A whistle.
Then a shout.
"Gunth'!"
Tinka screams, and without thinking, she throws herself at her brother. They both tumble into the snow. A bullet snaps past the spot where he'd been standing a second earlier. Sharp impact. Ice shatters.
Gunther grunts, tries to get up, but Tinka pins him down again.
"East. Five thermal covers."
Ilya's voice in my earpiece is razor-sharp. Cold. Ultra clear. He saw. He knows. My heart's pounding so hard it feels like it's going to crack my ribs.
"Visual guard. Possible cover northwest. Don't stay clustered. Mira, breathe, move. Left now!"
I duck and run. Slide behind a tree trunk, aim. Elijah is already firing. A man drops flat, arms flung wide. He doesn't slow. He pivots—second shot. A knee bursts. The man crumples.
Tinka, kneeling, shields Gunther while shooting low. Two shots—two shoulders erupt. Precise. Efficient.
Piotr, wounded, has dragged himself to a slightly higher position. He fires despite the pain, covering their flank. I see him flinch, but he doesn't fold.
I move forward. Crouched. My finger tightens on the trigger. My breathing falls into rhythm with Ilya's in my ear:
"Focus on the line. Breathe through your nose. Don't panic. I'm here. I've got you."
I shoot. Hit him in the shoulder. The silhouette straightens. Elijah, behind me, adjusts. Hits the throat. The man topples backward with a strangled noise, like a puppet with its strings cut.
He doesn't speak. He acts. Reads the terrain, moves fast. It's... fluid. Surgical. A real soldier. And he covers me. Always. Without a word.
I admire him as much as I follow him.
I turn. Not fast enough.
Something slams into my back. I drop to my knees with a cry. A brutal grip seizes me. Shoves me to the ground, flips me over. I fight, scream.
"Mira?!"
Ilya. His voice. Centered in my head.
I punch the man. He catches my right hand, laughs. My stomach twists.
"Too pretty a face to play soldier," he breathes against my cheek. "Didn't know they took kids."
His hand clamps my chin. Forces my eyes to his.
I tense. My blood turns to ice. I'm shaking with rage.
He slides two fingers toward my mouth. I try to turn my head. He pushes.
"Mira. You can do this. Your knife's there. Breathe."
Ilya. Talking to me. He sees. He knows. And he's not panicking.
He keeps going, calm:
"Don't wait. This is your moment. You know where to hit. Dead center. I'll guide you. You've got this."
"Acting tough, huh?" the man keeps on. "But you're just a kid. I'll take care of you proper."
His breath is vile. I'm shaking, but my fingers are already sliding toward the sheath on my hip.
I find the hilt. The cold of the metal in my palm. My breath is short, jagged. He laughs. I scream.
And I stab.
One sharp drive. The blade slides in. I feel resistance. Something hard—a rib.
He howls. Reels back. I follow. Stab again. In the side.
He collapses with a groan. I back away, hands trembling.
"It's done. You did it. Now breathe, Mira. I've got you. Stay with me."
Ilya's voice is almost a whisper. He's still there. With me. Invisible support. A pillar in the storm.
But there's no time.
Another one comes forward. Elijah throws himself in front of me. He doesn't shout. He strikes. Fast, precise hits. Disarms, breaks a shoulder with one swift motion, then finishes on the ground, knee in the enemy's back.
He looks at me.
"Don't move till I say."
I nod.
Tinka yells:
"Gunther's hit!"
She keeps firing. Piotr covers the rear, his arm trembling, but he holds. An enemy drops in the snow, squeals, retreats.
Gunther, despite the pain and the blood running from his temple, has gotten back on his feet. He advances. Bare fists. Smashes one last attacker under the chin. The man falls. Gunther cracks the rifle butt against his skull.
Then nothing.
Silence, cut only by a few groans of pain.
I stay frozen. My heart's pounding so hard it feels like it's going to split my chest open. The body at my feet doesn't move. My knife is buried to the hilt.
Someone calls my name. I think it's Elijah.
A strange float, like the world's slowed down.
I see Tinka crouch, yank her med kit open with quick but shaking hands. Gunther kneels by Piotr, who's gritting his teeth, leg bleeding.
"I'm fine," Piotr growls. "Had worse. But if someone can keep me from pissing blood all the way back, I won't say no."
Tinka wraps a bandage around his thigh, pressing hard. He groans. Gunther murmurs something I can't hear.
Elijah's back by my side. He scans me. Not with pity— with that intensity that almost makes me want to look away.
"I'm fine," I breathe.
"You bleeding?"
"No. It's... not mine."
He nods, but doesn't take his eyes off me. Stays close, silent.
We move on. Not a word wasted.
The snow starts falling again.
Soft. Calm. Almost unreal after what we've just lived. It will cover the tracks. The bodies. The blood. Everything.
Perfect.
Piotr leans on Gunther, limping, but upright.
---
We follow the hidden path behind the trees until we reach the mouth of an underground tunnel. An old gallery reinforced with rusted metal, a leftover from some ancient defense network.
Only there do the bodies loosen a little.
The tension slips. Not all the way. Just enough to breathe.
Gunther slings an arm around Tinka's shoulders. Bends down, kisses the top of her head.
"Thanks," he murmurs.
She doesn't answer. But she closes her eyes for a second, like she's storing the moment away.
Piotr turns, leaning on the wall, panting.
"The twins..."
He looks at each of us in turn.
"Seriously. Impressive. You held the line. Hats off."
I think that's the best compliment you can get from him.
Gunther pulls a cigarette from his inside pocket, fits it between his lips with the ease of old habit. Lights a second one for Tinka and hands it over. She takes it without a word. Inhale. Sigh.
I sit against the wall, right next to Elijah.
He keeps an eye on me. As always.
But this time, I speak first:
"You know you were..."
I search for the word.
"Just... lethal, out there."
He blinks, like he's not used to that kind of feedback. Then a faint smile slips out. Not proud. Not cocky. Just... touched.
"I felt it too," he admits. "Stopped thinking at some point. It all just came."
I nod.
"It was beautiful to watch."
I don't say it reassured me. Helped me hold on. But I think he knows anyway.
He hands me his flask. I drink. The warmth seeps slowly back into my fingers.
---
The tunnels swallow us like slow warmth after the cold. The air smells of damp stone and old dust, but it tastes like coming back.
At the entrance, Boris and Ilya are waiting. Both with their jaws tight. The first scans every face, counting, checking. The second fixes his eyes on me the instant I step inside.
Boris exhales at last, but his tone stays clipped:
"Everyone to the infirmary. Debrief, tomorrow morning."
He adds lower, almost to himself:
"This was supposed to be recon... not a fucking shootout."
The weight of it settles in. Not a direct rebuke—just a heavy regret, like he blames himself for sending us there.
As I move to follow the others, Ilya steps close. One step, low voice in my ear:
"Training room. Ninety minutes."
I nod, try for a smile.
At the infirmary, the tension finally thins a little. Anya tends to us with that strange mix of professional stiffness and barely hidden relief. Piotr gets his leg stitched, swearing softly with each suture. Gunther gets the cut behind his ear cleaned, cursing at the antiseptic. Elijah, next to me, winces while they clean the burn on his shoulder.
As for me, I pull my t-shirt collar aside to show the burn in the hollow of my shoulder—melted plastic, the smell still clinging to my skin—and they probe my ribs, bruised and marbled. The ache is dull, not dangerous.
The talk grows lighter as the bandages go on. Gunther even cracks a bad joke about how Tinka "saved his head"—literally. Piotr smiles, pale but already recounting how he "aimed like a pro" despite his leg.
And for a moment, between the smell of medical alcohol and muffled laughs, it almost feels like a normal end to a mission. Almost.
---
The apartment is quiet. Elijah's asleep, door ajar, one hand dangling off the bed. I make sure he's really gone under before slipping out, my sweater pulled close, footsteps swallowed by the citadel's cold halls.
The training room is nearly empty. Only a strip of pale light cuts the floor. Ilya's there, leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets. When our eyes meet, he pushes off the wall and walks toward me.
He says nothing. Just pulls me in.
I laugh a little.
"Careful with my ribs."
He loosens his grip slightly, but his arms stay around me, solid, as if he refuses to let me slip. Warmth and cold all at once. He rests his forehead against my hair for a moment.
"You did well," he murmurs.
Then, after a beat:
"I was scared. And... I heard. What he said to you."
His eyes close briefly.
"It disgusted me."
My first reflex burns on my tongue.
"It's fine. I've been through worse."
I freeze. The words are out. And Ilya feels it. He lifts his head, his gaze searching mine, patient but steady.
"At the Loop..." I begin, but my throat tightens.
I draw in a breath, hands clenching in his jacket.
"We were fourteen when we got there. And until Tinka and Piotr found us... there were always some of them. Not all. But always the same ones."
He says nothing, but his jaw ticks.
"During exams, on the way... even in the cells, sometimes. They came. They..."—my voice shakes—"they took what they wanted. We were drugged from morning to night. Stripped down to the minimum."
I drop my eyes, but keep going. I have to.
"Sometimes it was just a hand on my thigh, staying there, pressing down. Sometimes it was their fingers tilting my chin up to 'look me in the eyes.' Once... a guard pinned me against the corridor wall, whispered in my ear that I was 'pretty for my age.'"
Ilya's hands tighten on my shoulders, but he stays silent, letting me speak.
"There was that day... I woke up, still in a haze from the drugs. I had blood between my thighs."
A shiver rips through me.
"The boys too. Elijah... I know he went through the same. Even if we don't talk about it. If we talk about it, it's real. And I don't want him carrying my memories on top of his own."
Ilya closes his eyes for a second, like holding himself back. When he opens them, there's a burn of anger, and a bite of grief.
"You were just a kid," he breathes, almost to himself.
I nod.
"We were test subjects. Not people."
He runs a hand over his face, breathes deep, then looks me straight in the eyes again.
"You're still standing. After all that. Do you realize?"
I shrug, a little. Heavy in my chest.
"Now there's nothing you don't know about me."
He shakes his head slowly, his fingers coming to rest at my nape, like he's keeping me here, grounded.
"I'm sorry, Mira. Not just for today. For all of it. And I swear... I swear as long as I'm here, no one... ever again."
I stay against him. We don't move. He speaks again, quiet, as if to soothe me, to stitch something invisible back together.
My neck loosens, my breathing slows. But a wave of dizziness hits.
"Hey, is it spinning?"
I nod. He straightens right away, helps me up.
"You need to sleep, Mira."
"I'm fine here..." I mutter, pressing closer.
A soft laugh escapes him, lightening the heavy air from before. But he shakes his head.
"Yeah, I know... but you'll feel better tomorrow if you go now."
He walks me back through the corridors, not letting go of my hand. We pass no one. At the apartment door, he stops.
"Sleep. We'll deal with the rest tomorrow."
He leans down, presses a slow kiss to my lips—just a silent goodnight.
I nod. Before going in, I whisper goodnight back. His look says more than words, then he steps away.
When I close the door behind me, Elijah doesn't stir in his sleep. I linger for a moment, watching him in the dark. His features are relaxed, almost peaceful despite the day we've had. I'm proud of him.
I slip into my room and shut the door softly. The mattress creaks as I lie down. The cold of the sheet makes me shiver... then I close my eyes.