The sound isn't just loud.
It's sharp. Precise.
A metallic crack that slams through my skull, making my jaw clench like my teeth might split.
At first I think someone dropped a stack of trays.
But Mikel jerks all at once, violently, like someone's just grabbed his shoulder to yank him backwards.
His mug slips from his fingers, crashes on the floor with a dull thud. The porcelain rolls, knocks against a table, spins again—ridiculous and slow—while reality tips over.
Then I see the red.
Not a few drops. A blotch spreading fast—too fast—soaking into his sleeve, saturating the pale fabric. It's violent to look at, almost unreal.
Mikel lets out a strangled sound—half breath, half curse. His hand comes up, a primal reflex, pressing against the impact.
— "I..."
I don't hear the rest.
Something grabs my shoulder. Hard. Before I can register it, Ilya drags me down. My body hits the cold tile, my knees fold, and I feel the press of his metal hand holding me crouched.
He's instantly above me, one knee on the ground, the other braced, his body forming a shield. I can almost feel his heartbeat through my back.
— "Stay down," he orders under his breath, voice low but raw—instinct talking, not thought.
His eyes sweep the room over my head. He presses me slightly against him, and every shift of his hand on my arm feels like being caught in a vice—but a vice that's protecting me.
A second shot goes off.
Louder. Closer.
A warm breath of air brushes my cheek, followed by the dull ploc of impact in the wall, just behind Mikel.
Ilya's grip tightens, his head dropping even lower so his profile almost merges with mine.
— "Don't move," he breathes, and I can tell it isn't negotiable.
A few metres away, Piotr finally moves. His crutches crash to the floor in a metallic clatter. He tries to stand, but his bad leg buckles instantly. He drops to one knee but doesn't stop.
He grabs Mikel by the collar, hauls him in with desperate strength until they're both on the floor, half braced against the edge of an overturned table.
— "Stay with me," Piotr pants, breathless.
His fingers slip over the soaked fabric, find the wound, press hard.
— "Hold on, Mikel. Don't you let go."
Mikel grits his teeth, his back arching under the pressure.
— "It... burns..."
— "I know. Breathe. You're not alone."
Gunther's chair hits the floor behind him as he's already moving. Two strides and he's crouched beside them.
— "Press harder, Piotr."
— "I'm pressing!"
— "Harder."
Around us, chaos. Chairs scraping, someone shouting "Shooter!", a tray crashing to the floor. Boots pounding against tile, a pot lid clanging loud and hollow.
To my left, Elijah moves—a dark flash cutting through the fog of noise and movement. He heads straight for the threat, Tinka on his heels. Their steps are sharp, precise. Elijah dodges a table, Tinka grabs a chair for cover.
And then I see him.
The shooter.
Not hidden in the shadows.
Not infiltrated from outside.
Here. In the mess hall.
One arm outstretched, barrel still aimed at us.
Same uniform. Same insignia.
Elijah slams into his side, Tinka catches his wrist. Another fighter bursts in from the flank. The gun fires with a dry crack, skids across the floor and disappears under a bench.
No more shots. No immediate retaliation.
Just enough force to pin him against the wall, arms locked.
Silence returns in ragged beats.
Shouts cut off. Footsteps slow.
Mikel gasps for air, eyes fixed on Piotr above him.
— "I... I can make it..."
— "Yeah, and I can run a marathon. Shut up and breathe."
Gunther keeps the shooter in sight, but his gaze keeps flicking back to Mikel, to the red still spreading.
— "Don't let go, Piotr."
— "Not letting go."
And in my head, one thought repeats itself:
The danger didn't break through our doors.
It was already here.
---
Mikel feels like his whole arm is on fire.
Not just a burn, but something deep, vicious, pulsing with his heartbeat and radiating up into his neck. Piotr's hand crushes the wound like he's trying to fuse bone with his bare fingers. Every press sends a jolt through him that twists his stomach.
He gasps, unable to take a real breath. The air catches in his throat, too short, too fast. His vision wavers, but he locks onto Piotr's face above his own.
"Hey. Look at me," Piotr says, voice sharp but worried. "Breathe."
Mikel tries, but it snags.
"Breathe, damn it."
Gunther's arms slide under his shoulders in one sure motion, like Mikel weighs nothing. Ilya's hand comes to his other side instantly, firm and warm just above his elbow.
"Up," Gunther orders.
"I can't walk..." Mikel groans.
"You're gonna walk because we're carrying you," Gunther shoots back without slowing.
Ilya tightens his grip when he feels Mikel's legs shake.
"Pass out if you want. We're not slowing down for your ego."
Every step sends a shock through his shoulder, a flash of pain tearing through him. His knees threaten to give each time his boots hit the ground, but the two men keep him steady, adjusting their hold with every movement.
The hallway slides past — grey, narrow. The overhead lights stab at his eyes. His breathing is loud, uneven, and cold sweat sticks to the back of his neck.
The infirmary pulls them into its white light. Anya is already there, sleeves rolled, eyes locked on him.
"Here, quick."
Gunther lowers him onto the bed, not as gently as he probably meant to. Ilya keeps his hand on Mikel's good shoulder a second longer, as if to make sure he won't topple over.
"Don't touch anything else," Anya says, taking the knife Gunther hands her.
The blade cuts through his jacket, fabric tearing, cold air rushing in. The feeling of sticky blood running again against his skin makes him shiver.
"Bullet went through," Anya says. "Lucky."
"Yeah, real lucky..." he mutters, dry.
She doesn't bite.
"No painkillers. We're out. I'm stitching you now. Try to stay still."
The cleaning pulls a grunt out of him before he can hold it back. The gauze rubs and presses, each swipe triggering a wave of hot pain.
"The shooter was one of ours," Gunther says, arms folded. "We tackled him before he got off a third shot."
"Yeah, in the middle of the mess hall," Ilya adds.
Anya glances up at them, still threading her needle.
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious," Gunther says. "Not a stray shot. He aimed for Mikel."
Mikel shuts his eyes, mouth twisting.
"Not complicated. I'm Vlad's son. Not like I'm popular here."
"If it was just hate or revenge," Ilya says, voice sharp, "he'd have waited till you were alone. This? He shot in the middle of a crowd. Could've killed anyone."
His tone is tense, cutting, and Mikel can hear it's not just anger — it's confusion too.
Anya starts stitching. The first bite of the needle sinks into his flesh and he clenches his teeth. The thread pulls, scratches inside, and every knot feels like a quick, hot punch. His vision blurs, sounds start to fade.
Anya grabs his chin, forces him to look at her.
"Eyes on me. Inhale. Slow."
He obeys. The air still scrapes in his throat, but he matches his breath to hers.
Gunther, still watching him:
"We'll find out why he did it."
"As long as I'm not outside with a target on my back," Mikel mutters.
"Or someone else's," Ilya corrects.
Anya finishes the stitches, wraps his chest, pulling tight enough to lock his arm in place.
"You're not moving from here till tomorrow. If it bleeds, call me. I'll be close."
He nods. The fabric squeezes, but the warmth of the bandage pushes back a little against the cold lodged in his bones.
The door closes softly behind Gunther and Ilya.
Silence drops, heavy, broken only by the low hum of the air ducts. Mikel stays sitting, back to the wall, the bandage pressing into his shoulder and ribs with every breath.
The pain is still there, dull and relentless. Not the screaming kind — the kind that chews at you, that fills the space, a constant reminder of the bullet's path.
He should be angry. Hate the shooter.
But he's not.
There's only the emptiness. The weight pressing down.
What did I expect, really?
Anya comes back with a basin of clear water and a clean cloth. Her movements are slower now, more deliberate, almost calm. She wipes the dried blood from his arm, his neck, his face, like she has all the time in the world.
"You know..." she starts, wringing the cloth, "you're Vlad's son."
He gives a bitter smile.
"Thanks. I'm pretty up to date on that one."
She meets his eyes, serious.
"But you're also Olivia's son. People forget that faster. Too fast."
He frowns.
"Yeah... easier to stick me with his face."
"It's easier to hate than to remember," she says, shrugging.
She folds the cloth, sets it on the edge of the basin. The smell of disinfectant still hangs in the air, tangled with the iron tang of blood.
Mikel looks up at the ceiling.
The fluorescent tubes vibrate faintly — or maybe it's just in his head.
"Makes no difference," he says quietly. "Vlad's son or not, there's always someone ready to remind me I don't belong here."
"Ninety-five percent of the time, that someone is you," Anya says. "You can't see it now, but being her son matters. More than you think."
He doesn't answer.
Not because he won't.
Because if he opens his mouth, he's going to ask why it matters — and he's not sure he wants to hear the answer.
---
Elijah doesn't let go of the shooter's arm, Tinka has the other twisted behind his back.
The guy — Yvan, according to Tinka — walks without fighting, dragging his feet, head down, face locked. His eyes have nothing in them... and at the same time, a kind of resignation that makes my skin crawl.
We move down the hall in silence, only the slap of boots on concrete and the rasp of his jacket under Elijah's grip.
I can still taste adrenaline in my mouth, metallic.
Boris's office door is open. He looks up as we walk in, his brows pulling tight instantly.
"What the...?"
"He shot Mikel," Elijah says flat, no buildup.
Olivia is there too, leaning on the desk with a file in her lap.
Her eyes go wide.
"What?"
"Mess hall. Two shots, right in the crowd, but he was aiming at him," Tinka says.
Olivia doesn't ask more. She drops the file and is out the door without another look.
Boris stares at the shooter like he's not really seeing him — eyes flicking from his badge to his face, then back to us.
"You're kidding me?"
No one answers.
"One of ours? In the mess hall?!"
His voice is lower than I expect, but it carries something... a raw kind of disbelief, and under it, the weight of betrayal.
"Cuff him," he says finally. "And get out. All of you."
Elijah shoves the guy toward the corner, where two internal security guards take over. We end up in the hall, shoulders still tight.
That's when Gunther, Ilya, and Piotr appear.
They're moving fast, all three marked with blood. Not just on their hands — on sleeves, on the lower edges of jackets. Piotr struggles to keep up with his crutches.
My stomach knots.
"He okay?"
Gunther nods.
"Alive. Stable. Anya's on him."
Ilya adds,
"Lost blood, but it's only the shoulder. No lung."
Then, quieter,
"He's talking. He was awake when we left."
I nod, but it doesn't stop the dull pounding in my head.
---
Yvan sits in the metal chair, hands tied in front of him, wrists already red from the cuffs. He looks exhausted, but mostly empty, like the bullet he fired took the rest of his strength with it. His eyes stay fixed on a point on the floor between his boots.
Boris closes the door behind them slowly, doesn't speak right away. He just looks at him. Weighs him.
Silence settles — heavy, suffocating. The only sound is the faint hum of the vents.
"Well?" he says finally, voice low but sharp.
Yvan doesn't answer. His throat works like he's swallowed something dry.
Boris steps closer, plants himself in front of him.
"Why?"
The word cracks the air.
Yvan finally lifts his gaze, only long enough to meet his eyes for a heartbeat.
"I didn't have a choice..."
Boris says nothing. Yet.
"They... they have my daughter," Yvan breathes.
Boris's face doesn't move, but his brows draw down.
"Your daughter?"
"Yes..." Yvan says. "Since she was born, she's been topside. I didn't want... I didn't want her growing up underground. Thought it'd be safer up there. Less... trapped."
He swallows, uneven.
"She's illegitimate. Nobody knew. I never told anyone."
Boris leans on the desk, tilts toward him.
"And the government found her."
"They contacted me a few days ago," Yvan says. "They knew everything. Her name. Where she is. They said if I wanted to see her again... I had to kill Mikel."
He drags in a breath, like it physically hurts to keep going.
"Otherwise... they'd keep her. Or make her disappear."
Boris shuts his eyes for a moment, shakes his head. Straightens.
"And you chose to shoot. Here. In the middle of the mess hall."
Yvan's jaw tightens.
"I tried to make it quick. Clean. No needless suffering."
"Clean?" Boris repeats, a bitter, humorless laugh in his voice. "You nearly killed other people. Maybe Mira. Maybe Elijah. You fired into a crowd."
Yvan drops his gaze.
"I didn't know where to find him alone... and... I didn't have time."
Boris steps forward, both hands flat on the desk. His voice hardens even more.
"You know what happens to some kids up there, Yvan? Maybe your daughter ends up in a complex like the Loop. Maybe she spends the same years Mira did. Locked in. Used. Broken."
Yvan's fists clench, but he doesn't speak. His face twists briefly, rage at himself tangled with pure despair.
"And you think what you did today helps her?" Boris presses, merciless. "You just handed the government a win on a silver plate. And put every single one of us in danger."
Silence. Then Yvan murmurs,
"I failed."
"Yes," Boris says cold. "And you won't hurt anyone else here."
He signals to the two guards by the door.
"Isolation. No one talks to him without my say."
The guards move in. One takes his arm, the other his shoulder. He doesn't fight, lets his legs carry him on autopilot. His eyes stay forward, but they're red, wet.
When the door shuts, Boris stands alone in the office for a moment, behind the desk. He takes a deep breath, but his fists are still clenched, and his eyes are steel.