I don't know if it's the air that's heavier, or if it's just me who can't breathe right anymore. Since we testified, everything has changed. Every hallway of the Citadel is saturated with stares.
Not hostile stares, not exactly. But heavy. Curious. Awkward. Intrusive.
When I cross the mess hall, conversations stop halfway through. Forks hang in midair. When I walk down a corridor, the whispers start up behind me. At training, there's always a beat too long before a shot cracks again, as if everyone is waiting to see if "the twins" are still breathing, if they're about to break.
Elijah, he puffs his chest out. He's gotten used to moving as if he's carrying a weight he refuses to show. His chin high, shoulders wide, his face a mask of cold, steady soldier. But I know him. I see the clench in his jaw, the tension in his fingers as they curl too hard around his belt. It's how he protects me: by giving the illusion he's unshakable.
I don't have his armor. Every stare makes me feel stripped bare, laid open. As if every person I pass knows exactly what they did to me in the Loop, as if my whole body is shouting my scars. I look away, bow my head, clutch at my sleeve.
And that's when they step in—almost without us noticing.
Gunther, barging in with his booming laugh, clapping Elijah's shoulder like they've just won a game, loud enough to drag attention elsewhere.
— "Hey, hero, seen your own face in a mirror? You look like a bear just rolled out of hibernation."
Elijah snorts despite himself, and the whispers scatter.
Tinka, pulling me into some quick, sharp banter, her words so fast and biting that no one else has time to linger on us.
— "Seriously, Mira, if I hear one more person call you 'brave' like you're some statue, I'm gonna start handing out educational slaps."
I smile, tense but grateful.
Piotr, always in the corner, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping the room like a silent threat. No one dares push too far under his eyes.
And Ilya. Always there. Not too close, not too far. When I feel panic climb, his eyes catch mine, direct, steady. Just enough to remind me: I'm not alone. In quieter moments, he leans in to drop a dry remark, a barb that makes me laugh and snaps the knot in my throat. Under the table, his knee brushes mine—an anchor no one else can see.
---
The training hall smells of gunpowder and sweat. Shots crack, sharp and staccato, bouncing off the metal walls. Each detonation thuds through my chest. I try to focus, to keep my breathing steady, but my shoulders are tight, my fingers locked white around the grip.
To my left, Elijah looks perfect. His weapon barely moves, his rhythm steady. But I see the strain in his neck, the way his muscles roll under his skin. He's heard the stares too. We all have.
I try to shut it out. But voices crawl in anyway. Too close. Just behind me.
— "Christ, they've made her a saint," one mutters, choking down a laugh.
— "Saint, yeah… you see those eyes? No way she wasn't popular in there. Didn't need much forcing—Loop must've taught her to spread easy."
A low, greasy snicker.
My breath seizes. My hands lock on the rifle so hard my knuckles burn white. Shame slams my face, prickles my eyes. My gut twists, bile rising. Elijah freezes beside me, his jaw clamped, ready to tear them apart.
But Ilya moves first.
He slams his carbine back on the rack with a metallic crack and strides across the room. Plants himself in front of them, eyes black in a way I've almost never seen. His voice drops low, sharp as a blade:
— "Say it again."
They glance at each other, hesitation flickering—then one scoffs, too cocky, too stupid:
— "What, that struck a nerve? You got your share too, didn't you? We all saw your little circus on the platform. Mister Hero… you picked her out yourself, yeah? Bet she's good, if not complete."
That word. Complete. It slams into me like a slap. I lock up, unable to breathe.
Ilya doesn't move—not at first. But I see his fists close, his chest heave. And then it explodes.
The sound of the impact is sharper than a shot. His metal arm slices the air and smashes into the man's jaw with inhuman force. The body flies back, crashes against a bench with a sick thud, dazed and limp. The other one stumbles back, eyes wide with terror.
The whole hall freezes. Silence. The echo of the blow still rattling in my skull.
I can't move. I've only ever felt that metal hand on me with careful, fevered gentleness. And now I've seen what it does when it strikes. My legs almost give out.
Ilya breathes hard, eyes blazing, glacial. He could keep going—I see it in the coil of his shoulders, the way he glares at the second man like he'll crush him too. But then his head shifts, just a fraction, and his eyes lock on mine. Everything shifts. The rage burns out, replaced by something else. Fear—not for him. For me.
Elijah steps forward, arms folded, voice cutting like a blade:
— "Good. They'll shut their mouths now."
It lands like an order. Enough. The second man drops his eyes, drags his dazed partner away. Conversation stutters back up, brittle, no one daring to say it aloud. But everyone saw.
I did too.
We walk back almost in silence. Elijah in front, his stride heavy, every movement simmering with cold fury. My legs shake without my permission. And Ilya—he hasn't said a word. His breath short, his gaze dark.
Inside the apartment, Elijah tosses his rifle in the corner, drops hard onto a chair, arms folded.
— "Well. That's settled."
Ilya stays standing, taut, his eyes on mine. Finally he speaks, voice rough, scraped raw:
— "I'm sorry."
I frown.
— "For what?"
— "For that." (He gestures at the metal arm, his still-clenched fists.) "For what you saw. I was afraid I… scared you. It's the first time you've seen me violent. I don't want you to think I could ever be like that with you."
His words almost shatter me more than the blow. I step closer, take his free hand, firm.
— "Ilya… you didn't scare me. Not you. Not with me. You're gentle. Always."
His shoulders finally ease, his breath releasing. His fingers close on mine like an anchor.
Elijah straightens, his voice calmer than I thought possible:
— "You were right. Those bastards deserved worse. Don't worry—Mira knows the difference."
A beat, his gaze softening.
— "And for what it's worth… you're one of us."
The silence hangs, heavy but good. Ilya blinks, startled, then dips his head. A faint smile breaks across me, fragile.
Elijah stands with a theatrical sigh, lifts his hands.
— "Well then. That's clear. Welcome officially to the family."
He sticks out his hand. After a pause, Ilya takes it. Firm. Not forced. Real.
And for the first time in a long time, I see them aligned. For the first time, I feel… completely protected.
---
The infirmary holds that particular kind of silence Mikel is beginning to recognize: not oppressive, not calm either, but made of held breaths and measured gestures. He sits on the edge of the table, legs dangling, while Anya pulls on gloves and lays out her tools. The sting of alcohol still bites his nose.
— "We're taking the dressing off today," she says. "If the scar's clean, you won't need it anymore."
He nods. She steps close, sure hands working, unwrapping the bandage. His skin prickles under the cold fabric unwinding. He doesn't speak, but his jaw clenches when the gauze tugs.
— "Sorry," she murmurs, moistening it to loosen without tearing.
Mikel lowers his eyes. He's not used to anyone apologizing for pain. It feels almost misplaced… and at the same time, achingly human.
When the last layer falls, Anya bends over. Her gloved fingertip brushes the scar, checking each stitch.
— "No infection. Healing well."
— "Thanks… to you," he breathes.
She lifts her head, surprised by his tone. Then half-smiles, fleeting.
Mikel hesitates, then blurts:
— "How do you even know all this, at your age? Stitching, amputations, bloodwork… You're only twenty-six."
He expects a frown, maybe a sharp retort. But instead, she sets her tools aside, and instead of retreating to her desk, she pulls a stool close. Sits by him. Not apart.
— "I wasn't supposed to know," she says softly. "I wanted to study biology. Maybe teach. But… soldiers, checkpoints, disappearances…"
Her voice trails a beat. She folds her arms, then unfolds them, restless. But she goes on.
— "My brother was conscripted when I was eighteen. Gone in a month. 'Accident,' they said. My parents collapsed. Me… I started carrying papers, food. I just wanted to help the resistance."
Mikel doesn't move, doesn't breathe.
— "Then one day, one of our caches was bombed. I survived. But next to me, a boy my age had his leg blown off. No doctor. No ambulance. I used my belt, my hands… he lived. That day I understood—if no one did anything, we'd all die one by one. So I learned. However I could. Old manuals, old medics. Every mistake cost a life."
Her tone doesn't waver, but her eyes slide away. She's told this story a thousand times in her head, never out loud.
Silence. Mikel swallows hard, too loud.
— "And since then… you just keep going."
She shrugs.
— "Not by choice. But because… someone has to."
He nods slowly. Looks at her differently now. Not just the efficient medic, distant. But a woman who lost everything and rebuilt herself another way.
— "It changed you," he murmurs.
She smiles faintly, but this time her eyes meet his.
— "You too, no?"
He freezes. Then lets out a soft, nervous laugh.
— "Yeah… me too."
Silence again, but not empty. Filled. A quiet respect.
Anya rises, takes her tray, but her tone is lighter:
— "Careful, Mikel. You'll end up making me chatty."
He smirks.
— "Maybe that's my hidden talent."
She shakes her head, but he sees the twitch of her lips.
She slides the tray back onto the shelf, gloves off now, hands folded behind her back.
— "That's it," she says. "No more bandages. You're almost good as new. You're free, Mikel."
He nods, a little too slow. Looks down at his bare shoulder, still tender. A strange thought cuts through: if there's no bandage, I've got no reason to come back. A hollow opens in his chest, unexpected.
He fumbles with his shirt. When he looks up, she's watching him, a flicker in her eyes—not mocking, not distant. Almost gentle.
— "But," she adds, "you know… you don't need to get shot again to come back. You can just stop by."
He blinks.
— "… Stop by?"
— "Yes," she says, as if it's obvious. "To talk. Or just to be somewhere other than the hallways."
He stares, caught off guard. He hadn't expected this. Not from her. Not from the twenty-six-year-old who stitches wounds like it's nothing, who keeps that mask of professionalism, untouchable.
And yet she's the one opening the door.
A smile creeps across his mouth, half-incredulous.
— "Didn't think you'd… want that."
She rolls her eyes, but her lips betray a curve.
— "Please. What, you think I like being alone with scalpels and jars? I'm the only one who can run this infirmary, but that doesn't mean I want to play hermit."
He laughs, awkward, scratching his neck.
— "Put like that…"
— "There you go," she says, standing. "Come whenever you want. No injury required."
He nods, and this time his smile doesn't fade.
— "Alright. I'll come."
And when he leaves the infirmary, his chest feels lighter than it did walking in. Maybe, despite the war, there are still things worth waiting for.