The old valve radio sits on the workbench like a relic from another age. The tubes heat, vibrate, crackle. Ilya's fingers are stained with graphite and oil, his eyes shadowed, jaw tight. For hours he's been filling pages with numbers, nudging the frequencies by a notch, starting over, erasing, starting again.
Olivia has slid down against the wall, knees drawn up. She watches him halfway, aware he's on the verge of collapse but that no words would pry him loose. Each time the needle jumps, her shoulders tense.
And then, finally, the static turns into a syllable. A voice—breathless, chewed by interference:
— "South cache, medical priority."
Ilya goes still. His pencil drops. Anya. It's her voice, recognizable despite the noise. He closes his eyes a second, as if hearing her alone rekindled something in him.
Another voice takes over, low, slightly rough, but steady:
— "Northeast cache, Gunther. We're stable. All of us."
This time Ilya lets out a breath that's almost a sob. His chest empties in one rush; his shoulders fall. He already knew Mira had survived—the runners had said so. But hearing Gunther, hearing that certainty vibrate through the blur, is like a stone in his chest finally cracking.
He's not allowed to answer—those are the rules: one-way only, to avoid jamming. So he presses his fist to his mouth to hold back what's rising.
Boris is there, standing beside him, arms crossed. The weathered face doesn't change, but his eyelids blink slower—his own signal that a weight has shifted.
Then Boris's voice goes out over the frequency, calm and cutting at once:
— "Rendezvous at the eastern mine. Window: six hours. Wounded first, move by groups. End of transmission."
The crackle fades.
Ilya shuts his eyes; his hand slides from his face to the table. He murmurs, almost to himself:
— "They're all right."
Olivia looks at him. She understands everything without him saying her name. Her mouth lifts into a tired smile, fragile but real.
Boris barely turns his head.
---
The cold bites the second we push the hangar door. A blade of air knifes in, tears at the tarps we'd strung between crates, kicks up dust and the sour reek of diesel. The wounded shiver at once—some chatter, others clutch blankets tighter to their narrow chests. It feels like the night is swallowing us already.
I hitch my scarf higher over my mouth, but the air gets everywhere, sharp as needles in the lungs. My numb fingers close on Boris's message. The scrawled words are all that keeps us upright: Rendezvous at the mine. Six hours. Not a promise, just an order. But I hook my breath—and my steps—to it.
Beside me, Elijah tucks an arm under a wounded mechanic's shoulders. His ribs still fold him up—I can see it in the clipped pull of his breath—but he grits his teeth and moves. When he leans toward me, his voice is rough but gentle:
— "Don't worry about me. I'm holding."
I shake my head.
— "You shouldn't be carrying anyone like that."
He forces a smile, throws me that warm look that cuts through pain.
— "And leave you to do it alone? Not happening."
I clench my jaw. It steadies me as much as it breaks me.
Tinka works her way through us, lamp in hand, checking every strap, every pack. Her voice slices the night like a blade:
— "We go tight. No gaps. If one person falls, we all stop."
A murmur rolls the length of the group: yes, understood. The silhouettes draw in, disciplined.
Gunther brings up the rear of the hangar. His huge shape looms in the truck's plume, rifle across his chest. Before he climbs in, he takes two seconds—just two—to set a firm hand on my shoulder. The heat of it punches through my coat.
— "You'll be okay, Mira. I'm driving. Breathe."
I nod, unable to answer. That touch alone keeps me upright.
The truck waits, engine idling low in the cold. The bitter reek of fuel mixes with the white steam pouring from the exhaust. The tailgate metal is frozen, almost sticks to our gloves. Elijah heaves the wounded man up with a pained grunt; I slip in behind to wedge a blanket under his legs.
Inside, the air is thick with diesel and sweat. We pack in among crates and bags; the lamps flutter with the engine's rhythm. The wounded groan at every jolt, but no one complains. Just clenched teeth, eyes fixed forward.
I settle next to Elijah, the message crumpled in my hand. He wipes his mouth; his split lip has started bleeding again. I open my mouth to protest, but he's already seen it coming:
— "I've had worse."
— "Stop saying that," I murmur. "We don't have to compare."
He quirks that half-smile he always uses when he wants to calm me.
— "Then take it how you want, but I'm on my feet. And so are you. That's what counts."
Gunther slams the cab door, shifts gears. The truck shudders, vibrates under us, and I feel my chest lift with it—like each shiver proves we're still moving, not dead.
I pull a long breath. The fuel sting makes my eyes prickle; the press of bodies crushes, but I grit the paper into my palm.
It's the only compass I have left: Rendezvous at the mine. Six hours.
I repeat it like a prayer.
---
The air knives into them the second they leave the concrete. Wind whistles through bare trees, whips at faces, sneaks under coats. Headlamps cut cones of light that the snow-squall swallows at once. Each step snaps in the night, sometimes followed by a treacherous slide when ice surprises their soles.
Mikel shoulders a wounded man, the body dragged on him like dead weight. The breath in his ear is raspy, wet, too close. Piotr takes the other side, steady, fingers knotted in the man's coat, massive arms holding balance whenever Mikel wobbles. The med pack beats his spine; every step drags him down a little more.
Ahead, Anya moves at a brisk clip. Her silhouette floats at the edge of her lamp. The IV bags she carries clack against her hip with every stride. A few strands have escaped her hood and frozen to her cheeks with rime. She glances back once; the light catches her lashes dusted white.
— "If the mine's still holding," she says, "we'll be there in an hour."
Her voice is firm despite the panting, and Mikel catches that line like a rope thrown into a blizzard. An hour. He repeats it inside his head to make it true. And in that we, he hears something more than a pack of runaways.
Anya's eyes turn forward again, back into the snow. But Mikel keeps the quick smile she tossed him while she spoke. So brief he could have imagined it. Still, it's enough to thaw a frozen corner of him.
The wounded man buckles; his legs go. Mikel folds under the weight, knees about to give.
— "Shit," he grinds out.
Piotr snaps into it—yanks the man up, sets him like it's nothing.
— "Lower," he orders, not letting go. "Not the shoulder, the waist. Let your legs do it."
Mikel nods, resets his hold. His arms shake, but he obeys. The wounded man's breath rattles, but he's upright. Piotr darts him a side look—approving, almost protective.
They move again. Cold bites their cheeks; sweat runs under their layers. Anya eases her pace just enough to wait for them. She turns, eyes bright in the gloom.
— "You good?" she asks, softer than she usually sounds.
Mikel opens his mouth, but nothing comes. He only nods, cheeks hotter from fluster than exertion. He feels clumsy, foolish—but she holds his gaze a heartbeat longer, and he thinks he sees it: she's checking that he's holding, not just his body.
She faces forward again, takes the lead. The sound of her steps blends with the wind, steady, reassuring despite everything.
Mikel goes on, teeth clenched. In his head, one line loops in time with his feet:
One hour.
---
The derelict garage rings with the dry slap of his boots. Ilya's been ready for ages—rifle slung, pack strapped, two hard drives zipped in a sleeve he keeps clutched to his chest like a relic. His foot taps the concrete, counting out a beat he can't quiet. Every vibration feels like a countdown.
Around him, the others cinch straps, check latches, run through crates. They say little; words are short, mechanical. But Ilya is already outside them, elsewhere: picturing the mine, replaying Gunther's voice on the radio, the silent promise that Mira's alive. He heard Gunther say, "We're stable." That one fragment dissolved the bile he'd been swallowing for hours.
Olivia comes over, hood pulled low, one hand trembling as she pushes a loose strand off her face. She looks at him without judgment, only that old fatigue in her eyes. Her voice cuts the tension, gentle and firm at once:
— "You can't sprint ahead. Let them come to you."
Ilya stiffens. The sleeve bites his palm; he squeezes harder. A flat anger rises—quick, raw.
— "If I could go alone, I'd already be gone," he admits.
Olivia doesn't need to explain the logic, but says it anyway, like a salve:
— "I know. But if you sprint and fall, you don't see her either."
He looks away, embarrassed by the emotion that betrays him. The urge to bolt still burns his muscles—the thought of grabbing her, holding her, checking she's okay. But he knows anger can be stupid and costly. The rifle's cold metal against his chest pulses the reminder: move with them, not against them.
Boris passes by, coat crusted with frost, beard seeded with crystals. He says nothing—just a nod, a wordless order: patience, discipline, survive. Ilya reads it in the man's hard gaze, and something inside settles without going out.
He thinks of what's in the sleeve—logs, file fragments, images that might one day prove what Mira and Elijah lived. He hugs them to him like fragile treasure. If he loses them—if they lose him—the proof goes with it. The equation is simple and cruel: his caution is also a form of love.
Soon the rough cough of an engine fills the hangar. Streetlamps, silhouettes, the line starts moving. Ilya yanks his hood up, tightens his gloves. Olivia's hand lands on his shoulder—a tiny gesture: you come back. She doesn't say it, but her eyes do.
He nods, grudging and resolved. No mad dashes today. No stunts. He slows his heart, sets his steps to the others'. Each one pulls him a cable-length away from her and one vow closer—quiet, steady—that feels more important than his impatience: hold the line, keep the proof, bring the voice up when it's needed.
---
The frozen breath of the world slaps us the moment we leave the trail. Pines bow under snow, and there, between them, the mine appears at last: a black mouth, yawning, shored up by rotten beams. Rusted rails poke from the ground like broken bones. Just looking at it, I feel it might cave on us... but it's a roof. And a roof right now is worth gold.
Gunther's up front, huge with his rifle tight to his chest. Tinka right behind, lamp low, her eyes raking the dark. Elijah and I follow with the others. The wounded stumble, some sag between two shoulders. We push, we prop, we drag if we must.
Gunther raises his fist. Everyone stops, panting, snow burning our throats. Two hard knocks ring against a stock. The sound drops into the mine's throat. Silence. Then a quick whistle. The code. My shoulders lower a notch. There are watchers already.
— "Clear. Move," Gunther breathes.
We plunge. The air changes at once—denser, saturated with dust and wet stone. It smells of iron and mold. My boots squeal over a skin of ice; I almost go down, but Elijah plants a hand at my back and steadies me. Even with blood on his lip and ribs folding him, he doesn't let go.
A storm lamp burns in a corner on a rock. Its tremor of light cuts out a vaguely dry patch. Tinka points:
— "Set them there. Not too close to the wall—it seeps."
I kneel at once beside a mechanic shivering with fever. I wedge a blanket under his shoulders, rub his frozen hands between mine. Boris's message is still in my pocket, creased, and I can't put it down. Every word on it reminds me we still have a heading, however small.
Gunther checks the perimeter, then finally leans his rifle to the stone. His voice fills the space:
— "It's not much, but it's dry. We hold here till the rest make it."
The wounded collapse onto blankets; breaths plume white. The ceiling rumbles softly, like the mountain breathing above us. My teeth chatter—not only from cold.
I scan for Elijah. He's setting a lamp, movements stiff, mouth tight. But when our eyes meet, he gives me that little smile—the one that says We're still here. I take it like a lifeline.
---
An hour later, footsteps approach—heavy, uneven, like each body drags the world behind it down that tunnel. But I barely hear anything past my heart's hard drum. There's a way he walks, a rhythm I learned without trying, and I know. Before the lamplight finds his face, I know.
I spring up. My knees dip, but I force them and push forward. The mine's cold breath bites my skin; my fingers clutch Boris's message on reflex to stop their shaking.
And then I see him.
His features cut free at last in the wavering light. Black hair plastered with sweat and thawed snow, dark strands stuck to his brow. His eyes find me at once, lock with an intensity that pins me in place. I have no air, no legs—only a rush of heat and tears.
His pack thuds to the ground. His boots slap wet rock. And before I can close the distance, his arms are around me.
I hit his chest hard enough to tear a sob from me. His coat is icy, drenched, but he burns underneath. His good hand cups my nape; his fingers bury in my hair like he's afraid I'll vanish again. And his metal arm—cold, unyielding—clamps across my back. I shiver at the chill through my coat, but I've never felt anything surer. He holds me with everything he has, flesh and steel together, as if he could weld me to him for good.
A word rips loose from him, low, rough, dragged through his teeth:
— "My love..."
It breaks me. It mends me. I laugh and cry at once, cheek pressed to his soaked shoulder. Sweat, snow, dust—our lungs full of it—and I cling. I fist his collar till it hurts; my tears run hot against cold fabric.
His chest vibrates under my cheek; his breath is ragged, almost a smothered sob. His lips brush my temple—quick, clumsy, like he's afraid of too much. His fingers keep threading my hair, trembling but sure.
I can't speak. Not yet. So I nod and press closer. He breathes against me, words that slice straight through:
— "I found you."
I shut my eyes and breathe him—his heat, his scent, even his cold. I tip my hand up to his cheek and stroke, careful, shaking. His skin is freezing, rough with fatigue; the muscle jumps under my touch. He looks at me like I just gave him air.
So I lift my chin. Our mouths find each other—slow this time, not like the first time when everything burned. Deep, held, a promise whispered without words. His breath folds into mine; the snow, the wounded, the watchers—gone.
When I draw back, melted snow beads his lashes. He smiles, barely—tired but true, the kind of smile that only belongs to him.
I'm still wrapped in Ilya's warmth when a shape peels out of the dark. Elijah. His lip is split, his cheek still marked from the hit two days ago, but his eyes shine differently. Softer. More... human.
He stops before us, hesitates a beat. Then—what shocks me—he steps in and pulls Ilya into him. Not an awkward half-hug, not a performative clap: a real hold, heavy, from the gut.
I freeze, breath snagged, watching. Ilya doesn't move for a second, surprised—and then he closes his arms too. The cold knock of his prosthetic taps Elijah's coat; his other hand grips tight, as if to stretch the moment.
— "I swear..." Elijah breathes, voice cracked. "I swear I thought we'd lost you."
His fingers tremble on Ilya's shoulder. I don't think I've heard him say that to anyone—like that. Not even to me.
Ilya nods, lips pressed, no words. But I see his eyes over Elijah's shoulder, and he doesn't have to speak: I understand.
Gunther steps up next. He stops in front of Ilya and scans him top to toe like he's checking for missing pieces. Then that huge arm comes down on Ilya's shoulder in a smack so solid dust flies off the coat.
— "Took your time," he growls—but his voice wavers.
Bootsteps echo behind Ilya. Lamps dance across the blackened walls. Boris comes down slow, stiff silhouette, Olivia on his heels. Their arrival snuffs what chatter there was. Boris sweeps us with his gaze, weighs the scene. He lingers on Elijah, on me, on Ilya, then says only:
— "Good. We're still standing."
The words snap like a verdict—bare—but in his eyes I think I see something else. Not tenderness—never with Boris—but a glint that says he hadn't fully believed it until now.
Olivia lets out the ghost of a smile when she sees Ilya by me. But I also see her shoulders sag, like the weight she's carried since we scattered finally slips. Her eyes shine in the trembling light. She scans the gallery—first fast, then slower—counting shapes one by one.
I watch her stop. Her gaze passes over Elijah, me, Gunther and Tinka, Ilya... and doesn't find who she wants.
Her jaw sets; her fingers tighten on the lamp. She says nothing, but the silence says it for her: Mikel isn't here.
---
Time stretches in the mine. Cold worms under blankets, lamps gutter, and each minute seems to swallow more air. No one speaks much: some doze against rock, others watch the entrance.
Then, at last, footsteps in the narrow passage. Low voices, winded. Tinka is up in an instant, rifle lifted—but the coded reply snaps back: two hard knocks, a short whistle. Shapes bloom ghostlike in the lamplight.
Mikel is in front, hair crusted with frost, jacket whitened by snow. Behind him, Piotr braces a wounded man whose legs all but drag. Anya brings up the rear, med pack open, vials still tinkling as she steps in.
Silence lands for a heartbeat, as if everyone held breath.
Olivia is already on her feet. She doesn't speak, doesn't think. She crosses the gallery fast, and when she reaches Mikel she pulls him into her with a force that almost folds him. Her voice breaks, rough, strangled:
— "Mikel..."
The name rings, echoes off the blackened walls. Mikel buries his face in her shoulder, and in a blink—despite his age, despite all he's lived—he looks like a child finding his refuge. His arms lock around her, hard, as if he fears she'll vanish again.
No one says a word. Even Boris looks away. It's theirs. And we all know what it means: they survived—but they could just as easily not have.
Anya steps aside a little, eyes wet despite herself. She comes toward me. I move, and we fold each other in without thinking. Her fingers are ice, shaking, but she holds on for a second. I breathe:
— "You're here."
She nods, unable to answer yet. Behind us, Elijah sets a solid hand on Piotr's shoulder—a quiet thank-you.
Mikel lifts his head at last, eyes still bright. He searches a moment, finds my face. Despite the fatigue, despite the rime still clinging to his lashes, he smiles. A real one—like a spark through the mine. I smile back, and I know it isn't just relief. It's more than that: we're together. All of us.