The acrid sting of medical alcohol fills Mikel's nose, and the fabric pressed against his shoulder is already itching despite its coolness. Anya, bent over the side table, puts her equipment away with almost ceremonial precision. Every bandage is folded flat, every bottle placed exactly where it belongs.
"Alright?" she asks without looking at him.
"I've had worse," he replies.
She nods, but one corner of her mouth twitches as if she's holding back a comment.
"Had worse... or just saying that to look tough?"
"Both," he admits.
She snaps a metal box shut with a soft click.
"You handle pain well... but you go pale fast. You can't hide that."
He shrugs—bad idea. A sharp burn shoots up into his neck and he lets out a short breath.
"Just trying not to collapse on your floor. Would you even be able to pick me up if I did?"
This time, she laughs—short but genuine.
"I could, but I'd rather not. I don't have time for that."
He watches her stack clean gauze pads with quick, precise fingers.
"It's always this quiet in here?"
"When there's no mission return or rookie getting shot during lunch, yes."
He chuckles.
"That aimed at me?"
"Not at all," she says with feigned innocence. "Purely hypothetical."
"You know," she goes on while putting away a pair of scissors, "you don't always have to joke like everything's fine. Not here, at least."
"And you don't always have to stay neutral and reserved," he counters.
She lifts her eyes to his, and this time she doesn't look away right away.
"Careful, Mikel. If I start answering honestly, you might regret it—and you're stuck here until tomorrow."
He smirks.
"Try me."
She shakes her head, but he catches the glint of amusement before she turns back to line up the bottles.
The door opens. Anya straightens instantly, like someone flipped a switch.
"Olivia," she says simply, stepping aside.
His mother moves in quickly, features drawn tight. Anya gives a brief nod and retreats to her workbench. She doesn't leave, but she gives them space.
"You okay?" Olivia asks softly.
He shrugs, immediately grimacing.
"I'll be fine. They got to me fast."
She takes a chair and sits beside his bed. Her hand rests lightly on his ankle.
"When I heard... I thought..."
She doesn't finish, and he doesn't fill the silence.
The door opens again—Boris. Broad, tense, arms crossed.
"It was the government that ordered the hit."
Mikel's chest tightens.
"Because I'm Vlad's son? They're the ones who left me to rot first..."
"Not just that," Boris replies. "You lived there. You know things. Things we could use against them. And that scares them enough to want you gone."
Olivia straightens, jaw tight.
"So they know?"
"That he's decided to join us, yes. And probably where we are. Which means an attack is possible at any moment."
Mikel swallows hard.
"The shooter?"
"Locked up. He'll face a court-martial."
Boris fixes him with another long look.
"Rest. We'll need you sharp."
---
The room is fuller than I've ever seen it. The benches have been shoved against the walls, but it's not enough—people stand shoulder to shoulder. Murmurs still ripple about the midday shooting, but they die instantly when Boris walks in.
He stops in the center, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight. His eyes sweep the room. When they land on you, it feels like he's seen you, really seen you—and there's no way out.
"We've been betrayed," he says.
The word drops like a stone in water. Nobody moves, but I feel Elijah tense beside me, his hand tightening on his vest strap.
"Not by an infiltrator," Boris continues, his voice low but firm. "By one of our own."
A sharp, cutting murmur runs through the room. Two rows ahead, Tinka folds her arms, jaw clenched. I think it's the first time I've seen her without her usual look of defiance.
"You heard the gunshot, you saw the chaos. This wasn't an accident."
His gaze moves from face to face, and I'm almost certain it lingers on me for a fraction of a second before moving on.
"What that means," he says, "is that the Citadel's location may already be known to the government."
A weight drops into my stomach. I glance toward Ilya, leaning against a pillar at the back. He says nothing, but his eyes are dark, focused.
"As of today: no more single patrols. Everyone goes out armed. Video surveillance doubled. New recruits will undergo intensive training."
By the door, Gunther nods slowly, eyes locked on Boris as if taking down every word. Piotr, just behind him, stands rigid, hands tight on his crutches.
"An all-out assault is unlikely," Boris goes on. "But we can expect an infiltration attempt... or a bombing."
More nervous murmurs. Behind me, someone mutters a curse under their breath. Elijah looks at Boris like he's already waiting for a concrete plan.
"That also means," Boris adds, "that we'll need to increase outside operations—sabotage, intercepts, comms jamming. We have to hit first."
A subtle pressure closes on my elbow—Ilya. I glance down without turning my head. He's not looking at me, but his thumb moves just slightly against my sleeve, like he's saying: that means you too.
No one else sees. But it shortens my breath all the same.
"Get ready," Boris finishes, sharper than ever. "From now on, every day counts."
The silence that follows is heavy, saturated. We're no longer waiting for news—we're waiting for orders.
When Boris leaves, we all stay frozen for a few seconds, like no one dares to break the air he's left behind. Then it bursts—benches scraping, voices rising, clusters forming. Some are already arguing over new guard schedules, others grumbling about being armed at all times.
To my right, Piotr gets to his feet with the forced slowness of his crutches, wincing. Someone from the back offers an arm to steady him, but Piotr shakes his head, already plotting a path to the door without getting swallowed by the crowd.
"If I counted how many times I get stepped on since I've had these things..." he mutters, half-annoyed, half-amused.
"Don't complain," Tinka tosses over her shoulder as she passes him. "Didn't you say you missed human contact?"
"I never said that!"
Elijah bursts out laughing behind me, but falls quiet when he sees my face. He doesn't look worried, just in that mode where he has to talk, even if it's nonsense.
"Good thing we're doubling security," he says. "But I didn't like the way Boris talked about outside missions. Doesn't sound good."
Tinka nods, leaning in.
"What I don't like is we don't even know if the intel on the Citadel is confirmed. What if it's a bluff to pressure us? Or to make us slip up?"
I don't have time to answer— Ilya slips in beside me, quiet, waiting for the flow of people to give us cover. His arm brushes mine, and in the noise, he lowers his head just enough for me to hear.
"Promise me you won't give me more grey hair than I already have, next time you're sent out."
It's said with that little half-smile he saves for sarcasm, but I see the tension in his eyes. I can't help smiling back.
"You'll live. I'm a big girl."
"Oh yeah, no doubt," he says with mock seriousness.
He laughs when I nudge his ribs.
Some of the tightness in my chest eases. Elijah, who hasn't missed a thing, folds his arms and gives me a look.
"Glad my sister's got her own personal bodyguard."
"I protect everyone and you know it," Ilya replies without glancing his way.
Tinka comes back with Piotr, who's making slow progress, and the group starts moving toward the exit again. Conversations overlap—Tinka giving instructions for the hangar, Elijah talking guard rotations with Gunther, Piotr grumbling that even in a crisis, he'll still feel late to everything.
When we reach the hall, I step aside.
"Need to hit the infirmary," I say. "Routine check."
Since we got the list of drugs they pumped into us at the Loop, Elijah and I go for regular tests. This time, it's just me.
Ilya stops, studies me for a second, then lets me go, one discreet hand at my back like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I roll my eyes, but I'm still smiling when I turn toward the infirmary. Behind me, I hear Elijah mutter:
"He's really not subtle."
I pretend I didn't hear.
---
The infirmary's white neon lights throw a harsh glare over the tight-drawn sheets and gleaming steel trays.
Mikel's there, stretched out on a bed, the bandage wrapped snug across his shoulder and chest. He looks exhausted, but not enough to be asleep—his eyes follow the lines of the ceiling.
He turns his head when he hears my steps.
"You?"
His voice is a mix of surprise and disbelief.
"Thought you weren't hurt."
I sit on the bed across from his, arms folded.
"I'm not. It's a check-up."
Behind me, Anya looks up from a desk like she'd forgotten I was coming.
"Oh, hell—right... hang on, I'll get the kit."
She quickly stows what she was holding and disappears into the small supply room, the door swinging gently behind her.
When I look back at Mikel, he's staring at me. Not like someone you see every day—but like it's the first time he's actually trying to figure me out.
"Check-up for what?"
I rub my neck. Not a trick question, but not an easy one either.
"Because... for four years, Elijah and I were sedated. At the Loop. Constant doses."
His brow furrows.
"Four years?"
"Yeah. And not just that. Experimental drugs, given without explanation. Electroshock, stuff in our eyes..."
A heavy silence drops. I know he's trying to picture it—and none of those pictures are good.
"And since we got here, Boris and Anya want regular checks. Bloodwork, heart, everything. Just in case."
I fidget with my pant seam.
"My blood was 'clean' again almost two months after we got out. But they still want to monitor. Like the experiments never really ended."
Mikel doesn't move, lips parting like he's about to speak, then closing again. When he does speak, it's softer.
"I'm sorry."
I lift my head immediately.
"No."
"Mira—"
"No, Mikel. Not happening."
I lean forward, locking eyes with him.
"You had nothing to do with it. You know what matters?"
He doesn't answer.
"What matters is that now, you're here. Not what you couldn't do before."
His eyes drop, a bitter little laugh escaping.
"You're better at saying that than I am at believing it. Elijah..."
"He's always been slower with stuff like this. I promise, he doesn't hate you."
"How can you be sure?"
I smile at the memory of the walk back after Gunther's party.
"He told me. It's hard for him—he feels like he failed to protect me. He's mad at himself, not you. You'll see, you two'll be friends soon. And if not, we can always make you spar it out at training. Get it out of your systems."
He almost smiles—small, tentative, like he's surprised his own lips moved. And I realize it's the first real conversation we've ever had without chaos hanging over us.
From the back, Anya slams a drawer and mutters a muffled curse before returning with a metal case under her arm.
The sound it makes on the trolley pulls up an unpleasant memory—too much like the sharp clatter of trays in the Loop.
"Alright," she says, kicking a chair into place. "Blood first. Sit here."
I take the stool by the table, back stiff. Mikel, propped against his pillows, watches me.
Anya pulls on gloves, tightens a tourniquet around my left arm. Her hand is steady, precise.
"Look away if you want."
I immediately turn my head, fixing on a point on the wall. The rubber squeezes, my fingers tingle. The alcohol smell sharpens.
"This'll sting," she warns. "Breathe normal."
The needle breaks skin—a light but invasive burn, then that hollow tugging as blood fills the tube. My shoulders tense despite myself.
"Not a fan of needles?" Mikel asks, smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
I let out a short breath.
"Not... this kind. Too many memories."
He doesn't press, but I can feel his eyes on me until Anya slides the needle out and presses an alcohol pad to the spot.
"Here—hold that."
She jots something down, then grabs her stethoscope.
"Chin up. Deep breath... hold... exhale. Again."
The cold metal against my skin makes me shiver.
"Regular rhythm," she murmurs to herself.
She checks my eyes, close enough to track my pupils in the light.
"Normal reaction."
Finally, she steps back and peels off the gloves.
"Symptoms—how are you? Nightmares?"
"A bit, yeah. Last one was two nights ago."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Flashes?"
"Less than before. I think it takes a trigger now."
She nods, noting it down.
"Migraines?"
"Not every day."
She hesitates, then drops her voice so Mikel won't hear.
"And... your period? Since you got out?"
The cotton pad in my hand crumples. A lump forms in my throat.
"No. Still nothing."
Anya's face darkens, but she says nothing.
"We'll do a hormone panel. Not uncommon after... what you went through. But we need to check."
She packs up the kit, the metal case snapping shut.
"You can get back to what you were doing. I'll call you for the panel."
I nod, stand, and catch Mikel's eye.
"Hope that shoulder heals quick," I tell him.
He arches a brow.
"It'll be fine. If I try to get up too soon, Anya will shoot me again."
"Don't tempt me, Gagarin," Anya calls from the supply room.
A small smile tugs at my lips, despite myself.