The heat in the workshop is a lid. The furnace screams at his back; the air is choked with smoke and metal dust. Every breath scrapes, leaves a bitter taste at the back of the throat. Hammer blows and presses tangle with the spit of sparks, the hiss of compressors, the sharp snap of chains being tightened and released. A constant racket that floods the space—but doesn't drown out the voices.
They ride over it, slip between the sledgehammer blows. The radio, hung from a beam, spits out bulletins in a metallic voice, sliced by static. The sentences have been the same for hours:
— "Final victory. The Citadel is no more. The government congratulates its forces. The last rebels have been scattered..."
Tomasz ducks his head over his station. The bar he pulls from the furnace runs with heat, almost white. He sets it on the anvil, adjusts his hammer, and strikes. The shock rings up his arm, sinks into his shoulder. Clang. Clang. Clang. The steady rhythm is the only thing keeping him from answering.
Around him, they snicker.
— "Saw it coming," grunts Jan, cigarette at the corner of his mouth. "Tunnel rats..."
— "Serves 'em right," Piasek chimes in, sweat slicking his brow. "Less vermin. On to the next thing."
— "And their 'testimonies'! What a show," adds a third. "Kid actors. You could tell."
Clang. Clang. Clang. Tomasz keeps going, eyes down. His knuckles blanch around the tongs.
— "The Loop," the youngest laughs, an apprentice. "We all know what that was. Problem cases, sent off for correction. Not martyrs."
Heat surges up Tomasz's neck. The air grows heavier. His hand shakes a little on the hammer's haft. He stops a second to plunge the bar back into the furnace's mouth. Flame washes him red and yellow, throws a gleam into his eyes. He counts to eight in his head, grits his teeth.
But the voices keep going.
— "You see them whine on TV?" Jan jeers. "Like drama-club kids."
— "Yeah, and the other one, the tall dark-haired guy. Couldn't even look up. Probably liked it, deep down."
— "And the sister," the youngest adds, "been trash from the start with those big green eyes. Bet she's already found herself another rebel to stay useful."
Clang. Tomasz hits too hard. The metal skids, bites the anvil. The vibration shoots up to his elbow. He shuts his eyes a second, jaw locked.
He sees something else. The high-school hallway, the gray lockers. Mira, grammar book in hand, leaning in to explain a rule, laughing softly. Elijah farther down, a hand pressed to some guy's shoulder to warn him off. The gym, their impossible sprints, the smell of sweat and chalk. And that biology day, when the teacher asked them to step out "just a minute, with your things." They never came back.
A greasy laugh yanks him into the shop.
— "Hey, Tomasz, cat got your tongue? You were sniveling the other day for the poor little darlings..."
He goes still, hammer hanging over the red steel. His breath locks. Slowly, he turns his head just enough to look over his shoulder. Cold. Hard. Enough to jam the laugh in the other man's throat.
He turns back. The bar waits, glowing. He strikes again. Clang. Clang. Clang. Each blow shocks his arm but doesn't ease anything. The quench hisses when he dips the metal; steam bursts up in burning clouds that lash his face.
The radio, implacable:
— "...Decisive victory. Order is restored."
Tomasz slams the furnace door, rips off his gloves, flings them on the bench. The metal clatter is too loud. His shoulders are tight; his breath is short. In the oily reflection of the hood he catches his face: hollowed, tired, older than twenty. His eyes shine—not with sweat, but banked rage.
— "Break!" the foreman yells. "Five minutes!"
The men scatter, go drink, smoke, keep laughing at their jokes. Tomasz stays alone at the anvil. He sets both hands on it, closes his eyes. The metal still hums under his palm. He counts. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
He tells himself in silence: not here. Not for them. Not now.
---
The apartment smells of lukewarm soup and drying laundry. The lamp over the table throws a weak circle of light around their bowls, a trembling island in the dark. His mother sits across from Tomasz, loosens her hair with a distracted gesture, then smooths her smock over her knees. Her face is tired, but her eyes stay attentive.
They eat in silence at first. Spoons tapping gently on porcelain.
— "Worked late again?" she asks.
— "Mhm. Backlog at the shop."
She studies him a beat.
— "You should think about yourself, too."
He shrugs.
— "If I don't, who will?"
A small smile slides across her face. She knows that tone—stubborn, mule-headed. He's had it since he was little.
— "You get that from me," she mutters. "And I know how it burns you out."
He drops his eyes, stirs the soup without appetite. She stops, sets her spoon down, folds her hands.
— "Tomasz. You're all I have. I just... don't want to watch you burn up."
The silence that follows is heavy, not cold. The kind shared by two people who don't need many words. Tomasz finally lifts his gaze to her.
— "What about you, Mom? You work nights, you run everywhere, you never stop."
She laughs softly, shakes her head.
— "I'm not your age. I'm too old to be saved anymore. You've still got your future."
He grips the spoon tighter, thinking of what he can't tell her. The images he keeps to himself. But through the fatigue there's love—solid, intact.
When she slips on her coat, ready to go, he stands too. She passes him, sets a hand at his nape like she did when he was a child. He leans in and kisses her cheek.
— "Be careful, Mom."
She closes her eyes briefly, holds back a shiver.
— "You too, my son. Always you too."
She opens the door; the hallway swallows her. A draft of cold breathes into the apartment, then the door shuts, and Tomasz is alone.
He stares at the clock. The ticking hammers his temples. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. When he's sure she's far, he pulls on his coat, slides the old knife into his belt.
It's time.
---
The basement smells of old grease, dust, and damp. The walls are gnawed by mold; pipes groan overhead and water drops steadily into a dented basin. One half-burnt bulb dangles from a wire, barely lighting the room. Tomasz climbs down the ladder carefully; every creak makes him feel too loud already.
Six silhouettes wait below. It's always like this since he joined: the weighing looks, the quiet inspection, like every night he has to prove he deserves to be here.
Pawel moves first. Forty-five, square jaw, broad shoulders—the build of a man who wore a uniform most of his life. He doesn't talk much, but each word snaps like an order. He gives only a curt nod, rough:
— "Sit. Listen."
Beside him, Zofia is the opposite. Measured gestures, weighed words. Thirty-eight, hair pulled back, features tired but eyes still gentle, not yet snuffed out. A former teacher, she still holds a protective arc around Stela, the youngest. Seventeen, slight, bright-eyed and frank. She's the first to throw Tomasz a timid, sincere smile, as if she refuses to meet him with suspicion.
Adrian crouches in a corner, fiddling with a bolt. Twenty-three, ex-mine worker; no one knows explosives better. But he carries the air of a lost kid with no home and no bearings. His laugh always rings a bit false; his hands smell of coal and powder.
Tomasz sits slowly, back straight. He keeps his eyes on his hands, but he can feel the looks. The new one. The twenty-year-old who showed up with nothing but a quiet anger and a common name. Not a soldier, not a hero. A metalworker's apprentice. And yet, here he is.
Their weapons are more flea-market than arsenal: two rusted rifles, a few Molotovs lined on a wooden crate, and a pistol that's changed hands a dozen times. The real centerpiece is the valve radio on a rickety table. An old patched set that wheezes like an asthmatic.
They've got almost nothing. But they want to fight.
Every night, the ritual repeats. Everyone around the radio, like a fire.
The static swallows the room. Parasites, white breath. The sound fills everything, occupies the silence, but says nothing. Pawel drags on a cigarette; Zofia keeps a hand on Stela's shoulder—Stela chews her sleeve, too nervous to be still. Adrian taps his foot, a dry beat that bounces off the concrete.
Tomasz can't draw a normal breath. His lungs pinch tighter with every passing second. He sees the shop again, his coworkers' greasy laughs, the filth they dumped on Mira and Elijah. "Liars. Junkies. A tramp and her sellout brother." Their words haunted him all day. And what if he's wrong? What if he cast light on faces that were already nothing but ash?
He stares at the radio like his whole life depends on it. Like a single voice could wipe everything clean.
The minutes stretch. Ten. Twenty. The quiet grows heavy, draped like a shroud.
Pawel snorts smoke through his nose.
— "Three days with nothing. Maybe there's nothing left to hear."
Stela flinches; her eyes go wide.
— "You mean... they're really...?"
Zofia pulls her in at once, voice soft but firm:
— "No. Until we hear the final silence, there's still something."
Even her words shake.
Then, suddenly, the sound changes. A sharper crackle, like someone knocking on the walls of the quiet. The bulb flickers. The static turns into a paced breath.
And a voice breaks through.
Low. Gravelly. Every syllable carrying the weight of ash and blood.
— "This is the Hawk"
Tomasz's breath stops dead.
— "The government lied. The Citadel fell, but we are still standing."
The basement freezes.
— "We call on all active cells to make contact. Open war begins."
Then the sputter returns, swallowing the voice. But it's had time to brand itself.
A thick silence follows. Not a dead one. A live, humming quiet, like a storm about to break.
Adrian drops the bolt, fist tight, eyes bright.
— "Holy... they're still there."
Stela laughs—a small, trembling giggle that shakes in her throat. She claps a hand over her mouth, as if afraid it'll spill out too loud.
— "You hear that? They're still alive."
Zofia closes her eyes; her lips barely move. A prayer maybe—or just a thread of thanks.
Pawel nods slowly. His voice cuts, deep:
— "Then... we start."
Tomasz shuts his eyes. His fists tremble on his knees. His whole body hums like it might burst. The Hawk is still alive. That means they survived, somewhere. Not all of them, maybe—but enough.
And if the Hawk lives, then Mira and Elijah can live too.
He sees their faces again, their teenage smiles. Mira correcting his grammar. Elijah always stepping in when someone jostled his sister. School uniforms, shared glances. And he promises himself, this time, to act before he regrets it.