground in pure joy.
- "We're signing!"
I laugh, caught off guard, head against his shoulder.
- "Elijah, put me down... you're a bulldozer."
- "You're tiny, that's the problem."
He sets me down gently, his hands still on my shoulders. Looks at me like he's trying to imprint the moment.
- "Can you believe it? Tomorrow, we sign. For real."
I nod. I feel it in my gut - that mix of fear and pride.
Of weight. But something deeply right.
- "Yeah. We're doing it."
Elijah grins wide, throws an arm around my shoulders as we start walking.
- "The Hawk twins," he says with a wink. "Who would've thought."
- "Second set," I correct. "We're not replacing the originals just yet."
But I rest my head against him for a few seconds.
And I smile too.
Who would've thought.