He is still above me, all his weight held back, as if I were porcelain. His breath hits mine, hot, uneven. His eyes search my face with barely contained panic.
"Did I hurt you?" he blurts, too fast.
"No," I say immediately. "No."
He hangs there, taut as a bow, then lets out a breath that washes over my forehead. I slide a hand behind his neck and pull him down. His forehead settles into the hollow of my shoulder, and I feel his laugh-silent, trembling almost.
"I tried to be gentle," he murmurs. "Felt like I was walking a tightrope."
"It was perfect."
He lifts himself just enough to see my eyes. His fingers find my hair, brush it back from my face like parting a curtain. He still has that overly serious look that makes me smile-the man who can break through a defense grid from across the city, but who checks three times if I'm alright.
"It was your first time," he says softly. "You gave it to me. I'm..." (he searches) "honored. And terrified."
"Stop," I laugh. "You were trembling, but not from fear."
"Concentration," he corrects, mock-offended. "And... maybe a bit of panic."
His humor fades quickly, replaced by care. He shifts, sliding down beside me, tucks a pillow under my bandaged thigh, checks the compress showing from under the dressing.
"Does it pull?"
"Only a little. Anya did an excellent job."
"Tell me if it changes."
I roll my eyes, but his seriousness hits me somewhere deep. He grabs the crumpled blanket at the foot of the bed, pulls it over me to my shoulders, then folds me into his arm. His warmth seeps through me. Strange, this feeling of my body... calm. Not stolen. Not watched. Calm.
"You want water?" he asks. "Something to eat? (He grimaces.) Bad idea, it's just dry biscuits."
"Spare me, please."
He laughs, low. His hand traces circles at the hollow of my neck, barely a touch. I listen as our breaths find a steady rhythm, to the small sounds of Ilya's apartment-the pipes knocking, wind slipping through the badly sealed window, the desk still creaking from use just minutes ago.
"You know," I say, "you didn't need to... prove anything to me."
"It wasn't to prove," he replies. "It was to show you. That you're desirable. Alive. Not a file. Not a walking scar."
I close my eyes. It washes through me like a warm tide.
"You showed me," I whisper. "Without taking anything."
"I'm taking your hands, that's already plenty," he says with mock solemnity. "And your blanket, because I'm cold."
He tugs the blanket a little, nestles even closer, practically glued to me. It's clingy, yes-and I love it. His skin radiates a stubborn warmth, like a stove that eventually heats the whole room. I find myself laughing for no reason. It's been a long time since I laughed like that.
"Remind me how we ended up here," I tease.
"Hmm." (He pretends to think.) "You came here to scold me for working too much and missing breakfast."
"True."
"You sat on my desk. Very bad idea for my concentration."
"You exaggerate."
"You leaned in to look at the screen. (He takes a dramatic tone.) And my system crashed."
"And you said 'we can stop at any moment' three times, I recap."
"Four. I'm a professional."
"And I said 'no.'"
"You said, 'no, keep going.' Important nuance."
I laugh again, shoulders shaking. He kisses the top of my hair, long, unhurried. His hand slides down my arm, gathers my fingers, brings them to his lips for a light touch. My stomach unknots.
"You're still trembling," he says quietly.
"From... relief."
"Then mission accomplished."
We stay like that for a while, unhurried, saying silly things. Laughing like children. The room settles around us.
"Come on," he says after a moment. "Shower."
"Won't we be late for lunch in the mess?"
"We'll eat faster. I'll wash your hair at the speed of light."
"You don't know a thing about hair," I protest, already on my feet.
---
Since the bombardment, Mikel's days no longer resemble anything he once knew. Before, they tolerated him. Now, they expect him, summon him, listen to him.
Almost every morning, Boris or Olivia call him into the map room. There he finds the others bent over creased plans, fingers smudged with graphite. And him, at the center, forced to answer.
-Which rail lines carry weapons convoys?
-Which warehouses are worth striking?
-Which television programs reach the most homes?
Mikel knows. Too well. Memories pile up-the dinners where state news plays on repeat, the official visits to factories, the security briefings whispered in gilded corridors. All he has to do is open his mouth, and someone is already scribbling notes.
The Épervier pushes further: sabotage inside cities, cut supply routes, strike propaganda symbols. The thought of evening broadcasts suddenly hijacked by another face, another voice-terrifies him and thrills him all at once.
He is never alone. Piotr is always there. At first, Mikel sees that presence as a cage: the twenty-seven-year-old, solid, who shadows his every step, watches his every move. But as days pass, his view shifts. When Piotr intervenes, it isn't to correct, but to steady. When he lingers behind, it is to cover Mikel's back. And now, Mikel has grown used to walking at his pace, sitting at his table. Tonight, again, they share the same tray, side by side.
The mess hall buzzes. Conversations ripple table to table, cutlery clatters, laughter rises louder than it has in weeks. Strange, after days of fear, to return to this. Almost comforting.
Mikel sits facing Mira and Ilya. Elijah has taken a place a little further down, shoulders squared. Gunther and Tinka are at the far end, already sniping at each other about who will finish their meal fastest.
Mikel catches himself laughing now and then, despite himself. His muscles, apparently, still remember how.
Midway through the meal, Tinka stands, slapping her empty flask on the table.
"Water. Anyone else?"
Mira stands at once.
"I'll come."
They gather cups and walk to the fountain in the corner. Their steps fade into the din, and instantly, the silence around the table changes texture. Denser. Heavier.
Mikel feels the shift. He looks up just in time to see Elijah lay down his fork, slowly. His elbows plant on the table, his pale eyes turn to Ilya.
"Alright," he says. "Since my sister's not here... let's make things clear."
The words crack. Not as a threat, but as a command. Piotr, beside Mikel, stays silent but lifts his gaze. Even Gunther, further off, lowers his voice, as if he too senses the tension.
Ilya raises his head. No frown, no stiffening. Just that half-smile-calm, almost amused.
"I'm listening."
The silence holds for a heartbeat, then Elijah speaks. Not shouting, not raging, but with that icy intensity he only uses when dead serious.
"Mira is... all I've got left. You understand?"
A knot tightens in Mikel's chest. He turns his eyes away, uneasy hearing it said so bluntly. He has never had that. No sister who swore to protect him, no brother to say such simple words. He doesn't know what it feels like to be everything to someone.
Ilya nods, steady.
"I understand."
"Then I need to be sure," Elijah presses. "You're not here to pass time. Or to use her like a bandage. She deserves more than that."
Mikel swallows, unsteady. He half-expects an explosion, a sarcastic spark to light the table. But no. Ilya's smile has vanished. His voice cuts clear, sharp as wire:
"I'm not playing. I'm here. For her. For good."
Elijah holds his stare. Long. Long enough for Mikel's own throat to tighten. Then, at last, Elijah exhales, like releasing a weight.
"...alright," he says. "If you're serious, I've got nothing to add."
It isn't a grand speech. But Mikel can see-it's already a lot.
And as if something has broken loose, Elijah suddenly eases. His tone flips, lighter:
"You know I bet against you in your last spar with Gunther?"
Ilya arches a brow, almost caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"You always bet against the cripple?"
"Always. Makes it more fun."
The corner of Ilya's mouth twitches. A jab follows, then another, and soon they are trading jibes like ordinary comrades. Almost friends. Mikel watches them volley remarks about training, laughter slipping between bites, as if the tension of minutes before has never existed.
And it surprises him. Not only that Elijah disarms so quickly, but that he has never seen conflict dissolve this way before, in his old life. No grudges, no leaden silences, no threats left hanging. Just... two young men learning to stand beside each other, because they care about the same person.
When Mira and Tinka return with filled flasks, they find a table already laughing at one of Elijah's jokes, Ilya shaking his head in mock exasperation, and Mikel smiling despite himself.
He thinks: this dinner feels almost normal. And he hasn't realized how much he missed that.
---
The briefing room is more crowded than usual. The air thick with tension, fatigue, and the stench of stale coffee. Benches crammed close, maps covered in chalk lines stacked against the walls. Mikel sits near the back, slightly withdrawn, Piotr at his side as always. He no longer reads that presence as stifling surveillance. Now, it feels like a guardrail. A support.
Boris enters, heavy steps ringing on concrete. Silence drops at once, as if the whole room holds its breath. Olivia follows close, dark hair tied back, eyes unwavering.
Boris remains standing, hands braced on the table.
"We've repelled their strike. Sabotaged convoys. Brought down drones. But it isn't enough."
He pauses. No one speaks.
"Vlad has won the battle of public opinion. To the people, we remain terrorists. Faceless monsters."
A shiver runs through Mikel. He knows those words too well. He has heard them in the palace corridors, repeated by ministers, broadcast on state news. And now, here they are, voiced as an inescapable truth.
Boris goes on:
"So we strike broader. We take back this battle."
Beside him, Ilya looks up from his portable. His fingers still on the keyboard.
"The hack is possible," he says. "Civil networks are old, poorly secured. It'll take prep, but I can handle it."
His eyes flick-almost against his will-toward Mira, seated beside her brother, arms crossed, silent. Ilya leans back, shoulders to the chair, as if bracing to shield her from the weight of every gaze already turning.
"But for impact," Boris continues, "we need faces. Stories."
The room tightens a notch. All eyes turn, naturally, to the twins.
"Mira. Elijah. It will be you."
Silence. Mira freezes, her shoulders stiff. Elijah leans forward, fire in his eyes.
Gunther is the first to react.
"You're sending them to slaughter, Boris? You know exactly what Vlad does to symbols. He crushes them."
"Worse," Tinka adds, arms crossed, jaw hard. "With their faces everywhere, they'll be priority targets. And we with them."
Boris does not flinch.
"They already are."
He sweeps the room with his gaze, grave.
"The difference is this time, we give them a voice."
Anya speaks next, calm but firm:
"No one has ever spoken about the Loop with their face bare. If the people see them, they can't look away. It will be living proof."
Beside Mikel, Piotr nods slowly. His eyes slide to him, a silent cue: speak.
Mikel's throat tightens, but he forces himself:
"What if... what if it's me?"
Heads turn. His heart pounds, but he presses on.
"Everyone thinks I'm dead. That the Resistance killed me. If I reappear... if I speak... it'll show Vlad lied. That even his own son chose the other side."
Murmurs ripple. Olivia stiffens, her eyes on him, dark and burning. Piotr dips his head, an anchor of support.
"It would hit hard," he says. "Seeing his son rise against him... that would strike."
But Boris cuts him off, blunt:
"No."
Mikel freezes.
"Why?"
"Because you're already a target. If your face blazes across every screen in the country, Vlad won't just hunt you-he'll pour every resource into killing you. And he won't stop."
Anger and frustration surge in Mikel's throat.
"But-"
Boris's voice strikes harder:
"Yes, you were the 'prince.' And yes, people admired you. But civilians don't rise for princes. They rise when they fear for their children."
A chill sweeps the room. Boris turns to Mira and Elijah.
"That's why it's you. Because you're young. Because you wear what Vlad has done to a generation. You are their future. And it's that future they must see threatened to move."
Mikel stares at his hands, clenched on his knees. He understands the logic. But it doesn't dissolve the stone in his throat. It will be them offering their pain to the world. Not him.
Elijah leans forward, elbows on the table.
"So what? We get shoved in front of a camera and spill our scars to the whole country?"
"Only if you accept it," Boris answers, firm. "This choice is yours."
Mira draws a breath, low but steady:
"We... need time to think."
"Yes," Boris says. "Take it. But not long. Every day matters."
Debate erupts again at once. Gunther hammers that it's too dangerous. Tinka counters that failure could cost everything. Anya insists it will be the necessary shock. Piotr rumbles agreement: people must know.
Mikel sinks back, guilt chewing his gut. Because deep down, he knows Boris is right. Civilians won't rise for a disowned son, even alive. But they might, for two broken twins robbed of their future.
Beside him, Piotr lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. No words. Just that grounding weight.
The room empties slowly, benches scraping concrete, voices scattering in murmurs and boots. Mikel stays seated, eyes on his hands. He still feels eyes on him, even gone.
Piotr doesn't move, steady at his side.
Olivia comes instead. Her features drawn, gestures precise-she pulls out a chair and sits across, elbows on the table.
"You understand why Boris said no?"
Mikel lifts his eyes.
"Yes. But it doesn't change that it would have enormous impact."
His own voice trembles. Frustration burns up his throat.
"Everyone thinks I'm dead. That you killed me. If I reappear... it splits their story in two. Forces them to doubt."
Olivia studies him long, unwavering. Her face calm, but her eyes shine with caged pain.
"You think I haven't thought of that?"
He stays mute. She goes on, lower:
"Yes, your image would strike. But it would kill you too. Your father would make sure of it. And if that happens, it won't serve our cause. It'll serve his."
Silence presses. Piotr finally adds, voice even, firm:
"Boris isn't wrong. Civilians will react quicker seeing Mira and Elijah. Kids robbed of their future... families will understand that."
Mikel shakes his head, jaw tight.
"But that means they'll carry it. Not me."
"They choose," Piotr says. "Or rather, they will. That's the difference."
Mikel bites the inside of his cheek. Words choke.
Anya steps forward then, clutching her worn notebook. Her voice, soft but firm, cuts through:
"Mikel, you already give plenty. Your memories, your knowledge, everything you know of the regime... That's what lets us plan, strike true."
She places her notebook on the table, palm flat on it.
"You don't need your face exposed to matter. You already do."
Mikel drops his gaze, fists tight on his knees. Part of him wants to believe her. But another part screams it isn't enough.
Olivia sighs, her face softening.
"I know how you feel. That guilt... I carried it too. But if you truly want to help, you must stay alive. That is your part of courage."
His eyes burn, but he blinks, straightens a little. Beside him, Piotr gives a discreet tap to his shoulder. No word. Just that heavy, reassuring gesture.
Mikel inhales, slow.
He isn't sure yet if he believes them. But for the first time, he feels... held.