When we open the door, we're hit with a wave of noise and heat.
"HEAR YE, HEAR YE!" bellows Gunther the moment he spots us, standing dead center in the room like a festival announcer. "Behold, our newest official recruit... and the grumpiest insomniac hacker in the whole Citadel!"
"HUZZAH!" roars Elijah from the depths of the couch, arms thrown up like he just won a war.
They've clearly started without us. The apartment smells like fermented clementine, cigarettes, and old wood. An empty bottle sits on the coffee table. Another, half-full, is in Gunther's hand.
Ilya laughs, slightly taken aback by the welcome. Gunther doesn't even let him speak. He immediately throws a massive arm around his shoulders.
"Wasn't sure you'd show," he says with that sunbeam smile. "Glad you did. You're way too pale. And you need hydration."
Ilya lets it happen—stiff at first, as always when someone touches him unannounced—then relaxes.
"If this is a plan to drink me unconscious, just know someone's gonna have to drag me to the infirmary."
"We've seen worse," Gunther says, clapping him on the back.
I laugh softly, shrugging off my jacket onto the back of a chair. Tinka is leaning against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, staying back as always. Her gaze flicks from Elijah to Gunther, then slides to Ilya and me with a glint I recognize. Just a raised eyebrow, slightly amused, like she's mentally taking note for later.
She grabs a new bottle—amber, unlabelled—and pours us each a glass.
"It's homemade," she announces simply.
I sniff. A vaguely fruity smell. Peach? Or something trying very hard to be peach.
Ilya raises his glass to me.
"Cheers," he murmurs.
Our glasses clink softly. I smile.
"Cheers."
It's strong. Burns a little going down. But the warmth that follows is pleasant.
---
I'm tipsy. Not drunk, not out of control, just enough to feel my cheeks warm, my laugh a little louder, and that gentle fuzziness blooming in my stomach. Just enough to not want the night to end.
Gunther and Elijah, though... are somewhere else entirely. Two walking disasters. They've downed at least two bottles between them, bouncing between terrible jokes, ridiculous songs, and even more ridiculous dares. Tinka watches from the corner of the couch, vaguely amused, glass in hand. She doesn't drink as much, but she toasts, comments, observes. True to form.
Ilya sits next to me. He drinks too, but it doesn't seem to hit him. Not really. He keeps that strange stillness, that way of being fully present without ever fully melting into the chaos. He's here—but not quite. And sometimes... he looks at me. I feel his gaze. Calm. Amused.
I wonder if he's trying to get us caught. If he's doing it on purpose—staring that long. Testing limits. Testing me.
Then Elijah stumbles in front of me, eyes shining.
"You," he says, pointing dramatically in my direction. "You're my favorite person in the entire universe."
I roll my eyes. "Oh no, not again."
"Shhh. Let me finish. I love you. I'm proud of you. Like, really. And I'm glad we didn't break at the Loop. That wasn't a given. But you're here. You're strong. And..."
He wobbles. I catch him on instinct.
"And you're my little sister. My Mira. My favorite. And I'm saying it in front of everyone."
"Stop, you're gonna make me cry, idiot."
But I hug him anyway. I grumble—because it's my job—but I hug him tight. Because I'm proud of him too. I feel him smile against my shoulder.
Then he pulls back, rubs his nose, and suddenly claps his hands:
"ARM WRESTLING! TO THE TABLE!"
Gunther cheers ("HUZZAH!"). Tinka raises a jaded eyebrow. And it begins.
Duels fly. Elijah wins, loses, cheats a bit, laughs a lot. He beats Gunther once by jumping the countdown, gets wrecked by Tinka ("cheater," he grumbles), and finally points a wobbly finger at Ilya:
"You. Quiet guy. Your turn."
Ilya doesn't move right away. He finishes his drink, sets his glass down slowly, and steps forward.
I should look away.
I should.
His left arm—the real one. He rolls up his sleeve, plants his elbow on the table, fingers spread. I see the tendons tighten under his skin. The movement precise. Smooth. Controlled. He's strong. Not like Gunther. Not bulky. But efficient. There's a quiet confidence in him. And my eyes linger.
A bit too long.
When I look up, he's looking back.
He saw.
Ilya flattens Elijah in under ten seconds.
No trash talk. No drama. Just silence, control, and the thud of Elijah's hand slapping the table as he bursts into laughter.
"He's too good," my brother groans, collapsing like a dramatic princess. "He's cheating. It's cybernetics, I know it."
Ilya raises an eyebrow.
"That wasn't the prosthetic. If I'd used it, you'd be hurt."
"I am hurt! My ego!"
The night drifts on. Elijah starts ranting nonsense again: warped memories, twisted stories, conspiracy theories about sparrows and their potential role in inter-camp espionage. He insists the underground was built primarily to escape bird surveillance.
And Tinka—Tinka plays along. Calm as ever, glass in hand, she feeds him questions like she's attending a serious lecture. She nods thoughtfully, asks, "Interesting. And what about magpies?" or "Would you say crows do intelligence work too, or just admin?"
Elijah, emboldened, becomes unstoppable. Gesturing wildly. Tripping over his own words. Making up new ones.
I laugh. Really laugh.
And Gunther, that solar giant who should be running out of steam, suddenly springs back up with absurd energy. I realize he hasn't stopped moving for a while.
"It's time, friends!" he yells. "NOW'S THE MOMENT!"
"What the hell is he doing?" mutters Ilya, clearly concerned.
Too late to answer—Gunther's already scooped Elijah up under one arm like a screaming sack of potatoes—and turns to me with a gleam in his eye.
"YOU TOO!" he shouts, beaming.
I step back.
Too late.
He grabs me like I weigh nothing and throws me over his shoulder in one fluid motion. My yelp turns into laughter against his back. My hair falls in front of my face—I can't see a thing, but I hear everything.
"To the glory of the Citadel twins!" Gunther bellows. "Not the first—that's me and Tink—but the new ones! The heirs!"
"HUZZAHHHHH!" screams Elijah, upside down.
The room erupts with laughter. Even Tinka smiles wide.
But amid the noise, I feel another gaze on me.
I turn my head a little—as much as I can while hanging off Gunther's shoulder—and I see him. Ilya. He's laughing too, a little, but...
He's tense.
Just slightly. Not something anyone else would notice. But I do.
His eyes are locked on Gunther. On me. He's afraid I'll fall. Not because he doesn't trust Gunther—but because I'm me. And now, he watches. He guards. Even in the dumbest moments. Especially then.
And it means something.
I relax even more. Because it's stupid, yeah. But I like that idea: that he can't not watch out for me. Even here.
Gunther finally sets us down—Elijah first, then me. My feet touch the ground, I stumble slightly, still laughing, breath short.
Elijah and Gunther dive into what they call a "philosophical discussion on the nobility of ethanol." I leave them to it and head to the kitchenette behind a hanging curtain to get some water. My head's heating up and I know if I don't hydrate now, I'll regret it tomorrow.
The curtain creaks a bit. I half-fill my glass. The faucet drips.
Then footsteps behind me. I know who it is before I even turn.
Ilya walks in silently, holding an empty bowl. He pretends he's clearing up—as if anyone planned on cleaning tonight.
He moves closer, leans against the counter, sets down the bowl with faux innocence.
"Looks like you're enjoying yourself," he says casually.
I shrug, smiling.
"It's... chaotic. But yeah. I like it."
His gaze lands on my face, slides to my glass, then back.
"I saw you looking at my arm."
I freeze—just a little. He smiles, that crooked smirk.
"For a while," he adds, like he's talking about the weather.
I wet my lips, searching for something clever to say. But he beats me to it.
"Staring isn't polite, miss."
He looks at me like he's waiting for an apology. I cross my arms, raise an eyebrow, play along.
"I was evaluating your athletic performance, that's all."
He lets out a soft laugh.
"And? How'd I score?"
I stare a second. Then nod.
"More than satisfactory."
That grin again. Sideways. Dangerous.
"I can flex if it helps," he murmurs.
I laugh quietly. I should walk away. I don't. He's close. I can feel his body heat. The faint scent of his soap. The metallic edge of his prosthetic. A trace of alcohol. His eyes search mine. He's testing. Slowly. He slides it in:
"If you get too drunk, I can throw you over my shoulder too."
I look up at him.
"Think you could manage?"
"Drink one more and find out."
He's too close. He tilts his head—I feel his breath against my temple. His fingers rest on the counter. Mine too. Two centimeters apart.
Then—a thud. A groan.
"MAN DOWN!" Gunther shouts from the living room.
I sigh.
"I'm walking him home," I say.
We step out of the kitchenette. Elijah is half-sprawled on the rug, one arm in the air like a fallen knight. Gunther is howling with laughter.
"I can help," he offers, swaying.
Tinka gives him a look. One eyebrow raised. She sips her drink. Then:
"No way you're going out like that. And I think Ilya's already got it covered. Right?"
I glance at him. He nods, quiet. That small smile back on his face.
I bite my cheek not to smile too much.
"Come on," I tell Elijah, helping him up.
He lets himself be hauled like a beached whale. Ilya loops Elijah's arm over his shoulders. Elijah leans into him with a triumphant groan, head drooping against the hacker like he just won a battle.
"Huzzaaah..."
We leave under a storm of laughter. Thankfully, housing is nearby. Two halls, a staircase, a hanging bridge—that's it. No need to drag Elijah through kilometers of neon-lit corridors.
He talks. Nonstop.
"No but seriously, I'm happy, okay? And I love you both, okay? Even you, Ilya. Even if you're scary. Like... kind of scary. Not horror scary. Just, like, wow, you know?"
Ilya chuckles beside me. Not mocking. Soft. Maybe a little moved.
"Thanks, I guess," he murmurs.
"No, really... you're cool. Mira said so. You've got that cold-blooded thing."
I nearly lose it.
"And Mikel..."
I glance at Elijah. He's slowed a bit. His tone shifts—just a little.
"Mikel doesn't seem like a bad guy. That's true. But it still pisses me off. Because... I don't know. I'm angry. Even if I don't have a reason. It's not him. It's not fair. But I'm mad anyway."
Ilya says nothing. Just listens. And that's enough.
Elijah goes on:
"BUT MIRA—if someone ever hurts her... or touches her... like too much... I'll fight. I swear. I'm not joking."
Ilya coughs lightly.
I turn toward him, raising an eyebrow.
"You were about to say something, Ilya?" I ask, deadpan.
He shakes his head slowly. No, no, nothing at all.
We finally reach our door. I lean on the handle—Elijah's legs have suddenly decided they don't know how to walk. He flops face-first onto his bed with a grotesque sigh of relief.
"I'm hooooome."
"Yeah. You're welcome," I mutter.
We help him off with his boots. He's soft. Gooey. Babbling. No better word for it.
"I love you guys. You're the best people in the world. Like, really. If I had crayons right now, I'd draw you something."
I catch Ilya's eye. He raises a brow.
I quietly close the door behind us.
Silence.
Then, without warning, we both burst out laughing. Too loud for the hour. Too unfiltered for the day we've had—but it's real. Nervous. Honest. It feels good.
"Your brother's a masterpiece," Ilya breathes.
"You mean a natural disaster?"
He shrugs, amused.
"Both."
I cross the tiny room—what, three meters by two?—and flop onto the worn-out couch with a sigh. Ilya settles next to me right after, no hesitation. Really close. Shoulder to shoulder. Then arm. Then hip. Like it's natural. Like he's always done that.
"Want me to move?" I ask, unmoving.
"Didn't say that."
He slides an arm around my shoulders. Casual. Like muscle memory. I let him. He's a little clingy, yeah. But not heavy. Just... there. Warm. Kinda nice. He smells a bit like cold smoke and cheap soap.
I turn slightly, cheek resting against his shirt.
"You realize you don't have to stick that close, right?" I murmur, half-sarcastic.
"Oh?" He glances down. "I thought I was allowed now."
I look up. He smiles. Not too much. Just enough.
"You mean... since I stared at your arm during arm wrestling?"
"I was thinking more about you climbing me in the comms room earlier."
I chuckle.
"You started it. Don't flatter yourself."
"I've got excellent arms, or so I hear."
He flexes slightly under me. I roll my eyes.
"Stop."
"Don't pretend you didn't like it."
I swat his chest lightly, and he steals a kiss against my temple. One of those soft, unnecessary ones.
I sit up a little and look at him. He looks back. No words, but everything's there. That smile. That weird calm. We're both wiped, but glad to be here.
"Told you I get clingy once I'm attached," he murmurs.
"I thought you were all mysterious and dangerous."
"I'm multitask."
He leans in and kisses my cheek. This time, he lingers. Just enough.
I tilt my head—barely. Our noses brush.
Breath mingles. He hesitates.
But not for long.
He kisses me for real. Slow. Deliberate. No rush. Like he wants to mark the moment. One hand stays at my neck, the other still around my shoulders. I kiss him back before I can think. I'm warm. I want to be here. And I feel... safe. Ridiculous, maybe. But true.
When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against mine.
"Careful," I murmur. "You're gonna end up wanting to stay."
"Too late."
He draws me close again. We stay there, tangled, his fingers playing idly with a lock of my hair. I feel good. It's not much—but it's enough.
"We're turning soft, huh?" I whisper.
"Just the right amount. We've earned it."
I laugh. He steals another kiss—almost on the mouth, almost on the cheek. And I let him.
Because yeah.
We've earned it.