Mikel keeps his eyes fixed on the whitewashed wall, his back straight, while Anya carefully peels back the dressing. The worn gauze clings, tears a sharp breath out of him.
— "Still grinding your teeth," she murmurs. "You think I don't notice?"
— "Thought I was being discreet," he replies.
— "Wrong."
The corner of her mouth twitches, as if she's holding back a real smile. He lowers his gaze too, but his shoulders ease just slightly.
She cleans the wound with method, almost ceremonial. He flinches when the alcohol bites into his skin.
— "Sorry," she breathes at once.
— "It's fine," he says, though his voice trembles a little.
She lifts her head for a moment, her eyes locking with his.
— "Liar."
He laughs, low, quiet.
— "Maybe. You'd rather I throw myself on the floor, writhing in agony?"
— "Go ahead. Just don't break anything."
Then she bends again, all focus, though her movements have slowed. The warmth of her hand against his skin keeps him almost motionless, as if afraid a single move would break the fragile balance.
— "You'll have less time to whine," she says, tucking the fresh bandage under his arm. "Boris will find a thousand things for you to do."
He exhales, unsure if it's relief or dread.
— "Good. I want... to be useful. To pull my weight."
Her fingers smooth the bandage into place, and at last she lifts her eyes.
— "The more you get involved, the easier it will be. The others will forget your father. They'll see you."
He hesitates, then answers more softly:
— "You're the first person to tell me that."
She blinks, startled, then turns her head slightly, an almost-smile flickering across her lips.
— "I don't have time for ghosts, Gagarin. I treat the living, here."
The door bursts open. Mikel flinches, and the fragile thread between him and Anya snaps clean. She steps back at once, grabs her notebook as if nothing had happened.
Piotr fills the doorway, no crutches, a pistol at his belt. He still limps, but his back is straight, his arms solid. His eyes catch on Mikel first, then the fresh bandage.
— "Perfect," he says. "On your feet and almost whole."
Mikel swallows a word burning his throat, too aware of the sudden chill filling the room.
— "You're walking without..."
— "Without the crutches? Yeah. It pulls, but it holds. And I was sick of them."
He comes closer, uneven steps echoing on the tiles.
— "Boris doesn't want you wandering alone. In case there's another shot."
Mikel arches a brow.
— "So he sent you, with your busted leg? Lucky you."
A smirk cuts across Piotr's face.
— "Wrong. I volunteered."
Mikel falls silent, caught off guard. The images resurface: Piotr bent over him the night before, one hand pressed hard against the wound to staunch the blood, those hard eyes not flinching. And before that, their table talk — two lines from old movies thrown out at the same time, both surprised at the common ground. The first normal conversation since Mikel had set foot here.
He looks away, uneasy.
— "Then... thanks."
Piotr shakes his head, shrugs as if the word slips right off him.
— "Don't get carried away. I haven't done anything yet. Save it for when I stop the next bullet."
— "Hm."
Anya snaps her notebook shut.
— "You can go now, Mikel. Don't get the bandage wet, and if there's the slightest problem, you come straight back. No heroics, no waiting."
Mikel nods.
— "Understood. Thank you."
She lifts her eyes for a heartbeat, as if to add something, but swallows it and turns back to her bottles.
The boys step out together. The corridor is cold, neon lights flickering here and there. Piotr matches his uneven pace to Mikel's without comment.
— "So?" he asks at last. "Not too bad, your night here?"
Mikel lets a small smile ghost across his lips.
— "Could've been worse. Didn't sleep much... the shoulder pulled whenever I moved. But it's fine."
Piotr nods, lips pressed tight.
They walk on side by side, footsteps echoing softly over bare concrete. Mikel feels his shoulder protest with every step, but he keeps his head high.
---
Ilya's mechanical fingers brush my cheek before trailing down to my nape, and I feel his laugh rumble against my mouth. I try to pull back for air, just a second, but he follows, lips grazing my skin like he can't stand the distance.
— "You know we've got ten minutes, maybe fifteen tops," I breathe between kisses.
— "Then stop talking."
I shove his shoulder lightly, stifling a laugh, but he uses it to drag me sideways onto the couch. I tumble half across him, pinned between his arm and the backrest. His T-shirt is still warm from training, smelling of soap and steel.
— "You're gonna crack a rib," he grumbles, but his fingers grip my waist like I'm exactly where he wants me.
— "Stop being fragile," I whisper back.
He chuckles, head leaning close, and before I can fire another jab he's already claimed my mouth again. It's slower this time, teasing: his lips linger, break just to murmur something low against my skin, then return. My heart's hammering, and not only because his hands are holding me fast — it's the fever mixed with laughter, this secret locked between us, that makes me dizzy.
A creak.
— "Shit," he hisses, stiffening.
The handle turns.
We spring apart like kids caught red-handed. I smooth my hair in a rush, Ilya grabs a file lying on the table. I'm still breathless when the door swings open.
Elijah.
— "Mira, I was just with—"
He stops cold, eyes flicking from couch to me, then to Ilya — who has already opened the file... upside down.
— "Well. Hello."
— "Just dropping this off," Ilya says, grin plastered on.
I jump in instantly:
— "Yes. He was dropping that off."
Silence. Elijah nods very slowly.
— "Right."
Ilya slams the file shut with a triumphant snap, sets it back on the table, and fist-bumps Elijah. The audacity. Elijah lifts a brow, but lets it slide.
— "Miss," Ilya adds, giving me an exaggerated nod before slipping out into the hall.
The door closes.
I hold my breath. Elijah stands there, arms crossed, his stare heavy on me. No words, just silence, all implication.
I blurt too fast:
— "So... uh, what did you want? Training with Piotr?"
— "No. He's still injured. And now babysitting Mikel, remember."
— "Right. With Tinka then?"
— "Nope."
He drops into the chair opposite, a grin stretched just enough to tell me he's not fooled.
— "I was with Gunther this morning."
I fold my arms, heartbeat still racing, and wait.
— "He said Boris doesn't want to wait much longer. We'll probably be going out soon. Not just the last team — a full unit. Sabotage, maybe. Nothing confirmed, but... it's heating up."
I nod, keeping my face serious, though I can still feel Ilya's heat on my skin, his laughter tangled in my mouth. Elijah's talking, but his eyes are scanning me like he's hunting for more proof of what he just walked in on.
And I do my best to look perfectly innocent.
---
The office is saturated with silence. Vlad stands at the window, cigarette in hand, while Octavia scrolls through reports on her tablet, lips pressed tight.
— "Still no word from the shooter," she says at last.
Vlad doesn't turn from the night beyond the glass.
— "Then he missed."
— "Or got caught. Doesn't matter — same result."
She locks the screen, sets the tablet down. Every motion sharp, precise.
— "Two days. That's the deadline I'm giving myself before sending the girl to a center."
He nods once. No need to specify which.
— "Good."
Octavia folds her arms, gaze icy on her father.
— "The resistance will be preparing to strike."
— "Then we tighten surveillance," he answers.
— "Already done. Patrols, drones, intercepts. We haven't pinned down their entry points yet, but they'll slip."
Vlad finally turns, face shadowed in smoke.
— "And if I ordered the whole perimeter bombed?"
Octavia doesn't flinch.
— "We don't know how deep they are. You can raze the surface, but if they're a hundred meters down, nothing changes."
A bitter grin slices across Vlad's mouth.
— "If some get buried alive, that's no loss."
She inclines her head once.
He stubs out the cigarette, sits behind the massive desk, and pours a slow glass of whisky.
— "They could try propaganda. Twist public opinion, paint themselves as martyrs."
— "Then we beat them to it," Octavia cuts in. "Tomorrow I flood the media. Show them for what they are: terrorists, murderers, traitors. No one will have time to doubt."
— "And anyone who echoes their words will be branded complicit," Vlad adds. "No tolerance."
Silence. Octavia hugs the tablet to her chest, her dark eyes locked on her father. Then, softer:
— "And him?"
No need to ask who. His son.
Vlad takes a swallow, sets the glass down.
— "That boy no longer exists. Not to us."
Octavia's smile is thin, joyless.
— "To me, he never existed. A traitor's child... who grew into a traitor himself."
She presses every syllable with venomous calm. Her eyes gleam, hard, and she goes on, almost whispering:
— "She bore him to betray us. And he... only follows through."
Vlad watches, impassive. She, straight as a blade, lets her hate speak without raising her voice. It isn't fever. It's ice-cold certainty.
Between them, it's clear: whether by bombs, centers, or propaganda, the Citadel will be crushed.
---
The next day, the training hall reeks of powder and gun oil. The dry crack of shots echoes off the walls, steady, almost reassuring. I slot another round into the magazine, raise my weapon, sight the target ten meters away.
— "You're tilting your shoulder," Elijah mutters at my side.
— "And you're talking too much," I shoot back, not lowering my aim.
The shot rings out, the bullet smacking dead center in the cardboard silhouette. Tinka, two steps over, whistles.
— "Not bad for someone with a tilted shoulder."
Elijah grumbles, fires. His round hits the torso zone, a little off. I snicker.
— "And you're supposed to be the future super-soldier."
He throws me a glare, lips twitching against a smile.
A little further down, Piotr sits at a metal table, Mikel across from him. The rifle between them is stripped into neat pieces. Piotr speaks low, steady, and Mikel follows with feverish attention. His good arm moves cautiously, the other pinned to his chest, still locked by the wound.
— "Safety first," Piotr insists. "You never strip a loaded gun. Always check twice."
Mikel nods, maybe too quickly. His eyes linger on every part like he's trying to carve each move into memory. Piotr gestures at the mechanism with his chin.
— "That's what keeps you from blowing your hand off. You'd better remember it."
— "Got it," Mikel mutters, focused.
I catch the flicker of a smirk on Piotr. Not a real smile — but close.
— "Shame," Elijah says without looking away from his target, "I would've bet he'd drop the whole thing on the floor first try."
Mikel lifts his head, but Piotr raises a hand before he can speak.
— "Shut it. You're distracting him."
I choke on a laugh. Elijah spins, indignant.
— "Excuse me? You're taking his side?"
— "Not taking sides," Piotr replies. "Making sure he doesn't end up with both arms in slings."
Elijah grumbles, Tinka outright cackles, and even Mikel lets a brief, surprised smile escape.
I'm just about to reload when it hits.
The sirens.
A shriek splits the air, tearing through the concrete walls like the building itself is vibrating. It's so loud my heart skips a beat. The gunmetal almost slips from my hands with the jolt.
My head jerks up. Elijah is already staring at me. His eyes lock to mine, wide, tense. He says nothing, but I see the panic there, the same that grips my throat. For a second we're frozen, paralyzed by that inhuman howl rolling through our chests.
Then everything jolts to life.
Piotr's chair scrapes the floor in a harsh clatter. He's on his feet in a blink, good arm already reaching for the rifle parts as if he could snap them back together by instinct. His jaw locks, his eyes sweep the room.
Beside me, Tinka drops her weapon onto the table and straightens in a single motion, shoulders rigid, every line of her coiled. The grin is gone, her face sharp, alert, eyes glued to the door like she'll rip it off its hinges.
The sirens don't stop. They batter the walls, my skull, flood every crack of air. A metallic tang pools on my tongue.
I clutch the weapon without thinking. My breath comes short, but I don't move. I can't. I stay fixed, my gaze welded to Elijah's. His eyes bore into mine with one brutal, wordless question: is this it?
My legs tremble.
And still, the siren screams.