The mine air is heavy with damp, a cold that seeps into every seam, every bone. Torches wedged into cracks of stone spit out a trembling yellow light that dances over blackened walls. A few battery lamps still sputter, set on the ground or hanging from rusty nails. Shadow swallows the rest: the yawning side tunnels, the thick dark that seems to wait for us to close our eyes before it creeps closer.
We're all crammed into the central cavern, where the rusted rails of old carts vanish into rock. The air reeks of dust, sweat, diesel, and melted snow. But it also carries something new, almost unreal after forty-eight hours: silence. Not the silence of alarms, not the one saturated with sirens and gunfire. A silence that faintly resembles breathing.
My legs shake with fatigue, my arms feel like lead. Elijah sits right beside me, his back pressed against the freezing wall. His split lip is still swollen, his ribs keep him from breathing deep, but I know him—he pretends it doesn't matter. Gunther has planted himself nearby, a massive silhouette with his rifle across his knees, and Tinka is already pacing the chamber, checking lamps, bags, blankets. She needs to move or the weight of exhaustion will fold her in half like the rest of us.
The wounded lie under tarps, their faces grey in the torchlight. Each groan is muffled at once, drowned by a whisper, a hand tightening a bandage. And yet, despite the cold air and rattling bones, I see it in their eyes: a fragile spark—we're still here.
Boris stands at the center. Frost clings to his coat, his hair sticks to his forehead, but he stands like a block of stone. His gaze drags over each of us, long, heavy, until the murmur dies on its own.
His voice scrapes against the walls:
— "You've got two hours."
He doesn't raise it, but everyone hears.
— "Two hours to breathe, to sleep, to eat what you can. No more. After that, we count our losses, we reorganize, and we decide what's next."
A taut silence falls, as if everyone fears he might snatch back this already too-short reprieve. But Boris adds, his tone lower:
— "You survived. That's enough for tonight."
No one claps. No one smiles. But I feel shoulders drop, bodies sagging harder against the walls, as if that single word—survived—was enough to loosen the grip around our throats, just for a moment.
I lower my head. The conversations resume around us. My hands are still stained with dust and blood.
The noise presses down on me too quickly. Too many voices, too many bodies pressed into this belly of stone. I start to rise when a shadow blocks my path.
Ilya.
He's there, in the flicker of torchlight. His dark hair is damp, plastered to his temples, his coat dripping melted snow. His eyes lock on mine with a weight that pins me in place.
— "Come," he says simply.
Elijah lifts his head from his corner. I expect a joke, a jab, something. But his gaze lands on Ilya, steady. He sees the tension in his shoulders, the jaw too tight.
— "You sure you're okay, man?"
Ilya barely nods, never breaking my gaze.
— "I'll be better when we're alone for two minutes."
Elijah hesitates, then sighs, his ribs keeping him from shrugging.
— "Fine. But if you make her cry, I'm the one who hits you. And hey—there are plenty of shovels here."
The corner of Ilya's mouth twitches. Not a real smile. But proof he heard.
He pulls me into a narrower gallery, away from the firelit heart. The echo of voices fades behind us, replaced by the steady drip of water seeping from rock. The air is colder, damper still.
Ilya finally stops. His hands tremble as he drags them over his face, then he exhales, raw:
— "You know what it's like, keeping the lights alive while you feel the stone vibrating above your head?"
I shake my head. My heart pounds.
He drops his gaze, fingers trailing down the line of his mechanical arm, as if the metal could still carry the shivers.
— "I was alone in the comms room with Boris and Olivia. We kept the systems running till the end. Alarms screaming. I couldn't do anything. Nothing but stay. I thought..." (his voice breaks) "I thought you were buried under the rubble."
He looks up at last. His pupils glint in the pale light.
— "I've never been that scared in my life."
My throat tightens. My fingers find his almost by instinct. His hands are ice, rough, but the grip is desperate.
He yanks me against him, almost too hard. The metal arm crushes my back, so cold it sends a shiver through me. His damp hair brushes my cheek. He smells of snow, iron, sweat—it chokes me.
I laugh and cry at once, shaking against his chest.
— "You're freezing, idiot."
His lips skim my ear. The word slips out, unguarded:
— "Beautiful."
I freeze, startled, and then the tears come harder, though I don't know if it's joy or sheer exhaustion.
— "You've never called me that."
— "Should have, long ago," he murmurs.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His hair clings in black strands to his forehead, his eyes are shadowed, but he clings to me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
I laugh again, through the tears.
— "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"
He shakes his head, presses his forehead to mine, breath rough.
— "Eh. We're getting used to it, aren't we?"
I close my eyes, hold onto him. No drama, no wasted words. Just this: his cold arm at my back, his feverish warmth at my chest, and the mine's silence wrapping us for a few stolen seconds from the rest of the world.
---
We make do around the empty crates we're using as tables, each of us with a bowl of thin soup, a chunk of stale bread, sometimes an opened tin. Nothing like a feast, but after the flight, the screams, the cold, it tastes like a victory.
I look around. Drawn faces, bruised eyes, trembling hands... but we're all here. Finally.
Tinka breaks the silence first, a spoon between her fingers, looking more blasé than tired:
— "Heads up: I'm not doing a night watch."
A mechanic chokes back a laugh. Gunther, sitting beside her, shakes his head.
— "Of course not. You disappeared again earlier, didn't you?"
— "With the little brunette from tech," someone adds from behind.
Tinka shrugs, unbothered.
— "Her name's Klara. And I've got a checklist to get through."
Gunther blinks.
— "... A what?"
She bites into her bread like it's nothing.
— "Yeah. Commit as many lesbian crimes as possible. Told you already. I'm making my outlaw status pay."
Silence, at first. Then the laughs burst out—nervous, relieved. Even a few of the wounded manage a smile. Gunther drops his head into his hands.
— "You exhaust me, Tinka."
— "I hope so," she replies, perfectly serious.
— "You planning to introduce her properly one day?"
— "Nope. No need. I don't do serious anymore."
— "You mean since Anya."
— "Same difference."
I feel my mouth curve despite myself. For a moment, the weight crushing us all cracks.
On my left, Elijah blows on his soup, then holds out his bowl.
— "Dude, pass the bread. Please."
Ilya, across from us, slides the piece over without looking up, just a crooked smile. No jab, no quip.
Elijah grabs the bread, pretends to grumble, but his shoulders sit a little lighter than before. I know it: he's decided to let go. I can hear it in the way he talks to Ilya now.
Right beside me, Ilya finally unwinds. His shoulder settles against mine, solid, like an anchor. His fingers find mine under the crate we're using as a table. Not to squeeze hard—just to be sure. I barely suppress a shiver when the cold metal of his prosthetic brushes my skin by accident. I tighten my grip so he understands: it doesn't bother me. If anything, the opposite.
His usual sarcasm returns; he throws at Gunther when the latter sloshes soup down his sleeve:
— "You just reinvented camouflage sauce. Congrats."
Gunther snorts, points his spoon like a weapon.
— "Keep talking, Sergeant One-arm. You're in my sights."
Laughter rolls again, voices tangle, it gets noisy, finally. It almost feels like a normal evening—wobbly, but alive.
I look around. Elijah teasing Gunther like a real brother. Tinka firing salty shots at the mechanics who ask too many questions. Ilya opening up a little more, himself again, but gentler than before. And me, wedged between them, heart tight, realizing we've managed to save something more precious than a citadel: we're together.
---
The soup is lukewarm, bland, but Anya still hasn't raised her spoon. She watches the steam thinning as if she could find the strength to breathe inside it. Her shoulders have dropped, her fingers barely tremble, and for the first time since Mikel has known her, she looks... fragile.
He sits right across from her, looking with a focus he doesn't even try to hide.
— "Drink a little," he says softly. "It'll warm you up."
She lifts her eyes to him, dark crescents carved beneath, and sketches a tired smile.
— "You giving orders now?"
Before he can answer, another voice slips in.
— "He's right," Piotr says, leaning against the wall nearby, his empty bowl already set beside him.
Anya rolls her eyes.
— "Great. You've ganged up on me."
Piotr straightens a little, folds his arms.
— "No need. Have you seen your face? You're barely upright. If the kid made you sit, it's because you needed it."
Mikel frowns.
— "You're only two years older than me. I'm not a kid."
Piotr shoots him a sidelong look, amused.
— "Then prove it. Take care of her for real."
Color rises in Mikel's cheeks, but he doesn't look away. Instead he reaches across the crate between them, brushing Anya's fingers still clenched around her bowl.
— "Eat. Just a few spoonfuls. After that, you can yell at me all you want."
Anya blinks, as if surprised. Her lips tremble a second before pressing together. She exhales, spent:
— "You're impossible."
— "Three stubborn heads," Piotr corrects, delighted. "Not two."
Silence falls again, different this time—warmer, less heavy. Anya finally lifts the spoon to her mouth. Mikel watches, and that single sip feels like a huge victory.
Piotr keeps an eye on them, but his smile softens. More protective than mocking, like he's watching over them both at once.
— "Not bad," he murmurs to Mikel, almost proud. "Might make a real support out of you yet."
Mikel ducks his head, embarrassed, but Anya throws him a look that burns hotter than the soup. A look without the usual distance, without the nurse's barrier—only fatigue... and trust.
Piotr finished his bowl a while ago, but he hasn't moved, still propped against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes drift from Mikel to Anya and back. He's still smiling, but finer now—like someone who understands without words.
At last he sighs, pushes off the wall, and pats Mikel's shoulder as he passes:
— "Keep it up. I'm taking a round."
Mikel almost startles.
— "Huh? But—"
— "You think I'm going to stand here watching you two blush?" Piotr snorts. "Enjoy the quiet. It never lasts long."
He disappears down the dark corridor, his silhouette swallowed by the lamps' weak light.
Mikel stays there, a little dumbstruck, his hand still resting on the crate, so close to Anya's. She finally looks down at their fingers, then back up at him. No reproach, no wall this time. Just a tired smile that softens her exhausted features.
— "You're stubborn," she breathes.
He swallows.
— "So are you."
She laughs softly, a short sound, almost broken, but sincere. Then she lowers her head, blonde strands sliding over her face.
— "I thought I was only good for stitching up complainers and hauling IV bags. And here you are insisting I sit down."
Mikel hesitates, but the words come anyway:
— "Because I want you to breathe a little. Because... you've taken care of me, more than once. I want to do the same."
Silence settles. Not a cold one—one that weighs the way it does when two people start looking at each other differently. Anya's shoulders finally loosen, as if she'd shrugged off armor that was too heavy.
She lifts her hand, hesitates, then sets it on his for a moment.
— "Thank you, Mikel."
He nods slowly, unable to hide the fire in his chest.
Around them, people still eat in low voices, cough, grind their teeth in sleep. But in their corner, time seems suspended.
Anya stops talking. Her warm breath escapes in uneven threads against Mikel's shoulder, and he doesn't dare move. Each time he thinks about pulling his arm back, she nestles a little closer, as if to say without words: stay.
He finally looks down at her. Strands cling to her temple, damp with fatigue. Her mouth is parted, not quite asleep, not quite awake. Her hand, still resting on his, has slackened, but she hasn't let go.
Mikel swallows too hard. He remembers all the times she kept her chin up, gestures precise, orders clear. Now, it's like she's taken off her armor just for him, for a few minutes. It undoes him.
He leans in a little, hesitates. His lips almost brush her hair, the smell of dust and soap not entirely gone. He wants to say something—anything—but the words stick. So he closes his eyes and lets himself just stay.
Anya opens hers again. She doesn't lift her head, but her low voice cuts the quiet:
— "You know... if you keep being this... steady, I'm going to forget to protect myself."
Mikel smiles, nervous.
— "Maybe that's okay. Once in a while."
She gives a small, tired, almost cracked laugh. Her head slides a little further against his shoulder, her fingers tighten around his without thinking.
— "Don't make me regret trusting you, Mikel."
He doesn't answer, but his thumb traces a small, instinctive, tender arc over her hand.
— "Your back's going to hurt," he whispers. "You're not built to sleep sitting up like that."
She cracks her eyes open, lashes heavy, and manages a weary smile.
— "And you're a doctor now?"
He shakes his head, amused despite himself.
— "No. But I've still got a little common sense. Lie down."
She protests weakly, shakes her head, but exhaustion breaks her voice:
— "No need. I'll sleep... just ten minutes. Like this."
Mikel hesitates, then sets a firm hand on her shoulder.
— "Ten minutes is going to turn into three hours. You want to wake up broken in two?"
She lifts her eyes to him, and something different flickers there—not annoyance, but a quiet recognition. She sighs, and gives in.
— "All right... but you stay."
He nods at once, heart thudding too fast for a promise so simple.
— "I'll stay."
She slides lower then, curling onto her side, face still turned toward him. Her hand grips his again, this time without restraint; her fingers lace with his like it's the most natural thing.
— "Just ten minutes," she murmurs.
But before the words are barely out, her breathing evens. In under a minute, she's fully asleep. Her features finally loosen, freed of the tension she's been carrying for days.
Mikel stays perfectly still, eyes on her. Her hand in his suddenly feels more precious than anything he managed to save when he left the Citadel. He settles himself better against the wall, squeezes her fingers gently, and decides he can hold this all night if he has to.
The quiet is broken by the rustle of boots on dust. Piotr returns from his round, shakes a little snow from his shoulders, cheeks pink with cold. His eyes find Mikel at once, propped against the wall, Anya stretched out beside him, her hand captive in his.
A crooked smile tugs at his mouth.
— "You look comfortable. Didn't waste time."
Mikel doesn't react, only drops his gaze to Anya asleep.
— "She needed to rest."
Piotr arches a brow, leans against the wall opposite, arms crossed.
— "Don't worry, I'm not teasing. It's good, what you're doing. Won't hurt her to loosen the reins a bit."
Silence hovers, broken only by Anya's steady breath. Then Piotr goes on, lighter:
— "You know what I miss most from before? Not hot food. Not even a real bed. Dark rooms."
Mikel looks up.
— "The movies?"
— "Yeah. Remember? Before everything went to hell. You bought a ticket, got two hours of darkness and quiet, and you walked out thinking the world wasn't so ugly after all."
A small laugh escapes Mikel, almost surprising himself.
— "I didn't go often. Getting out was complicated. But... yeah. I saw The Worlds of Aleph, you know it?"
Piotr's eyes widen.
— "Seriously? With the papier-mâché planets and the hero fighting with a flashlight?"
Mikel snickers under his breath, unconsciously squeezes Anya's hand.
— "It was awful. But... I don't know. I was seventeen. It felt... magical."
Piotr nods, amused.
— "Me, it was Iron Dogs. Total trash too. But I took a girl. You get the idea."
Mikel shakes his head, a smile slipping out.
— "And?"
— "And I missed half the film. Still a perfect memory."
Their muffled laughs fade into the corridor's hush. Piotr watches them a beat longer, then adds, lower:
— "You know, the fact you still remember that, that it makes you smile... means you're not completely swallowed by this mess. Hold onto it."
Mikel falls quiet, looks down at Anya. Their fingers are still laced. He murmurs, almost to himself:
— "Yeah. I will."