We file out of the hall in a tight line, footsteps ringing against the metal floor like a single, hurried heartbeat.
Piotr leads, hisarm locked around Mikel's good shoulders to keep him upright. I can see the strain in his face, the grimace each time the weight pulls, but he doesn't let go. His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed forward. Half-dragged, half-stumbling, Mikel follows, his breath sharp and rasping, his gaze darting along the walls as if they might cave in at any second.
Elijah and I keep close behind. His hand stays on my arm — not enough to slow me, just enough to anchor me. I hear his breath beside me, ragged, uneven. The siren hammers at our skulls, shrill and relentless, its vibration rattling straight through to the bone. The walls shake with it, dust spilling down in gray streams from the girders, mingling with the acrid tang of hot metal and cracking concrete. Every corner I search, but I don't see Ilya.
Behind us, Tinka closes the line. I hear her more than I see her — boots striking a steady rhythm, her weapon raised, ready to fire at the slightest shadow. Her voice cuts through, low but sharp, carried just to me through the din:
— Don't look everywhere. Ilya's with Boris, in the control room. That's his job. He's a soldier too.
I nod, but the knot in my throat won't loosen. Knowing he's up there, behind steel doors, out of sight — it gnaws at me.
The corridors are packed. The siren screams without pause, metallic cries bouncing off the walls, nearly drowning out the thunder of boots. It reverberates in my chest like a hammer against my sternum with every beat. The air tastes of dust and sweat and heated steel, burning the lungs with each breath.
Every upper level is pouring out at once. Figures rush past — mechanics in oil-stained overalls, technicians, fighters half-equipped, weapons in one hand, coats in the other. No one shouts, but the panic is there, heavy and close, threaded through the ordered chaos. We flood downward, pressed shoulder to shoulder, our steps locked to the rhythm of the alarm.
Piotr muscles a path with Mikel. His arm trembles under the weight, but he holds him firm, like nothing could rip the man away. Mikel stumbles again, wide eyes rolling for an exit in the surge of bodies, but he follows, dragged along in the tide.
Then Olivia. She cuts through the press like an arrow, her face set, eyes fixed on her son. In three strides she's there, her hand braced hard between his shoulder blades.
— You stay here, she says, low, unyielding.
Mikel nods, too shaken to argue. Olivia pulls him close, precise, commanding, no room for doubt. Her eyes meet Piotr's for a fraction, and in that flash something silent but heavy passes between them. Gratitude. Then she's moving again, carrying Mikel with her wake.
She plants him against us, a step out of the stream, then throws back quick, clipped words:
— I have to get to Boris. Stay below.
Her hand squeezes his shoulder once more, then she's gone — swallowed back into the current, vanishing into the roar.
Mikel stays frozen, pressed to the wall, staring at the space she disappeared into as if the air itself had been ripped away.
A rumble detonates above. The ceiling groans, the walls shake — but it's the floor that knocks the breath from me. It bucks under my boots, trembling like it might give way. A violent jolt nearly sends me sprawling, my knees striking together.
I gasp, clutching Elijah's arm. He falters too, then steadies us both, holding me hard against him, his gaze pinned to the ceiling where dust pours down in choking streams. His jaw locks so tight I can almost hear the grind of his teeth.
Around us, movement halts. The siren still screams, but human sound dies at once. The Citadel seems to stop breathing. Shoulders tense, eyes lift, fear sharp on every face. Dust rains in sheets of gray, stings the throat, burns the eyes.
A heartbeat suspended. Then another.
And the spell snaps.
Bodies crash forward again, boots pounding harder, orders barked above ragged breaths. Panic surges through the hallways.
Ahead, Mikel stumbles over a heaving slab, nearly pitching forward — Piotr yanks him upright with his one good arm, pain flashing across his face.
— Don't stop! he snarls.
Mikel nods frantically, eyes blown wide with fear, and scrambles to match his pace.
Behind us, Tinka spits a curse into the chaos:
— Move!
She shoves a fighter who's frozen, shoulders another aside. She guards the rear like a wolf, eyes slashing over every shadow, daring the walls themselves to collapse.
Each step thunders as though the ground might crack open beneath us. A few more yards. Another flight of stairs. The crisis chamber is close now, but the Citadel groans like a beast ready to swallow us whole.
The corridor bursts into the vaulted chamber at last, reinforced like a bunker — walls plated, floor of raw concrete, pipes running like veins across the ceiling. The air is heavy with oil and dust, the sirens still keening, muffled by thick walls.
Mecs, techs, fighters crowd along the edges. Harsh breathing, shuffling boots, muffled coughs. The floor shivers in pulses, like the heartbeat of some monster above. Each tremor drags every gaze upward, toward the arching ceiling that might at any moment give way.
And above — Boris, Ilya. The thought sears me at once. Him, in that glass room of screens, while the world comes down. Tinka leans close, her voice a growl in my ear:
— It's his job. He's with Boris. They know what they're doing.
I nod, but it doesn't soothe the tight knot choking my chest.
The armored door slams shut behind us, metal on metal, a lid sealing us in. The muffled thunder of explosions still shakes through the floor, distant but relentless. Eyes flick to the officers, waiting for orders that haven't landed.
Gunther barrels in last. Dust clings to his blonde hair, streaks his cheeks gray. He slings his rifle across his shoulder with a sharp motion, eyes sweeping the crowd until they land on Tinka. He strides straight to her, no words, just instinct. He takes her side.
She meets his eyes, a locked second between them, loaded with something unshakable. She shoves him a belt of cartridges; he takes it without pause.
Around us, the groups form, murmurs ripple, prayers slip between teeth. The roof hums and groans above, echoing deep in our bones. No one dares say it aloud — but the waiting is worse than the noise.
We wait for orders.
The sirens cut. One stroke, and the shrill scream dies, leaving only a buzzing silence that throbs in the ears. Then static bursts from the wall speakers, and Boris's voice, low, commanding, without a shred of doubt:
— Listen. Drones. They're dropping bombs in sweep patterns — wide strikes, not targeted. Intimidation.
A ripple passes the room. Shoulders loosen, just a fraction. But the voice goes on, steel-hard:
— Given their payload, the Citadel should hold... unless it lasts too long.
Silence. Lead-heavy.
— If it continues an hour, two teams will go out to bring them down. Until then, stay calm. That's an order.
The static dies, leaving only pipes groaning and the crush of breath. For a heartbeat, it almost feels like he's steadied us.
Then another tremor hits, stronger. Dust rains again, lamps flicker, one sputters out before flaring back. The chamber stiffens with it, every body braced, waiting for collapse.
Beside me, Elijah stiffens hard. His eyes lock on mine, and I see it split him open. The sound, the heat, the press of bodies, the drive downward — it's the Loop again. The last day. Alarms, collapse, the desperate flight. His pupils tremble, his jaw clenched until it shakes, every tremor tearing a wound raw again.
I set a hand to his arm, gentle.
— Eli. It's not the same. We're not there.
He nods too fast, wordless, breath rasping near my ear. I hold tighter, as if I could lend him some steadiness. Truth is, the noise crawls through my own bones, and I know exactly what he feels.
---
Time stretches thin, taut as wire. Every shudder overhead jolts the room, then fades, leaving behind strained silence. Breaths too loud. Murmurs rising, dying. Hearts thump in time with the rumble above.
Elijah leans against Gunther at last, still breathing quick but steadier now. Gunther speaks low, voice cutting like iron certainty:
— Don't worry. This place holds. These walls are built for it. We're not in some shack.
Elijah nods, though I know that's not what he fears. His mind's trapped in the past. But his hand grips mine, then loosens, slowly, as his breath steadies. He shuts his eyes, just long enough to catch a rhythm. I wait, until I'm sure he's anchored again. Then I rise.
My legs ache, stiff from crouching too long. I weave through the crowded groups, brushing shoulders, sidestepping a mechanic crouched with his kit. I need air. Space, though there is none.
Tinka stands near the exit, back to the wall, rifle resting against her. She looks steady, but her fingers drum restless against the stock. I join her, press my spine against the wall. She glances over without softening her face.
— You holding up?
I nod, though my pulse still races.
— Needed to stand. Otherwise I'd go crazy.
One corner of her mouth twitches. A dry laugh bursts from her, short, sharp.
— I get it. Me, I'll tell you straight: if this drags on, I'm going out for a smoke. Bombs or not.
It drags a smile out of me, despite everything. I stare at my hands. I feel her gaze. When I lift my head, her eyes gleam sly.
— Don't worry. Your little hacker's right above us.
I blink.
— What?
Her brow arches, all false innocence.
— Come on, Mira. You think no one's noticed? Miracle Elijah hasn't figured it out. Or maybe he's waiting until he's sure.
Heat floods my cheeks. My mouth opens, empty of words. Tinka chuckles under her breath, savoring it.
— Relax. I'm not telling anyone. Besides... he looks good with you. You're steadier than before. And he's less broody. Win-win.
I look away, lips pressed, but I can't stop the smile tugging free. Tinka sobers, voice dropping, true:
— He's in the safest room in this whole Citadel. Vault-tight. If you should worry about anyone, it's us — not him.
I study her. Beneath the mask, there's something real there. No mockery. It steadies me.
— Thanks, I murmur.
She shrugs, like it's nothing. Then, with a sly curl of her lips:
— Still... when this is over, you owe me details.
A shaky laugh escapes me. For the first time since the sirens, I can breathe again.
---
The loudspeaker crackles, snapping the room into silence. Boris's voice cuts through, grave, decisive:
— Enough waiting. The bombardment continues. Too many drones. Two teams deploy. Objective: take them down before they breach us.
The room shifts. Eyes flash, some rise at once, others sink. The list falls like iron:
— Team One. Tinka. Gunther. Mira. Elijah. Gear up. Upper airlock, now.
A ripple of voices breaks, nervous. Elijah turns to me, and for the first time in hours his eyes are clear. Relief burns there — the relief of action, of striking back instead of waiting. I realize he's been waiting for this.
I, though, feel a pit yawning wide in my stomach.
Boris again, sharp:
— Team Two, you follow in ten minutes. Go.
We move, fast, almost running. The groups split, soldiers, medics and techs pressed to the walls, clutching bags like lifelines.
I slip behind Elijah, no time for comms, no time for the control room. No Ilya. No voice in our ears this time. The absence hits me like a cut rope, a cord I'd leaned on without knowing.
No time. Focus.
Tinka takes point, rifle across her chest, face carved hard. Gunther closes the line, adjusting his sling, eyes fixed on his sister. Him too — he'd rather be outside than waiting in dark.
We push through the corridors. The higher we climb, the heavier the air, thick with dust and scorched metal. Each blast rattles the floor, shaking the walls inward.
Another detonation bucks the ground. I stumble; Elijah's hand snatches my arm, steadying me without looking back.
— Almost there, he breathes.
I nod, though my heart hammers. Above, it roars. The ceiling feels ready to drop.
We run. No room for hesitation. Every second matters. Metal stairs quake beneath our boots, two steps at a time. The sirens are gone, but the muffled thunder of bombs fills their place, rolling through the Citadel's bones.
We burst into the armory. Lockers stand open, tables cluttered with armor, rifles, magazines. Everything ready for flight.
— Heavy gear, Tinka snaps. No half-measures. If it's as big or bigger than you, grab it.
I grab a vest still stinking of powder, wrench it on, fumbling straps with shaking fingers. Elijah's already kitted, rifle slung. Gunther hefts a launcher from the wall with ease.
— This'll quiet things down, he mutters, testing its weight.
We move again, armed, locked in column. The tunnel stretches ahead, narrow, suffocating, just below the surface. Each step booms in my skull. Overhead lights buzz, one shatters, glass raining — no one stops.
— Faster, Tinka urges, rifle high.
Another blast shudders through the earth. Walls groan. I taste grit on my tongue. Gunther shoves past two fighters hauling a crate of heavy munitions, pushing them to keep pace. Elijah is taut, shoulders squared, breath controlled — soldier's stance, soldier's mind.
And I see it then: we're not going out for ourselves. Not just to survive. We're climbing because below us are Boris, Mikel, Ilya, Anya — all those without weapons. If we fail, they're the ones who'll pay.
My chest tightens, my pulse surges. I match Elijah's stride. Fear twists, hardens. Locked in. No more trembling.
At last — the airlock. Open to the night. Cold air whips in, laced with dust. Trees loom just beyond, torn into jagged silhouettes by the flashing bombs. The roar is deafening, the ground quakes, leaves thrash.
I step out.
And the world explodes around me.