The lamp above the table flickers. Elijah sits on his bed, elbows on his knees, staring into his hands. I'm pacing, unable to stay still. The air is heavy, saturated with silence.
"You're gonna drive me crazy walking like that," he mutters, not lifting his eyes.
I stop short, cross my arms.
"You're the one who hasn't said a word in an hour."
He finally looks up. His eyes shine with fatigue, but also with that rage that never really left his gaze since the Loop.
"Because I can't decide if this is courage... or insanity."
I stare back.
"Maybe it's both."
He lets out a short, bitter laugh. Then he shakes his head.
"I keep telling myself we're walking straight into the lion's den. Giving them exactly what they want: our faces, our scars, our weaknesses."
I sit beside him, slowly.
"And what if that's exactly our weapon? To make them see what they did to us, to force them to understand that even broken, we're still here."
His eyes lock on mine. For a long time. Too long. Then, lower:
"You want to do it, don't you?"
I swallow.
"I'm scared. But... yes. I want it to mean something. I want everything we went through not to stay locked between these walls."
He leans forward, rubbing his palms over his face. His shoulders tremble slightly. Then his hands drop, and he exhales hard.
"Then... we'll do it."
My heart skips.
"You're sure?"
He turns toward me, tired but resolute.
"We always choose together, Mira. If you're ready, then I'm with you. To the end."
My eyes burn. I nod, unable to speak for a moment. Then I whisper:
"Alright. We'll accept."
The silence that follows is different. Not empty. Not doubtful. More like that strange, taut calm that comes after an irreversible decision.
Elijah manages a crooked, almost mocking smile.
"Shit... hope we don't regret this."
I laugh nervously.
"Too late to back out, isn't it?"
"Whatever happens," he murmurs into my hair, "we're in this together."
---
The cafeteria is already closed when we step out of the apartment. Too late for a proper meal. But Elijah digs up a box of stale biscuits and a bruised apple from a storage room.
"Royal feast," he announces, tossing me the apple.
I catch it just in time, rolling my eyes.
"You think that makes up for missing dinner just because you spent an hour hesitating—"
He shrugs, perched sideways on a table, long legs swinging.
"Dinner or your boyfriend? You can survive twelve hours without seeing him, right?"
I sit beside him, bite into the mealy apple. The taste is almost bad, but it drags out a small, nervous laugh.
"You think we still get to complain about food after what we just agreed to?"
"Of course," he says through a mouthful. "If we're about to be torn apart in public, at least let us whine first."
I laugh despite myself. It feels good—this dumb laughter that has nothing to do with fear or rage.
We nibble in silence for a while. The neon above us hums softly, a banal sound that covers our breathing.
Then Elijah tilts his head toward me.
"You realize? They'll hear our voices. Our words. No more hiding behind walls."
I nod, more solemn.
"Yes. But... it doesn't feel like hiding, does it? More like... throwing what they did right back in their faces."
He studies me for a long moment, then his smile twists into something softer.
"You impress me, Mira."
I shrug, awkward.
"It's not courage. It's just—"
"You," he cuts in. "And that's enough."
I look down at the apple in my hand, cheeks warming.
We finish the biscuits in silence, and when he gets up to brush the crumbs away, he slings his arm around my shoulders like he's wrapping me in a bubble of warmth. No words needed. Just him. My brother. My anchor.
And tonight, that's enough.
---
The room is cold and bare. Two chairs face a camera cobbled together by Ilya, wired to a box covered in cables. The concrete walls bounce every sound back too sharply. No décor, no flag. Nothing to distract. On purpose.
I stop just before the chairs, heart pounding like it wants out of my chest. Elijah is beside me. He pretends to breathe calmly, but I see his fingers tremble, clenched against his thigh.
"Hey."
Ilya. His voice is low, only for me. When I turn my head, he's there, his hand coming to rest gently on my neck. Not hidden, not ashamed. His palm is warm, steady. A fixed point in the chaos.
"I'm here," he murmurs. "If you shake, look at me."
I nod, barely. He keeps his hand there a second longer, then pulls back and moves aside. But his eyes stay locked on me.
At the back of the room, Boris stands with his arms crossed. Mikel is next to him, pale, like someone punched him in the gut. Olivia, his mother, is by his side—her jaw tight, but her eyes shine with quiet compassion. God knows what she endured in her own captivity. Anya hovers near, her ever-present notebook pressed to her chest. They're all here. Witnesses.
"We're rolling," Boris says.
The tiny red light blinks on. That's the signal. Elijah moves first, drags his chair closer to mine with a harsh scrape of metal. The sound makes me flinch, but it steadies me too. We sit. Side by side. Like always.
His knee touches mine. He speaks first, voice raw.
"We were fourteen when they took us."
Silence. The words hang in the air like a sentence. Elijah continues, gaze locked on the camera.
"We were in high school. They pulled us out of class. Broad daylight. In front of our teachers."
He turns to me. My throat is dry but I follow.
"Our mother hadn't come home from work the night before. We thought that was the worst. But no. The worst came after."
My fists clench. The red light of the camera burns my vision.
"They drugged us, beat us, tested us. They pumped things into our veins, strapped us to machines. Sometimes it was experiments. Sometimes... just violence for its own sake."
Elijah breathes hard, his shoulders rising and falling.
"And we forgot."
He seizes my hand, his thumb pressing hard against my knuckles.
"In there... we were erased. We didn't even remember each other. My twin sister, my half... it was like she'd never existed."
His words tear through me. I nod, tears stinging already.
"We only started remembering once we got out. Slowly. Like digging pieces of ourselves out of the mud."
I raise my head. My voice shakes.
"They didn't need to kill us. They'd already stolen everything else."
My ears buzz. The camera doesn't move, doesn't judge. But speaking feels like tearing myself open. And I know the hardest part is still coming.
Elijah's breath catches. His voice drops deeper.
"What they did... it wasn't in protocols. It wasn't a 'program.' It was them. Guards. Scientists. Whoever passed by. They took what they wanted."
His words slice through me. I want to shut up, to run, but Ilya is right there, eyes locked on mine. Steady. Fierce. No pity. Just presence.
I breathe. And I dare.
"They assaulted us. Sexually. From the time we were fourteen. Again and again. It was their right in there. Nobody ever stopped them."
The silence after is monstrous. In my skull, I hear only my own heartbeat, heavy, disordered. I want to look away, but I hold. Elijah holds too.
His hands shake. So he uses them. He strips off his shirt. The fabric hits the floor. His torso is a map of scars, pale and circular. Cigarette burns. Branding. Marks no time could erase.
"This," he says hoarsely, "was when I didn't get up fast enough after injections. When I spoke. When I resisted. When I did nothing, too. Any excuse was enough."
He straightens. His eyes are steel, but his hands won't stop trembling.
And me—I feel the wall I've been backing against for days. I know what I have to say. I search for Ilya. He hasn't moved. He's still there, holding me with his gaze. Not an inch of retreat. Just: you can.
So I drop it.
"They operated on me. I wasn't even sixteen. They took my uterus. I only found out a week ago."
The words hit like stones. My shoulders curl, my fingers clutch at my knees. I feel naked, gutted. But Ilya doesn't look away. He dips his head, just slightly, like he's telling me: you're okay. You're holding.
"We never chose," Elijah rasps. "We were kids. Kids they treated like equipment."
"And if we're speaking now," I say, throat blazing, "it's because we want it to end. Not just for us. For everyone still in there. So the world knows."
My voice cracks. But the words stand.
The camera blinks once more. Then the red light goes dark.
I sit frozen, fingers locked tight, feeling like I've left part of myself behind on that chair. Elijah pulls me up by the hand. My legs shake.
A sharp throat-clear breaks the silence. Boris. He uncrosses his arms, steps forward. His voice is firm, but not harsh:
"That's enough. That's... more than enough."
He nods to Ilya, who's already hitting a switch on the box. Boris's voice lowers, almost an admission:
"The world needs to see this."
Movement to my right. Olivia steps forward. Her face is tense, lips pressed tight, but her eyes shine too brightly to hide. She lifts a hand, hesitates, then rests it lightly on my shoulder. Her gaze shifts to Elijah too, wrapping us both in the same tenderness, as if we were her own children.
"You're incredible," she whispers. "I'm... so sorry you had to carry this."
Her hand presses gently, then slips away. Elijah drops his head, too stiff to reply. I nod, words gone.
Behind her, Mikel. His face is pale, nearly gray. His eyes pin us with an intensity that makes me flinch. He opens his mouth, closes it, then forces it again.
"I... I'm sorry."
It lands like a sentence, as though the weight of his father's crimes just fell on his shoulders. Piotr's steady hand clamps on his arm, keeping him upright.
I shake my head softly.
"You didn't do this to us."
His eyes glisten, but he looks away, unable to bear more.
Boris cuts back in, slicing the fragile moment clean.
"We'll broadcast tomorrow night. Civil news, 8 p.m. Ilya?"
Ilya nods. He already has a notebook open, lines of code scribbled tight.
"I have two relays ready. A third on backup. We'll get at least a minute on air. Maybe more if the line holds."
"A minute is enough," Boris says flatly. "Even thirty seconds is enough."
He turns to Elijah and me.
"The world doesn't need your names. Just your faces. To see that it's children they destroy. That'll scare them more than any bomb."
His eyes lock on mine.
"You did what none of us could."
I swallow hard, unable to speak. My gut is knotted tight. Elijah squeezes my hand—his way of saying: we held.
On the edge of the room, Olivia turns away to wipe a tear. Anya nods slowly, notebook pressed to her chest, as if to say she too believes in the impact. Piotr keeps his heavy hand on Mikel's shoulder, anchoring him.
---
The corridor is narrow, buzzing with neon. My legs still shake, but I walk. Elijah is on my left, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His brow stays furrowed, but he says nothing.
Ilya catches up quickly, footsteps fast behind me. His hand brushes my back, fingers grazing my hip for just a second—enough to tell me you're here, I'm here. That tiny touch pulls me back from the edge.
"You did great," he murmurs.
I let out a thin breath.
"I almost broke."
"But you didn't," he says simply.
His voice has that firm softness that steadies me better than any speech.
Elijah grumbles:
"Yeah, well, I was the one sitting right next to her. I felt every tremor. I took half the storm in my hand."
I roll my eyes.
"Thanks for the humility."
Ilya snorts low, rough.
"I'll admit it: I wouldn't have held out in your place."
Elijah shoots him a sideways look, surprised—then a grin cracks across his face.
"Well damn. Mister-control-everything just admitted weakness. Historic moment."
"You want me to file it in a report?" Ilya deadpans.
Elijah bursts out laughing. I do too. Suddenly, the air feels breathable.
We keep walking, our steps echoing against the bare walls. The weight of the camera seems to lift behind us. Elijah bumps my shoulder with his.
"You did good too," I say.
"We make a good pair," he replies with a crooked smile.
Ilya adds dryly, without looking up:
"No need to clarify. We already knew."
I blink at him, startled, but Elijah roars with laughter.
"Holy shit—did you hear that, Mira? He just roasted me! It's official, I get along with your guy!"
I throw my hands up, mock-exasperated.
"You two are unbearable. You've always liked each other anyway."
"That's your fault," Elijah grinds out.
I can't help smiling for real, lighter. They keep tossing jabs back and forth, and I walk between them, unsure who's worse.
Finally, Ilya lifts his eyes, seriousness back.
"Tomorrow, the video goes out. I promise you. Not a single broadcast will stand."
His words fall sharp, sure. Elijah nods, this time without a trace of a smile.
"Then we're counting on you."
"You can," Ilya answers.
The silence that follows isn't heavy. It's warm. Solid. Like, for the first time in a long time, the three of us are walking in the same direction.