The hangar is heavy with silence. It's freezing, but sweat is already sticking down my back. We're all breathing the same dust, the same diesel, and the air stinks of swallowed fear. The wounded groan now and then under the tarps; a dry cough or the clatter of a knocked-over bucket makes half the room jump.
I'm sitting on a crate beside Elijah. His ribs won't let him breathe deep—I can tell just by his shoulders. Still, he keeps his head up, jaw clenched.
— "Twenty-four more hours," he says under his breath. "Boris's deadline will be up."
I look up.
— "Then we move?"
He nods. His gaze softens, just for me.
— "Then you get your man back. I'm betting he's already started tunneling."
I let out a strangled laugh.
— "You're an idiot."
He forces a smile, but there's something else in his eyes. Not just humor. Conviction. I hold on to that.
And then, like always, it flips.
A sharp scrape of a chair. A man stands—tall, broad-shouldered, features warped by exhaustion. His eyes are red, swollen like he hasn't slept in days. But it's the rage that stops me.
Before I understand, he's in front of us.
His fist knots in Elijah's collar and hauls him almost off the crate.
— "Because of you!" he spits, voice broken. "My brother! I don't know where he is! I don't even know if he's alive! You go on TV talking your crap and look! Look where that got us!"
The punch lands.
A hard, brutal crack. Elijah's head snaps to the side; blood splashes his lip. I scream his name, but he stays rigid, stunned, eyes blown wide.
— "Wait... we didn't..." he stammers, voice slurred.
The man doesn't let go. He shakes him, trembling with fury.
— "Because of you and your sister, my brother's under the rubble! You get that?!"
The second hit comes—harder—into his gut. Elijah almost spills backward, wind knocked out of him.
I surge up, ready to throw myself at the man, but I don't even get the chance. His hand snatches my jacket too, twists the collar and yanks me in. His breath reeks; his eyes shine with tears and hate.
— "And you!" he roars. "Your testimony! You damned us all!"
I choke, my feet skidding on the floor. Elijah, blood on his mouth, reaches for me anyway.
— "Let her go! Stop!"
He tries to stand, but he reels, his ribs folding him in half.
I think he's going to hit me. I feel it. His fist is already rising—
And then a voice detonates.
— "LET HER GO!"
Gunther.
He hits us like a wrecking ball. His hand clamps the man's shoulder and yanks him back with a violence that pops the seams on his jacket. The other man's grip drops at once; he staggers two steps, face buckled by rage.
Gunther doesn't give him a heartbeat. His voice booms, icy, loud enough to cover the whole hangar:
— "YOU LAY ONE MORE FINGER ON ELI OR MIRA AND YOU ANSWER TO ME."
Silence crashes down. Even the wounded lift their heads.
Gunther steps in, eyes locked on the man's. He's red with fury, veins standing out at his neck.
— "You really think they're the problem? You think it's their fault we're getting bombed?!"
The man tries:
— "They talked! Everything fell right after!"
Gunther's teeth almost click.
— "EXACTLY what they want. For you to believe that. For us to tear each other's throats out. You think you're avenging your brother like this? You're insulting him."
He jabs a rigid finger at him, voice harder still:
— "If anyone—and I mean ANYONE—lays a hand on the twins again, it's court martial. And with no superior present, I decide."
The guy freezes, breathing hard, but he finally backs off.
Gunther turns to Elijah.
— "Eli... you on your feet?"
Elijah wipes the blood running from his lip. He barely nods, still dazed, eyes lost. Like he can't quite believe it was a comrade who hit him.
Me, I'm still shaking, fingers working at my wrinkled collar.
We stand a while in the corridor where we followed Gunther. The walls sweat, the neon buzzes; the sound is almost a relief. Gunther faces us, jaw tight.
His eyes move from Elijah—split lip, reddening cheek—to me, trembling without knowing it.
He blows out hard, then shakes his head.
— "Christ... you're not even twenty. You should be picking classes, grabbing drinks, flirting, I don't know—arguing over a bad movie. Not getting your faces smashed by a comrade because you've become the symbols of a war."
The words hit me square. Because yes. Because that's exactly what got stolen from us.
Gunther lowers his voice, almost hoarse:
— "I should've been there earlier. I should've figured how much this weighed on you before it blew up in your faces. It isn't normal for you to carry this at your age."
He slides a hand behind Elijah's neck, the other onto my shoulder, and pulls us both in. It's solid, warm, brutally reassuring. Elijah lets himself be held—stiff at first—then I feel his shoulders ease. I close my eyes.
— "From now on," Gunther says, "you have my word. If you don't want to do something, you don't do it. Mission, patrol, fight, whatever. If Boris yells, I take the heat. I don't care."
He leans in, looks at both of us.
— "You signed up to fight, fine. Not to become goddamn banners. That was never the plan. Not at that price."
Elijah swallows; his lips tremble a little. My throat is too tight to answer.
Gunther draws a breath, and I catch a flash of grief in his eyes.
— "Tinka and I were born here. We've never had a normal life. No school memories, no... birthday candles. It was always the Citadel. But you two—you had all that. A real life, before. They ripped it away, and now they ask you to survive it."
He dips his head for a beat, then squeezes us even tighter.
— "So yeah—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let it get this far without stepping in. But now I'm not letting go. You're my family. And I'll protect that as long as I can."
Elijah lets out a strangled, almost painful laugh.
— "You're too blond to be our big brother, Gunther."
— "I'm not your brother, Eli. I'm your wall. And if anyone tries to hit you again, they'll break on me."
He pauses, then, softer, to me:
— "You too, Mira. You don't have to handle it alone. Not while I'm here."
My eyes burn. I turn my head, but he tightens his arms around us. No need for more words. He's planted his vow right there, between his hands, and for the first time since the attack my legs stop shaking.
---
The radio crackles in the little sitting room, stuck on the official frequency.
Tomasz twists the dial, but every station is shouting the same voice. A presenter who rolls his words like polished stones.
— "The terrorist nest known as the Citadel has been annihilated in a coordinated security operation."
He freezes, fingers locked on the knob.
Annihilated. The word hits like a slap.
Another commentator takes over, syrupy tone:
— "Recall that this cell recently staged a media stunt with two problematic elements. A fabricated testimony, massively relayed. We now see the price of that manipulation: a final twitch before their eradication."
His blood boils.
Mira and Elijah's faces, the way he saw them on his screen last week, slam back into him: their eyes, their voices, what they said. The raw hurt—words you can't invent.
And now they're called liars.
Something twists in his gut.
He hears his mother's voice in the kitchen, pans clinking. She probably didn't catch the full sentences, or she's pretending not to. It's safer that way.
But he can't. Not this time.
His fists clench so hard his knuckles blanch. The presenter's words repeat, a blade rasping bone: "problematic elements," "false testimony," "manipulation."
He sees Mira again, bent over her notebook in high school, patiently explaining grammar rules, a lock of hair pinned with a pencil.
He sees Elijah on the field, arms spread in front of his sister, ready to swing at anyone who came for her.
And now they're smeared. The whole country told they never suffered, that they were just performing for the rebels.
He wants to smash the radio, but he knows the neighbors already hear too much. So he gets up and slams his bedroom door.
He sits on his bed, head in his hands. His breath shakes.
One thought hammers him: If the Citadel fell, is it over for them?
Doubt poisons him, but his heart refuses. Mira wasn't a liar. Elijah either. And if they were there... then they were crushed a second time.
Night falls over Sofia. The streetlights glaze the wet cobbles.
Tomasz leaves without telling his mother. His steps ring, quick, nervous.
Sofia's night smells like wet coal and oil. The river holds the streetlights like a pale scar. Tomasz follows the docks, hands in his pockets, heart pounding. He knows he's no soldier. No weapon, no plan. But his stride is set: he isn't going home.
A short whistle stops him cold.
— "Lost your way, kid?"
Two silhouettes cut from the shadow of a warehouse. Hoods, scarves up over their faces. One grips an iron bar, the other flashes a torch in his eyes for a second, then kills it.
Tomasz doesn't step back.
— "I want to help."
Silence, then a snort.
— "Everybody says that. Where d'you come from?"
He inhales.
— "I... I was in school with them."
The two trade a wary look.
— "With who?"
— "Mira and Elijah. The ones on TV."
The lamp flares again. Tomasz takes the light full in the face.
— "And what exactly are you here to do? Spit their lies with us?"
He shakes his head, teeth tight.
— "They weren't lies. Not from them. I knew them. They weren't liars."
The silence thickens. Finally the light clicks off for good.
— "Follow us. But if you feed us crap, you're going in the river."
They slip through a rusty back door into the shadow of an empty warehouse. The walls sweat; the windows are smashed. Inside, about ten people. Most young, not past thirty. Two women are coaxing a little coal stove to life. A guy stretched on a pallet has his arm bandaged to the shoulder.
Heads swing toward Tomasz at once.
— "Who's that?" one growls—tall, gaunt, beard wild.
— "A volunteer," says the girl with the lamp. "Says he knows the two... from the Citadel."
A murmur ripples through the room.
— "Well?" the tall one asks, stepping closer. "What were they to you?"
Tomasz swallows.
— "They were... just two kids. My class. She helped me with grammar, he... he was the best at sports. They protected each other, that's all. And now you hear them like I did: tortured, dragged through the mud, and no one believes them."
Silence. The stove grumbles.
One of the women, lined with age, whispers:
— "They say the Citadel's fallen. You know more?"
He shakes his head.
— "Nothing. Just the radio. And they say whatever they want."
Eyes drop. The guy with the bandaged arm spits in a corner.
— "So we're alone. Again."
Tomasz looks around. These people don't have gleaming weapons or a brilliant plan. Just bruised eyes, worn clothes, clenched fists.
And still, he knows this is where he belongs.
He draws breath, and says simply:
— "If the Citadel held this long, there's a reason. If we haven't heard, it doesn't mean it's over. It means they're getting back up. I still believe it."
The tall one studies him for a long beat. Then he nods, slow.
— "Then you stay. But remember: no heroes here. You work, keep your mouth shut, and do your part."
Tomasz nods back.
— "That works for me."
A shy smile gets past his guard.
For the first time in years, he doesn't feel like a spectator.