The mess hall smells like coffee and regret.
When Elijah and I walk in, Gunther is already slumped over at a table, elbows planted, head in his hands, complexion grey. He looks like the aftermath of an apocalypse—disheveled, squinting like the lights offend him, glaring at his cup of coffee with visible hatred. Tinka sits across from him, perfectly straight, perfectly composed, sipping herbal tea like last night never happened.
Elijah drags his feet beside me. His hood is up, his features crumpled, eyes puffy. Every step is a struggle, every ray of light an assault. I, on the other hand, feel fine. A little foggy, maybe, but nothing dramatic. I slept. Late, but well.
"You started the last bottle," Gunther mutters without lifting his head.
"Are you kidding?! You're the one who shouted 'One more for the road' while dancing on a chair," Elijah protests, collapsing beside him with a groan from the grave.
I sit without a word and pour myself some coffee. Tinka shoots me a knowing glance and raises her mug in a silent toast. I give her a small smile in return. She remembers everything. And she saw it all.
A few minutes later, Ilya walks in, calm, hands in his pockets. He looks awake, alert, and alive—which sets him starkly apart from the rest of us. He greets us with a simple "Morning" and sits beside me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He's always done that—sat next to me. But now, it means something else. I smile into my cup.
A grumpy silence settles over the table, thick with headaches and hazy memories.
Then, Tinka whispers softly, almost reverently:
"Huzzah."
I snort. So does Ilya. And then Tinka joins us, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. Gunther groans like a wounded bear, and Elijah lets out another tortured sound.
"That word should be banned."
"It's your favorite," I say. "You yelled it louder than anyone."
He lifts a feeble hand in my direction. Half-hearted defense. I'm almost touched.
"Seriously, Ilya," he adds after a sip of water, "thanks for getting me back. I was... yeah. Not glorious. Appreciate it, man."
Ilya gives a simple nod, modest and easy. I hold back a laugh into my cup. Elijah has no idea that after dropping him starfish-style into bed, Ilya and I didn't go our separate ways. He doesn't know Ilya stayed. That we talked, laughed, curled up on the living room couch. That we shared a kiss or two—or three—until I fell asleep against him. He left maybe an hour before Elijah woke up.
I feel Ilya's gaze slide to me. I meet it, just for a second. I know he's thinking about it too.
---
The next morning, just after breakfast, a summons arrives. A printed note, simple, slipped under the door of our tiny apartment, and Elijah brings it in like it's a treasure map. Our names are on it. Me. Him. Gunther. Tinka. Ilya. And three others, including someone named Piotr I only vaguely recognize.
We all head up to the command center. No one talks on the stairs. The tension is back—thin, but present. Like an undercurrent.
In the main room, Boris is waiting, arms crossed. He has the closed-off look he gets when he's about to drop bad news. Or a mission.
"We need to move quickly," he begins. "This is about the trucks. Again."
He brings up a map on the wall. A zone in the northeast, off the usual routes. A former installation, registered as an emergency bunker in the archives. Supposedly unused for over ten years.
"We believe it's still viable," he continues. "If it's accessible and still off the government's radar, it could serve as an outpost. Observation point. It's further from the truck route, but closer to the new base they're building."
Tinka is already nodding. Gunther's eyes are narrowed, focused—already visualizing the terrain. Piotr takes notes, clearly nervous.
"It's a recon mission," Boris says. "No engagement. No contact. Go in, assess, get out."
I feel Elijah straighten beside me. Excitement rises off him like heat. He's been waiting for this. A real mission. A real role.
"Mira. Elijah. You're on the ground team."
My heart skips.
I see Ilya tense. He doesn't say anything, but I feel the shift in him like a static charge. He turns his head, meets my gaze, and nods slowly. No protest. Just... presence.
Boris adds, more evenly:
"Ilya stays here. Info room. He'll coordinate the op with me. As always."
And as always, our lives will be in his hands once we're out there. His voice in our ears, his commands, his eyes on the screens. He won't be with us—but he'll see everything.
"You leave tonight. Rest this afternoon. Prep your gear. Be ready."
No one objects. Least of all me. Fear coils low in my stomach like a cold hand. But I'm ready.
We file out in silence. Elijah throws me a giddy glance. Gunther follows close. And behind me—I already know—Ilya is watching us go.
---
I push open the door to the info room, and the light from the screens hits me immediately. It's warmer here than in the hallways. The air hums with focused silence, broken only by the clatter of Ilya's keyboard.
He's bent over his screen, face tight with concentration. Managing everything—radios, fallback routes, extraction points. That's his role. He never goes out. He stays here, behind the walls, seeing it all, hearing it all.
And yet, the second I step in, he looks up.
I pretend I'm here for a reason. I tap the earpiece clipped to my collar, then walk over.
"Just checking audio," I whisper. "We leave in ten. Can't have us picking up truck radio chatter."
He doesn't answer. He's already up. Three steps, and he's in front of me, eyes locked on mine. My breath catches for a half-second. Then he kisses me. No hesitation. No restraint. He kisses me like someone who doesn't want to let me walk out. And I let him. My stomach is already tight. I'm ready—but that doesn't mean I'm not scared.
When he finally pulls back, his hand stays on my hip.
I'm geared head to toe: tactical jacket, vest, muddy boots, sleeves rolled up, collar ready to pull over my mouth. I even pinned the Hawk armband to my left arm—it feels strange to wear it for real. Like it makes everything more solid.
I look him in the eye and say, as calmly as I can: "I'm not scared. Not really. This isn't a suicide mission. Gunther's with us. Tinka too. And... you're in my ear."
He doesn't speak, but his grip tightens. He's scanning me like he's memorizing everything. His eyes pause at my collar, the straps on my vest, my gloved hands. That look—part tactical, part personal—like he's cataloging every piece he might miss.
Then he reaches for my earpiece. "May I?"
I tilt my head slightly. He adjusts the receiver, checks the line. His fingers are quick but gentle, efficient. I feel his knuckles brush my skin, his palm steadying my face.
"Signal's good. Say something."
"Ilya."
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. The word echoes softly in the room. "Test successful."
I smile too, but I can see it—it's costing him. He's too quiet. He's thinking too much. Imagining everything that could go wrong.
I lean in closer, until my voice is barely a breath. "Hey. You know Boris didn't pick us by accident. We're ready. He said so."
"Ready or not—it doesn't change how I feel," he says quietly.
I place my hand on his chest, over his heart. He's breathing fast. Too fast. "Then breathe. I need you tonight. In my head. In my ear."
He closes his eyes for a moment, straightens slightly. I can tell he's trying to come down. And, like always, irony is his crutch.
"Just a reminder," he murmurs. "Everything you say during the mission, everyone will hear it. So if you plan on declaring your love mid-firefight, your brother will have front row seats."
"But you're so sexy when you say 'tactical retreat'. I might not be able to hold back."
"It's unfair, I know," he says, kissing me lightly this time.
I let out a quiet laugh.
"See you soon."
"Very soon."
I nod once. Then I go.
---
The trapdoor is just visible beneath the snow, which Tinka brushes aside with a sweep of her gloved hand. The wind howls—bitter and sharp—but everyone is focused.
My heartbeat accelerates as Gunther kneels to inspect the lock. In my earpiece, Ilya's voice filters through, calm and steady. Just hearing him helps settle me.
"No heat signatures so far. You're clear to proceed."
The hatch opens more easily than expected. Gunther frowns.
"Weird. I thought it'd be rusted shut. Or stuck."
Tinka nods, pulling out a flashlight and aiming the beam into the opening.
"Either someone's been here recently, or we're freakishly lucky."
We descend one by one into the bunker. The metal stairs creak underfoot—narrow, damp. The air inside is warmer, almost stifling. Rusted pipes run along the walls. Elijah and I walk in the middle, flanked by Tinka and Gunther. Piotr leads the way. One hand on my weapon, the other clenched for no good reason. Still, I feel oddly calm. Focused.
"Loud and clear," Ilya murmurs in our ears. "If comms drop, retreat. Smooth and steady."
We move through the corridors. Several rooms are empty: concrete walls, exposed piping, debris. We reach a partially open door—an old tech room. Elijah and I step inside.
That's when Piotr, further down the hall, veers alone into a side room to check an electrical panel.
"Piotr, don't wander off," Gunther grumbles—but it's too late.
A low rumble. A flash. Then a dry, deafening blast.
"Shit!"
The lights flicker. An alarm blares. Somewhere, a heavy door slams shut with a mechanical clang.
"What the hell was that?!" Elijah yells.
I rush toward the room, but thick smoke pushes me back. A vent must have burst. Worse—the entrance we used just locked itself with a chilling click. Ilya's voice crackles through the comms.
"I've lost Piotr's signal... I still have you all, but there was an energy surge. Something triggered a lockdown."
Gunther is already trying to force the door open. Tinka is coughing. Elijah and I exchange a glance—and without needing to say a word, we know what comes next.
"There!" I shout. "The ducts!"
A loose panel hangs askew in the hallway. Behind it, a maintenance crawlspace—tight, filthy, but passable.
"We might be able to get around the collapse and unlock it from the inside," Elijah says.
"I'll guide you," Ilya cuts in. "Mira, Elijah—you're on the move. Gunther, find Piotr. I've got his signal again, he's nearby. Watch the smoke."
I crawl into the duct on all fours, Elijah right behind me. The metal is freezing. Jagged screws catch my sleeves. My elbows scrape along the edges. I slice my forearm on a sharp ridge—clench my teeth. The air is foul, stale. But we keep going. Every inch is a fight. Ilya's voice stays with us, a breath in the ear.
"Left at the next junction. Then down."
We follow. Farther in, I catch the acrid scent of burning.
"Something's on fire up ahead, Ilya. But we're fine."
A beat of silence.
"I don't believe you for a second," he mutters. "Stay focused."
We finally reach a bent grate. Elijah kicks it free. We spill into another tech room—and the ground trembles beneath us.
Another explosion. The fire has spread. A pipe bursts, flames shooting into the hallway behind us. Elijah stumbles back, slamming into a conduit, and cries out—his shoulder scorched.
I scream into the comm:
"We need to get out! Now!"
Elijah pries open an access panel. I find the manual release lever—Gunther taught me where to look. With a groan of metal, the locks disengage.
The others rush in, faces blackened. Gunther drags Piotr, who's limping heavily—his leg gashed by shrapnel. Tinka is limping too, but I don't see blood. Probably twisted something. Pain sears my shoulder—molten plastic must've fallen from the ceiling. I grit my teeth. Still standing.
We bolt for the exit, blinded, covered in soot.
Outside, the snow is still falling. The cold bites into my lungs like knives. I collapse onto the ground, gasping. One by one, voices crackle in my ear.
And then—Ilya:
"Mira?"
"Present," I say. "Mostly in one piece."
He doesn't respond. But I hear him exhale.
Piotr groans. Elijah clutches his burned shoulder. Gunther stays standing, chest heaving, eyes on the sky. Tinka sinks into the snow. I sit up, pull my collar down, and inhale the icy air. We're alive.
That's when I hear it. Footsteps. Quiet but clear, crunching in the snow—somewhere near the tree line. I snap my head up, alert. Elijah freezes. Gunther lifts a hand—silent signal.
Someone's coming.
And we have no plan.
Only adrenaline.
And our weapons.