The infirmary has nothing of the tension outside.
Here, everything is muffled: the rustle of clean sheets, the metallic clink of trays being stacked away, sighs of relief that sound almost like laughter. The air stings of antiseptic, sharp but oddly reassuring.
They send us to two cots set close together. Ilya lowers me gently, as though I'm made of glass, keeping his hand on my waist until I steady myself. I try to smile despite the burn in my leg. He studies me, too serious, too intent, and it makes me squirm. I look away.
"You did well out there," he murmurs.
His voice is low, meant only for me, and my cheeks grow warm. His thumb brushes my hand, a small gesture that says more than any sentence.
I don't have time to answer.
"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE, REALLY?!"
Elijah's voice detonates across the room. Several patients turn their heads. My brother sits upright on the cot beside mine, bare-chested, spine rigid despite the obvious pain carved into his face. I startle at the sight of him—not just from the sound of his shout, but from what I see.
On his left flank, a bruise blooms monstrous and ugly, yellow in the center, violet and black at the edges. It hurts just to look at it. But my gaze climbs higher and freezes.
His chest.
Blanched scars. Rounded. Imperfect circles, long healed. Cigarette burns.
A knot slams into my throat. I can't look away. Time feels suspended.
Elijah pays them no mind. He leans forward, brash and impatient, as Anya examines him:
"Well? Is it broken or not?"
Anya stays calm, her gloves crinkling around a clean bandage.
"Bruised," she confirms. "I'll strap your ribs. You'll hurt like hell, but nothing's broken."
Elijah exhales loud and triumphant, like it's a medal.
"See? Super soldier. I can take it."
A few chuckles ripple around the room, but I can't laugh. My eyes are glued to those scars. I know exactly what they mean. They have nothing to do with today, or even with battle. They're older, deeper. They're memories of the Loop, carved into his skin. Things he never told me. Things I can't bear to imagine.
I wrench my gaze away before he notices. My heart pounds heavy and raw. But he just grins, as though they don't exist.
Anya pulls me back with a light touch to my knee.
"You, stitches. Clean cut. It'll close well."
Ilya squeezes my hand tighter while she threads the needle. Pain shoots up my thigh as the thread pierces flesh. I bite down a groan. I lean close, whispering with a crooked smile:
"You're gripping harder than I am."
He bows his head, his lips almost brushing my forehead.
"I take my mission seriously, Miss," he murmurs, calm and teasing all at once.
I roll my eyes, but my heart skips anyway.
Anya finishes quickly, then readies a syringe. She lowers her voice, neutral but firm:
"While I'm at it, I'll take the blood sample we talked about. For the panel."
Her tone is casual, but her eyes insist. I understand. I nod discreetly. Elijah is busy grumbling; Ilya's gaze is locked on mine.
The needle slips into my arm, barely a sting compared to the sutures. Dark blood fills a vial; Anya labels it swiftly.
"There," she murmurs. "I'll have results soon. I'll call you."
She tidies her tools like nothing happened, then speaks louder:
"I heard about the drones. You did well. Impressive, for recruits."
Elijah puffs up immediately, forgetting the ache in his ribs.
"Obviously. We bring the sky down."
Laughter rises—small, fragile, but real. A breath of relief clinging to these walls.
Ilya doesn't let go of my hand. His eyes linger, then his arm slides around my shoulders. My stomach knots. Elijah groans from his cot:
"For real, you two? Insufferable."
I laugh, despite the pull in my leg. For the first time since we went outside, something inside me eases. The fear. The adrenaline. The noise. It fades a little.
---
Elijah clenches his jaw as Anya winds the bandage around his ribs. White cloth pulls tight across bruised skin, each pass making him wince though he stays stubbornly silent. Almost silent.
"Fuck—ow!" he blurts mid-breath.
"You wanted to play tough," Anya answers, unmoved. "Now hold still."
I can't help a small laugh. Ilya smirks sideways.
"Different kind of drone strike, eh, hero?"
Elijah clicks his tongue, fakes annoyance, but his eyes gleam with pride.
"Very funny. Shut up."
Ilya doesn't. His teasing draws chuckles until Anya silences him with, "I can strap you too, if you want," which earns her a chorus of muffled laughs. The mood lightens.
The door opens. Two figures enter: Mikel, pale but upright, leaning on Piotr. A bloodied bandage presses to his shoulder. Anya abandons Elijah with a brisk, "Hold this two minutes," and moves to them.
I watch. Mikel grimaces, but Piotr murmurs steady reassurance. Anya answers with calm precision. Smiles flicker, brief but real. Already, a trust builds. I think, surprised: huh. They get along.
Piotr lifts his head toward us.
"Thanks out there. Without you, we wouldn't be here to say it."
Elijah straightens, chest swelling. He declares with comical gravity:
"Better thank Tinka and Gunther. They gave the orders."
But I see it—the brightness in his eyes, the flush in his cheeks masked by bravado. He's glowing. Fragile glory, improvised, but real. And I smile, because I recognize it: he's exactly where he always wanted to be.
---
The mess hall feels warmer than usual.
Or maybe it's me. Maybe because I'm clean—or less dirty—stitched up, seated. Maybe because I'm still floating from earlier: running into his arms like a soap opera heroine, kissing like the world paused, Elijah not punching anyone. It all rushed by so fast I feel like I fell straight through a doorway into this room—stew smell, clatter of cutlery, noisy comfort.
Ilya sits beside me, his knee brushing mine. The tiny contact calms me. Across, Elijah drops heavily onto the bench, hand pressed to his bandaged ribs. Two seats down, Tinka and Gunther are already eating, eyes sharp like cats on a windowsill. At the far end, Piotr and Mikel squeeze closer to make space: Piotr a resting bear, Mikel smiling small, careful with his fresh bandage.
"Ah, here are our heroes," Gunther says, mouth full.
"I fell in a hole," Elijah mutters. "Mira got a scratch."
"Strategic scratch," I correct, pointing with my fork.
Tinka snorts into her cup. Ilya glances at my plate.
"You eating?" he murmurs.
"If you steal my mash, we're over," I mutter.
His mouth twitches. Naturally, he steals a bite.
"But the real story," Gunther says, leaning in, "isn't the hole, or the scratch, or your spectacular bruise—" he nods at Elijah. "No, no. The real story is the reunion kiss that shook the hangar."
My fork freezes mid-air.
"Oh no..."
"You think we didn't see?" Tinka asks, all wide-eyed innocence. "Mira... half the techs looked up. One guy dropped his tablet. We hadn't even finished our smoke before you were running like you were in a soap opera."
"Wait—" Ilya begins.
"No, let me set the scene," Gunther interrupts, theatrical. "Mira emerges from the smoke, bloodied but unbowed, gaze locked on Ilya, her one oxygen in the galaxy—"
"Please stop," I groan, covering my face.
"Dramatic sprint, helmet tumbling, leap into his arms—"
"I didn't leap! And I had no helmet!"
"And then, a marathon kiss—"
"I just kissed him—"
"—in front of your twin brother," Gunther finishes, pointing at Elijah, whose face looks like someone canceled his birthday.
Ilya bites his cheek, shoulders shaking. I jab him with my elbow.
"Say something."
"I was overwhelmed," he says evenly. "Tragic. Cinematic."
"You're not helping."
"I'm enjoying this."
Tinka hides a grin behind her tray.
"When you three left, the techs were already debating: 'secret love revealed' versus 'war confession.' One swore it beat Canal Six dramas."
"And I lost five credits," Gunther adds gravely. "Bet you'd take another month."
"Two weeks," Tinka says, raising her hand. "Closer."
Elijah narrows his eyes.
"Wait... you bet on them?"
"Of course," Gunther says. "What else while we wait for supply runs? Obvious slow burn. Only question was who'd crack first."
"Both," Tinka rules. "Perfectly synchronized. Emotional synchronized swimming."
Ilya drapes his arm casually along the bench behind me. Subtle as a gunshot.
"Look at him," Gunther laughs. "One kiss and he's marking territory. Want us to leave you with the biscuits?"
"I'm not possessive," Ilya says smoothly. "Just fond of public affection that bothers Elijah."
"Mission accomplished," Elijah groans, stabbing his potatoes.
Under the table, I kick Ilya's boot.
"Still hungry?" I mutter.
"Yes," he says, eyes on mine. "But not for food."
I blink.
"Was that flirting?"
Gunther drops his fork with a clang.
"By the ancestors... he flirted."
"I'm going to be sick," Elijah declares.
"Breathe through your nose," Piotr advises calmly.
We all burst out laughing, even Mikel, usually so reserved. His eyes dart to Elijah, then away. I remember the infirmary. He still can't speak to him.
"So," Tinka cuts in, pointing her fork, "are you together-together, or was it a 'near-death let's kiss'?"
Ilya looks at me. I inhale, nod. He says simply:
"Together."
Gunther clutches his chest.
"Finally. We've carried this subplot like ammo crates."
"And honestly," Tinka adds, "I suspected for a while. You looked... aligned. But I didn't know it was official."
"Since when?" Piotr asks, plain, not prying.
Elijah's eyes spear me, suspicious. I glance at Ilya, then admit:
"Since the day we signed. Just before the party."
The table freezes. Then Gunther almost leaps.
"EXCUSE ME?!"
"You're kidding," Tinka breathes, half indignant, half amused. "All this time?"
"I knew it!" Elijah shouts. "Or—no! Or yes! Or—FUCK."
Mikel drops his gaze... and smiles. Wide, unguarded. I've never seen him so light.
"That explains things," he murmurs.
"Yeah, it explains why I suffered weeks of side-eyes," Elijah growls. "And... wait. Don't tell me you did it in our apartment."
I keep a straight face.
"Okay. I won't tell you."
The table erupts. Gunther slaps his thigh, Tinka nearly spills her cup, Piotr chuckles in his beard, Mikel goes crimson, Ilya coughs to hide a grin.
"I hate you all," Elijah groans, collapsing against the bench. "Every breath hurts."
"You'll live," I say sweetly. "You're tough."
"I was ten meters away, Mira."
"Not my problem," Ilya says with perfect calm.
"Someone expel him," Elijah begs, pointing dramatically.
"Denied," Gunther says. "We're invested in this couple now. And Tinka, pay up—we both lost the bet."
"No refunds," Tinka shoots back. "Clause 'lie by omission.'"
I roll my eyes but can't stop smiling. I steal Ilya's cup; he lets me drink. Our fingers brush, small, electric.
"Seriously," Piotr says then, voice steady, "it's good. To see you... like this. It brings light."
His gaze shifts to Mikel, who nods, as if it applies to him too. He looks... at home, tonight.
"Light," Gunther muses. "Or floodlight. Because that hangar kiss was full beam."
"I beg you, stop," I laugh.
"And if you do it again in front of me," Elijah warns, "I'm joining a monastery. Vow of silence, the whole kit."
"Not Believable," Tinka deadpans. "You, silent?"
"Look at him now," Ilya says dryly. "He can't last three seconds."
Elijah opens his mouth, raises a finger, realizes he's proving the point, snaps his mouth shut. The table roars with laughter.
The wave ebbs. The hall's din returns. Above, the lights flicker. I finally chew my mashed potatoes. Bland, but tonight, I'm hungry. Hungry for anything that isn't fear.
"Oh," Tinka says, turning to Mikel. "Tomorrow with Boris we need to mark sabotage targets. You'll come? You know their structure."
"Yes," Mikel says quickly. "Piotr's... we already mapped a route."
"I supervise," Piotr grunts, mock stern. "In case he keels over. Or another assassin shows up."
"He's saved me more times than reasonable already," Mikel admits, guilty.
"We're turning into a daycare," Elijah mutters.
"Shut up and eat," Tinka orders.
Elijah obeys, not without stealing bread from her tray. She slaps his hand. He flinches, then grins despite himself. His ribs must ache; I see his breath shorten, fatigue creeping in. But his eyes gleam. He's where he belongs. So are we, in our crooked way.
Ilya's hand slides from my nape to my shoulder, a gentle weight. Not a claim, not a warning. Just: I'm here.
"Well," Gunther sums up as he rises to fetch dessert, "we downed drones, saved the Citadel, the lovers are official, Elijah stayed conscious, Mikel wants to help us, Piotr babysits, and I lost five credits. Productive day."
"And tomorrow, we do it again," Tinka says, standing with her tray. "But no soap opera. No drones, either."
"No promises," Ilya says.
"None," I add, smiling.
We linger, talking nonsense, trading jabs, bumping shoulders. It won't last; war never lets you steal minutes for long. But tonight, in this mess hall that smells of powder stew and weary joy, we keep the light a little longer.
And I think we all needed it.