The truck engine purrs at the mine entrance. The air smells of diesel, metal, and cold—the grimy kind that clings to skin despite coats. Lamps wobble from nails, throwing stuttering light over silhouettes getting ready.
They go out together: Mira, Elijah, Ilya, Gunther, Tinka, and Piotr. A true mobile cell—armed, organized. A team built to move fast, hit, and vanish.
Mikel watches them gear up. He tries to be glad—at least they won't be buried alive under the mine's wet stone—but all he feels is a hollow. A quiet, heavy fear.
Anya stands beside him, arms crossed, gaze pinned to the truck.
— "You're going to wear them out by staring," she murmurs.
— "I'm not staring. I'm making sure they don't forget anything."
She manages a tired smile.
— "You're mostly making sure you don't miss them leaving," she corrects gently.
He doesn't answer.
Piotr limps over—his leg wound aches in the damp. Mikel expects a clap on the back, but no: Piotr grabs him and pulls him into a solid, hot, unexpected hug.
— "Keep being here," he breathes. "For her."
Mikel blinks, surprised.
— "Wasn't planning on going anywhere."
— "Perfect, then."
Piotr smiles, steps back. Anya reaches him and holds him briefly.
— "Come back in one piece," she says.
— "You too."
Then he climbs into the truck bed without looking back.
Elijah holds a hand out to Mikel—a simple, unguarded gesture.
— "Thanks for everything. And for her."
— "Take care of yourself too," Mikel replies—and for once it's sincere, not ironic.
Gunther turns the key. The sound booms down the tunnel—heavy, thrumming.
Mikel folds his arms tight. Anya slides her hand through his arm.
— "We'll do our part here," she says.
— "Yeah. And they'll do theirs."
The headlights bleach the rock for an instant before disappearing into the snow.
---
I slide into the truck between Ilya and Elijah. The metal is cold under our legs, the floor springs tired. The engine grumbles; heat is slow to come.
Elijah tightens his strap and looks through the frosted window.
— "Notice? We're heading back into the cold."
— "I think it's our favorite climate."
He laughs—short, but real. It's been a while.
Ilya drops his head, a small smile caught on his mouth.
— "You two have a knack for picking the worst seasons to leave."
I nudge his shoulder, light.
— "You're the one who followed me."
— "Yeah. And I plan to keep doing it."
His arm goes behind me, natural—not for show, just because he needs it. His chest warms my back.
— "This time," he breathes, "I'm not letting you get ten meters ahead. Not ten seconds."
Elijah turns, watching us in silence, a discreet smile pulling at his lips.
— "Promise," he says, "I'll run interference if you get too sappy."
Ilya huffs a laugh.
— "Deal, man."
Gunther yells from the cab:
— "We closing up? We've got a road to clear, not a romance to film!"
Tinka smacks his shoulder, laughing, and the truck lurches for good.
The mine falls away behind us, eaten by snow and fog. The engine drowns everything—the heartbeat, the words we don't have time to say, the promises we repeat in silence.
Ilya takes my hand.
I squeeze back.
---
Gunther parks in the middle of a silent yard. Tires press the snow with a muffled crunch. In front of us a gray façade rises—tall, rectangular, striped with broken panes.
An old factory, probably. Or a warehouse.
Doesn't matter: it's solid, it's standing. And it's dry.
He kills the engine. The ringing quiet buzzes in my ears.
Elijah hops down first, hands in pockets, a low whistle.
— "Well... if it's not a palace, it's close."
Ilya drops down, sets his pack on the ground, and stands still a second. His eyes are already mapping the structure, the sagging cables, the possible openings.
I know that look: he's calculating.
— "Let me stop you right there," I say. "If you find a breaker, you don't touch it yet."
He shoots me a sidelong glance, tiny smile.
— "You take me for a rookie?"
— "I take you for a guy who loves dismantling systems to keep busy."
Gunther laughs, the sound knocking around the walls.
— "True enough. Let's get inside before we freeze."
The doors shriek like bad teeth. A breath of stale air smacks us—dust, rust, old dried oil. But underneath is the smell of stable metal. Concrete. Not earth, not cave-damp, not fear.
We advance cautiously, lamps up. Beams catch rusted floor rails, chains sagging from the ceiling, half-faded safety signs.
Glass-walled offices, locker rooms, an abandoned break room.
Elijah gives a soft whistle.
— "Room enough for a whole circus."
Tinka goes ahead, palms the walls, listens.
— "Structure's sound. Need to check the trusses, but it'll hold."
Gunther nods, already slipping into command.
— "Priority: machine room and main panel. If there's juice, we camp here."
— "No way power's still on," Piotr mutters.
— "There is," Ilya corrects, without looking up—fingers already on a rusted switch.
He presses.
A crisp click, followed by a low hum.
Then—miracle—a fluorescent tube stutters on overhead, then another. Yellow light spreads, shaky but real.
Elijah bursts out laughing.
— "You're stupid lucky with your accidents!"
— "I call it talent," Ilya says.
Gunther throws his arms wide like greeting an invisible crowd.
— "Ladies and gentlemen, we have electricity!"
Exclamations rise. Even I laugh without meaning to.
Light changes everything. We see dust floating, peeling walls, machine carcasses. But we see. And that's enough to make it feel like a home.
Tinka has already spotted a stairwell.
— "Offices upstairs. We can make them into dorms."
Elijah swings a swinging door.
— "Oh, and there's a kitchen corner! Well... there was."
A gutted fridge, a busted coffeemaker, but a sink and empty cupboards. He rummages, finds a cracked mug.
— "Behold: the official trophy of our move-in."
Gunther snorts, leaning on a beam.
— "Knew I'd hired a luxury crew."
I step to a broken pane looking over the yard. Daylight spills through in a thin pale ribbon.
— "Almost looks like a normal place," I breathe.
Ilya comes up behind me; his shadow melts into mine.
— "It's almost that."
He runs a hand along the wall, studies the cables.
— "Power's probably fed from a line still tied to the lower city plant. If we rig a relay here, I can pull Boris's band without trouble."
Elijah raises a brow.
— "And in normal language?"
— "We can talk to Mama Boris without climbing a hill with an antenna and a wire in our teeth."
— "Citizen-approved."
Gunther comes back, arms crossed.
— "We're setting up here, then. Priority: security and heat. If we find boards, we'll seal the ground floor windows."
He nods toward the mezzanine.
— "Those offices: separate rooms. One for radio gear. One for sleeping."
Elijah pretends to count on his fingers.
— "One for Gunther and Tinka, one for Piotr, one for me... and one for the lovebirds."
I lob the old mug at his head.
— "Not funny."
He dodges, grinning.
— "A little."
Ilya doesn't bite. He pulls his notebook, scribbles, crouches by a dusty old server.
— "Drive's dead. Perfect for parts."
— "You don't want to breathe a little before you dive back in?" I ask.
— "I do. But this keeps me from thinking about the rest."
He says it softly, not looking at me. And I get it.
Gunther stretches; his voice rings off the walls:
— "We'll make a fire in the old maintenance room. Mira, Elijah, check the water lines. If there's a sink, there's maybe a tank with something left."
— "At your orders, boss," Elijah says with an exaggerated salute.
Gunther thanks him by tossing a wrench.
I turn to Ilya, brush his hand.
— "Hard to believe, huh?"
He lets out a tired laugh.
— "Yeah. Almost too easy."
— "Then we enjoy it before it breaks."
I feel his gaze on me—warmer, softer than it has any right to be after so much cold.
— "Promise."
---
Night drops fast inside the plant. The fluorescents throw a jaundiced light that's not warm at all, but the fire Gunther built in the old furnace warms the air and our bodies. We huddle like numbed birds, and for the first time since the Citadel I feel my bones loosen a fraction—just enough to breathe without my teeth chattering from stress.
Ilya kneels beside a heap of electronics, methodically stripping them with a screwdriver, Elijah passing him parts and griping about which way the screws turn. They've set the whole operation by the fire: makeshift lamps, salvaged capacitors, some old box someone thought might be useful. The smell of hot metal and burnt wire twines with smoke and coffee. It's messy and exact, and it feels good.
Gunther's slouched on a crate, hand cupping a mug of black coffee, jaw unstrung. Tinka fusses with a portable radio, checks the dial, straightens a bent antenna. Piotr inspects cartridges and slides magazines into a drybag.
I sit by the fire, blanket around my shoulders, splitting our task list in my head. There's so much to do. Ilya and Elijah keep talking—parts, servers, cables; technical words, numbers, priorities. Their voices have that tone that steadies me—the tone of people who know how to fix things.
Gunther glances up and catches my focused look.
— "You making the list, Mira?" he asks.
I smile.
— "We need a server, batteries, copper, cable, and power packs for the generator. And spare parts for the old radios."
Tinka taps her notebook.
— "And headlamps—lots. And filters for the masks. Factory dust shreds our throats."
Piotr nods.
— "And fuel cans for emergencies. Gunther can't wait around for deliveries."
I write it all down. The list grows—but the more I write, the more things feel doable. Like naming the needs makes them real. Ilya, finishing a board, leans toward me.
— "For the link, I want a directional antenna. With that we can relay our messages and shrink the window they can cut us."
Elijah looks up at me, mock-theatrical:
— "And me, I need a lifetime supply of biscuits. Critical for morale."
Laughter shakes through the room. Maybe it's silly, but the small absurdities melt the tension.
The talk slides toward personal things. Tinka shuts her notebook and exhales. Her smile slips for a second.
— "I miss Klara a little," she says quietly. "It wasn't serious, but it was good to have someone."
Gunther nods, eyes hardened by nostalgia.
— "She's good people. You'll see her soon."
Piotr pats the strap of the bag where Mikel stashed his gear.
— "Knock it off, Tinka—you'll have us thinking you want to go home for a coffee."
She shoots him a look, smiles despite herself.
— "Maybe I just want to sleep somewhere without wondering if the walls hold."
By the fire, Ilya passes me a small piece of bread and smiles. The gesture is simple, ordinary—and it feels like the best thing in the world.
— "You're not smiling much tonight," he notes.
— "My head's full."
He pinches my fingers lightly.
— "I know. But I like you better when you don't look like you're trying to solve every problem at once. Let me fix a few."
Heat climbs my throat. A promise of presence, of shared work—worth more than any word.
Elijah stands, does a lap, and starts his routine.
— "Okay! Rule number one: if you're looking for me, I'll be right behind the lovebirds' door. Rule number two: don't kill the lights at night—I'm scared of the dark in places I don't know."
Gunther raises his mug.
— "I'll take the watch then. Wouldn't want a ghost stealing my sidekick."
Tinka clicks her tongue and stows the radio.
— "Enough jokes. Tomorrow we lay out the plan: scout again, map the southern line's weak points, snag a recoverable relay. Elijah, you're on the ground with me. Ilya, take mobile radio. Mira, you post up high. Piotr and Gunther go where it's nasty."
The words drop like bricks, one on another: clear, direct. The lightness drains back to its corner; the night gets serious again. But there are gaps between the planks: a roof, heat, people holding the line.
The evening ends without fireworks. We swallow lukewarm soup, share a companionable quiet. One by one we vanish into corners. The walls look softer in the half-dark. We have a real room—a small one in the back, an old mattress on the floor. Not much, but it's ours.
Ilya and I rise together, snag a blanket. Elijah clowns by the door.
— "Hey! You two! Thin walls! I hear anything funny, I kill Ilya and ship you to a convent, Mira."
Ilya shoots him a mock-menacing look.
— "You won't hear a thing unless you spend the night with your ear against the door."
Elijah clutches his heart in exaggerated outrage.
— "So that's it? No mercy left for your favorite brother-in-law?"
I close the door behind us, smiling, and the world's noise cuts out at once.
On the other side, a few muffled laughs—Elijah's, Gunther's—then nothing. Just a thick, almost fragile quiet, and the distant crackle of the fire in the main room.
Hall light spills under the door in a thin golden strip. The little room holds only an old mattress on the floor, two blankets, a wall still warm from the makeshift heater.
I exhale. It's tiny, dusty—but it's ours.
Ilya stays standing a moment, leaning on the wall. He rolls his shoulder and winces.
— "Pulling?" I ask, soft.
— "A little, yeah. Kept the prosthesis on too long. It burns."
I step forward without thinking.
— "Sit."
He hesitates, then sits on the mattress edge, a bit stiff. I kneel in front of him and take the strap of the metal arm. He watches me, breath short. The buckles are stiff, bent; I feel the tension of the metal under my fingers.
When I get it loose, the mechanism thunks and the plate releases. He helps guide it off, his left hand trembling.
I set it down by the wall. It's heavy, inert, cold.
Under the harness, his skin is flushed, damp with sweat. A small blistered line along the stump like a burn.
I frown.
— "You couldn't say something earlier?"
— "And make you panic? Not a chance."
— "Right, because I'm super calm now," I mutter.
I pull a clean cloth from my bag, wet it from my canteen, and dab gently. He flinches, but doesn't move away.
— "It's just heat from friction. It'll pass."
I keep going, careful. He closes his eyes, sinks back against the wall, lets his head fall. Cold night air leaks through a crack, but the warmth of his skin heats my fingers.
— "You're stubborn," I whisper.
— "And you worry too much."
— "Because you do stupid things."
He laughs without sound—a breathless, honest little laugh.
I finish cleaning, pull the blanket up over his shoulder. He shifts, draws me in, his good arm around my waist.
— "Thanks," he says, low.
— "It's nothing."
— "It's not nothing. No one's ever touched that arm without wincing."
I look up.
— "That's because they don't know you."
Silence for a moment; his gaze drifts to the cracked ceiling. Then he breathes:
— "It's the first time in... a long time I'm not afraid to sleep."
I tuck closer, my head to his chest. His heartbeat is strong, steady. His fingers comb through my hair, slow, in rhythm.
I feel the day's weight slip off, the fire's heat barely reaching us.
— "We're going to make it," he murmurs.
— "Promise?"
— "Promise."
His words hum against my skin. I close my eyes.
His prosthesis rests against the wall, and his hand rests around me.