The report lands on her desk with a sharp thud.
Octavia doesn't open it right away. She already knows what's in it: the patrol is back, resistance losses are minimal, and they've clearly lost their team. It doesn't matter.
It's never a problem when it was planned.
She pulls a cigarette from its case, lights it without hurry, and lets the smoke fill the cold air of the room.
The bunker wasn't a diversion. It was never about leading them away.
The aim was simpler: force them to move, push them to check the place. And they did, right on schedule.
She flips a page, barely skimming the details. What she's looking for is elsewhere.
A name.
Or rather, the absence of one.
Their pawn, somewhere behind the Citadel's walls.
Not an infiltrated soldier. Not a trained professional.
A regular resistance member… who has a family.
A family they're holding.
Octavia sees it again, brief and clinical. A windowless room, a single chair in the middle.
Him, sitting, trembling.
Her, standing, hands clasped behind her back.
Her voice flat, methodical.
"You have until the date I'm about to give you. Not a day more. You know what will happen to them otherwise."
She hadn't needed to explain how. The image of the hostages was enough — pleading eyes, rope, ragged breaths.
She crushes her cigarette into a metal ashtray.
The deadline is close. Very close.
And she has no way to contact him. No map of the Citadel, no relay inside.
He has to act.
If he cares about them, he'll strike.
If he has any survival instinct left, he'll strike soon.
Octavia stands, folds her arms in front of the wide glass window. Outside, snow falls in silence, laying a white veil over the streets. She waits.
No signal. No noise.
Just that date coming, like a blade descending.
A day or two more.
No longer.
She closes the bunker file. Her reflection sharpens in the glass, expressionless.
And in the silence, a single thought cuts through, as sharp as the cold beyond the pane:
If he cares about them, he'll strike.
---
We're all either sitting or leaning somewhere in the big meeting room. The lights are a bit too bright after the Citadel's dim corridors. The smell of cold coffee lingers, mixed with the drip of melting snow from our jackets. Piotr's taken a seat at a table, leg stretched out, crutches within reach. Gunther stands right behind him, arms crossed, a solid presence. Tinka's fingers still fidget with the cuffs of her sweater, like they can't decide whether to warm her up or burn off what's left of the adrenaline.
Boris is there, planted near the screen where the cameras are ready to play. Ilya stands at his right, arms crossed, eyes fixed on us — but I can feel it's more than simple observation.
"Sit," Boris says. "We'll go through the mission in full."
His voice is low, but there's that tension that keeps anyone from interrupting. Gunther starts, precise, no wasted details. Tinka adds in short bursts. Piotr tells his part, a bit reluctantly, like he's trying to downplay what happened to him.
Then Boris rolls the footage.
The screen shows snow, low visibility, then a laser sight sliding onto Gunther. The red dot dead-center on his shoulder. I hold my breath just before Tinka shoves him out of range.
"Well done," Boris mutters, sincere.
The videos roll on, until the moment one of the attackers grabs me. The sound's off, but seeing his hands on me is enough. Ilya doesn't look away, but his finger is already brushing the button to skip ahead. That image disappears faster than the rest.
Boris turns to Mikel.
"You confirm these weren't government soldiers?"
Mikel nods, stiff.
"No official unit. Veterans, most likely. Private. Hired to watch the area."
Beside me, I feel Elijah tense. He doesn't speak, but his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. His grudge against Mikel hasn't gone, even if he knows it's not rational.
Boris folds his arms, gaze heavier.
"The bunker was rigged. They knew we'd come check. And that's on me. I'm the one who chose this recon mission. I sent you straight into an ambush."
Silence falls — no accusations, just that quiet acknowledgement that a mistake like this could have cost far more.
He breathes in slowly.
"You held your ground. Reacted fast, covered each other, brought everyone back alive. That's all I could ask for. You did this team proud."
His eyes land on Gunther and Tinka, longer this time. He doesn't really smile, but there's a rare warmth in his tone.
"And you two… I won't say it twice. Well done."
Gunther inclines his head. Tinka almost smiles for real. Piotr shifts, grimaces, and Gunther grabs his crutches, setting them properly under his arms. Piotr grumbles but doesn't refuse.
Boris wraps it up, voice firm again:
"Stand down for today. You've earned it. All of you."
The screen goes dark, and the room suddenly feels smaller, quieter. But in the eyes around me, I can tell this mission left its mark.
---
I'd wanted to go to the training room, just to test my ribs… but the second I raised my arm to put on my coat, the pain took my breath away. Elijah gave me a look that said try it and I'll tape you to the table.
"Sit," he orders, nodding at the couch. "You're not moving today."
So we stay in, in our little apartment, caught in this rare bubble where nothing's urgent. He's sprawled on the creaky couch, feet crossed on the table, me sitting on the floor against his knee, a lukewarm mug in my hands.
It's the first time in ages we've dared talk about the future. No missions. No rations. Just… after.
"When all this is over," he says, staring at the ceiling, "I want… nothing. Not nothing nothing, but quiet. Country quiet."
I raise a brow.
"And…?"
"Chop wood."
I nearly choke on my tea.
"You? Manual labor?"
"Hey, I'm very handy," he says, grinning.
"Sure. Your last attempt was fixing the bathroom stool, and I almost died."
"Lies. It was just slightly tilted."
We laugh, but then he sobers.
"I picture it, you know. A stove, an armchair… and silence."
"You? Silent? Yeah, I need to see that."
He ruffles my hair like he used to.
"You underestimate me."
He goes quiet for a second, thoughtful.
"Don't know if I'll have kids. Maybe not. But I could be the cool uncle if you ever do."
"Cool's debatable."
He reflexively tosses a cushion at me, then freezes when I flinch.
"Oops. The cool uncle who sends his sister to the infirmary, perfect."
I laugh.
"And what do you teach your nieces and nephews?"
"To climb trees. Throw rocks."
"Brilliant. And the swearing?"
"That's your job."
We laugh again, until he says, softer:
"I was scared for you yesterday. Really scared."
His thumb moves lightly against the back of my neck, like he's checking I'm still here.
"I know. Same for you."
He holds me for a few seconds, then breaks the moment with:
"Alright. If we survive, you're coming to chop wood with me."
"Only if I get a bigger axe than you."
"Not a chance."
We fall into a softer quiet. Then I tell him:
"When it's over… I want to travel. See more than walls and snow."
He smiles.
"Take me with you, then."
After a pause, his eyes light up.
"You know what I remembered? Just before the Loop… you were obsessed with one book."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Some magician…"
I laugh.
"The Wizard of Oz."
"That's it! You wouldn't shut up about it. 'Look, Eli, courage, heart, brains…' I was done."
"Admit you liked it."
"Not at all. I read it in secret, but not at all."
We trade jabs until our stomachs interrupt. We head for the mess hall, the hallway chill almost pleasant after our bubble of warmth.
"Come on," he mutters, nudging me forward. "Before Piotr empties the pot."
"You mean Gunther. Piotr at least waits his turn."
"We'll see."
We walk side by side down the stairs. The yellow light flickers overhead, our footsteps echoing in the corridor. The damp winter walls seem to close in, and his shoulder brushes mine every few steps — and for some reason, it steadies me.
The mess is packed tonight. It smells of soup boiled too long, reheated bread, and stale coffee in the corner. Conversations overlap, cutlery clangs against dented plates, laughter bursts and dies, old stories get retold louder than yesterday. That heat and noise almost make the Citadel feel normal.
We grab a table in the back, near the stove. Elijah drops into the chair on my left, Ilya sits on my right. I've barely set my tray down when Gunther arrives, Mikel right behind him. Piotr limps in with his crutches, cursing the lack of space between chairs. Tinka comes last, hair still damp from a shower.
Elijah clocks Mikel, his shoulders tighten for a heartbeat, then he looks down and says nothing. Not warm, but not hostile.
Trays hit the table. Piotr tries to sit unaided, grunts, and gets caught by Gunther, who shoves his crutches aside to help.
"I can do it myself."
"Shut up, give me your arm."
The teasing starts right away. Gunther pushes his hair back to show off the fresh gash behind his ear.
"Nice, huh? Mystery from a mile away."
"My burn's got character," Elijah says, tugging up his shirt to show his shoulder.
"Yeah, except no one sees it under a shirt."
"Shirtless, though, it's sexy."
"Sexy? You?"
Piotr bursts out laughing. Ilya, beside me, lets out a quiet breath of amusement and runs his fingers between my shoulder blades, tracing down before pulling away. Quick, deliberate — just enough to make me aware he's waiting for a reaction. I keep my eyes on my soup.
The talk shifts to Tinka.
"And your mechanic?" Gunther asks, sly.
Tinka raises a brow.
"What about her?"
"You like her, don't you?"
"Oh, stop," Elijah adds. "She's fixed your engine twice already."
"That's honest work," Tinka replies, dead serious.
"Honest work, my ass," Piotr snorts.
Tinka straightens, mock solemn.
"Listen. Out there, being gay is illegal, so in here, I'm committing every lesbian crime I want. Making it count."
The table roars. Even Mikel cracks a smile.
Piotr, curious, asks Mikel what he used to do. Against all odds, they click over old movies.
"You know Constellations?"
"Of course. And Notorious."
Piotr lights up.
"Finally someone who gets it!"
The two of them dive into rapid-fire quotes and references only they understand. Mikel's shoulders loosen with each exchange, like the tension around him is slowly melting. Elijah watches, but doesn't cut in.
Gunther jumps in with a story from a botched mission at twenty. Tinka mimics a commander's voice. Piotr laughs, Mikel too, and I cling to the warmth of it, that fragile illusion that everyone's here, whole, alive.
Ilya leans close, murmurs something meant only for me. I bite back a smile.
The evening winds down in that steady buzz. Biscuits get passed around, mugs drained, the laughter slowing. Elijah even addresses Mikel directly, just to ask if the soup's better than yesterday's. It's simple, almost cordial — which is huge.
Then, as the room starts to quiet, Elijah hands his empty cups to Mikel.
Mikel takes the stack, turns toward him, starts to answer.
A sharp crack snaps through the mess hall.
His shoulder bursts.