I wake slowly, like the warmth decided to hold me a little longer.
Pale light filters through dirty panes, slicing the room into gray and gold. The air smells of warm dust and metal, but for the first time in months, it isn't unpleasant.
Ilya's already awake. Half-awake, anyway.
His arm's folded under his head, hair a mess, gaze lost on the ceiling. When he feels me move, he turns toward me—and his smile, tired but true, melts me on the spot.
— "Good morning, miss," he murmurs, voice still rough.
I laugh, sleep-scraped.
— "You're going to stick with that till the end of the world, aren't you?"
— "That's the plan. My personal privilege."
I grumble, but slide my hand onto his chest, right where his shirt is a little creased.
He still has that soft heat. He keeps it even in the cold.
— "I'd forgotten what this felt like," I whisper.
— "What?"
— "Waking up without sirens, without shouting, without a radio. Just... this."
He nods slowly.
— "Yeah. I think we needed a pause."
We lie there a while, listening to the radiator's thin hum, the beams cracking overhead. His fingers idly toy with a strand of my hair.
I roll onto my side, cheek on his shoulder.
— "Hurting much?"
— "A bit. It's fine."
I look at him; he's got that little furrow between his brows that says the opposite.
— "And I'm guessing pain or not, you're putting the prosthesis on the second you get up?"
— "That's not exactly new."
— "You're stubborn."
— "And you talk a lot for someone who should still be sleeping."
I smile, not answering.
He finally pushes up a little, stretches his shoulders. The sheet slips, revealing the red mark the harness left. He grimaces, exhales, then reaches for it beside the mattress.
Metal clicks softly as he settles it. The movements are precise, almost ritual.
I watch without a word.
He feels my eyes and turns, a little self-conscious.
— "What?"
— "Nothing."
— "No, say it."
— "I like you without your prosthesis."
— "Seriously?"
— "Seriously."
He studies me, half-skeptical, half-amused.
— "Gotta admit, I feel less impressive without my unbreakable robot arm."
— "You're not supposed to impress anyone."
— "Except you, maybe."
— "Too late. You're already done for."
He lets out a small, honest laugh. It knots my stomach with a simple happiness.
I reach to help with the straps even though he doesn't need me.
It's useless, but it's us: him letting me, me pretending to help just to have an excuse to touch him a little longer.
When he's finished, he leans in and kisses me, quick.
— "Thank you, miss."
— "I swear I'm going to hit you."
— "Dangerous promise. Especially in this position."
I laugh, and he kisses me again, longer.
And of course, that's when someone hammers on the door.
— "LOVE BIRDS! UP!" a voice yells.
Elijah.
Ilya rolls his eyes, exasperated.
— "Naturally."
I laugh.
— "He heard you, for sure."
— "Or he's got a radar for intimate moments."
Another thump at the door.
— "I'm coming in in ten seconds, fair warning. And if I see so much as a square inch of skin, I'm shipping you to the sisters, Mira!"
I laugh so hard I choke.
Ilya just sighs, dead tired.
— "Tell him I've already done my time with religious institutions. He'll calm down."
— "I would never dare."
I finally get up—hair a mess, smile stuck to my face despite myself.
He rubs the back of his neck, still sitting on the mattress, looking half-guilty, half-proud.
— "We should probably..."
— "Yes. Get dressed before my brother kicks the door in."
He laughs.
I love him, for god's sake. Even in a damp factory, half-awake, with a war outside.
Especially here, actually.
---
The engine hums—steady, almost comforting in the white quiet.
The air smells of diesel and wet wool. We're all crammed in back among crates and bags, bundled in everything we could scavenge. Windows fogged, snow tapping the panels in a near-regular rhythm.
Up front, Gunther drives, focused but calm. He fills the seat, shoulders straight, one hand on the gear stick. Beside him, Ilya lights a map with his headlamp, tracing lines like he already knows them by heart.
In back, it's a different mood. Elijah thumps his foot for warmth, Piotr checks his weapon without really thinking, and Tinka watches out the rear window, that permanent impassive look nailed to her face.
— "Honestly, comfiest vacation of my life," Elijah mutters. "Granted, the only one I remember."
— "You're a comedian," Piotr says, not looking up.
Tinka lets a small smile slip.
— "I'd have preferred a southern cruise."
— "No, too hot," Elijah replies. "Here we've got snow, fresh air, post-traumatic stress—much more authentic."
I laugh under my breath. Even Gunther, up front, shows a smile in the reflection.
— "If you're not happy, I'll let you drive," he throws without turning.
— "No no, boss, carry on," Elijah says. "You're doing great."
The cold bites, but the mood stays light, almost normal. It's good to hear someone laugh. We've driven over an hour; the forest grows denser. Headlights slice trunks in the fog, and sometimes shadows move between the trees.
A sharp sound snaps us still.
A crack, very close.
My breath locks in my throat.
— "Gunther, stop," Ilya murmurs.
The truck idles to a halt.
Everyone tenses. Tinka's already raised her weapon; Elijah peers through the glass.
— "You see anything?" I whisper.
— "Nothing," Piotr murmurs.
— "Wait..."
Another sound. Louder. Like a gallop in the snow.
I hold my breath. Shadows flit again—fast, blurred. And suddenly something big bursts onto the road.
We all freeze.
For one second, the world hangs.
A deer.
Magnificent, huge, antlers rimed with frost. It turns toward the headlights, eyes glinting like two gold coins. Then it leaps away into the forest.
Complete silence.
Then Elijah barks a nervous laugh.
— "Thought we were dead, man."
— "It's a deer, Eli," Tinka says. "Not a tank."
— "Yeah, well, it had a tank's face for a second."
— "You're scared of anything that moves," Piotr says, amused.
— "False. I just have excellent survival instincts."
Gunther shakes his head, a real smile tugging his mouth.
— "Swear to you, I've driven quieter convoys under bombardment."
Ilya snorts, rolls his eyes.
— "Next time I'm shooting anyway," he mutters.
— "Not from my truck," Gunther snaps back. "No blood on my bodywork."
— "No promises," Ilya says, mock-serious.
---
The truck grinds to a stop, tires sliding on packed snow. The engine dies, and the silence that follows feels too loud, like the whole forest is holding its breath.
Gunther drops down first, boots planted in powder. He scans the factory—or what's left: a black carcass in all that white. Blown-out windows, roof beams split like broken ribs.
— "Time to go shopping," he murmurs.
Ilya joins him with a lamp, already absorbed by the building's lines.
— "Held better than I feared," he says, mostly to himself. "We'll still have transformers, maybe a relay..."
— "Or mutant rats," Elijah mutters from the back.
I climb down; the cold hits at once. A cutting wind whistles through window frames. Tinka steps behind me, checking her scope. She spots a service stair rising to a partially collapsed roof.
— "I'm taking a high perch," she says. "If it moves, I shoot first, ask later."
— "Angel that you are," Gunther smiles.
She shrugs and goes, agile, rifle thumping her thigh.
Piotr leads, steady, sure, weapon up. He prods the flooring with his boot; the wood groans.
— "Rotten floor," he warns. "Follow my steps."
Inside is a chaos of shadow. The cold is in everything; each breath falls back as frost on the cables. Frozen puddles on the floor, rusted tools, papers glued to concrete.
Ilya takes point—lamp in one hand, pistol in the other. He keeps glancing around, attentive to every noise.
Elijah stays tight behind him and—surprise—he's quiet. Focused.
— "You wouldn't think it, but you're stealthier than before," I murmur as I pass him.
— "I'm training not to get yelled at by Ilya," he whispers back, a crooked grin.
— "Missed," Ilya says without looking up from his map.
Elijah lifts both hands in mock surrender.
— "He's got ears in his back. Not human."
— "That's why he likes you," I say, amused. "He likes a challenge."
Elijah sticks out his tongue and, despite the cold, it draws a laugh I choke down at once.
Piotr raises a hand:
— "Shh. Listen."
A sharp noise outside, like something splitting.
Silence falls again.
Ilya signs to Elijah to cover the door. My heart slams my ribs.
Another sound.
Something scratching.
Elijah shoots me a look—tense, coiled. I nod, my hand on my weapon.
Then a shadow moves across a shattered window frame. Fast.
Piotr takes two steps, aims.
A crash.
Something hits outside.
We edge out. Wind howls through the branches.
In the headlights we catch the gaunt shape of another deer bolting full-tilt through the snow.
Elijah lets out a long breath.
— "Seriously?! How many of those things live out here?"
— "At least you didn't shoot," Ilya says, holstering his gun.
— "Five more seconds and I swear my name was tattooed between its antlers," Elijah grumbles.
Gunther, who stayed outside, barks a laugh.
— "See, kids? Always listen to Tinka: 'shoot first, ask later.'"
I feel the tension drain.
The adrenaline buzzes in my fingers, but at least we're breathing again.
The sky's gone darker; clouds swallow what light is left.
We head back in.
Ilya's already at it, probing a breaker panel with a surgeon's care. His hands glide over the frozen metal, find wires, ease off rusted plates.
I watch him work. His movements are quick, sure. Each time he finds a cable that's still good, he cuts it and coils it neat in his bag.
— "Tell me we found something," I breathe.
— "More than I thought," he answers. "If we get our hands on a converter or two, I can bring the radio back up."
Elijah whistles softly.
— "This guy talks about circuits like miracles."
— "Because they are," Ilya shoots back without turning.
Piotr bends over a pile of crates.
— "We've got copper, old gear, maybe batteries. It'll take time to haul."
— "We've got the truck," Gunther says. "If everything holds till dusk, we'll be back before full dark."
I nod, eyes still on Ilya—hair in his eyes, fingers reddened by cold.
For a beat, everything feels almost normal.
Like we're not fugitives, just people tinkering in a ruined factory because the light has to come back somewhere.
---
The drive back feels endless.
The engine groans, heavy and tired; every bump makes the body creak.
Night has fallen—black wall, no moon.
Sometimes we only hear wind and the steady click of half-dead heat.
No one talks.
Even Elijah, usually unstoppable, leans on the window, eyes lost in headlight blur. Tinka watches the rear from the tailgate. Gunther drives, intent, shoulders tight.
— "If anyone sneezes, I'm leaving you outside," he mutters eventually.
A brief, strangled laugh escapes Elijah.
— "Promise, boss. We'll stop breathing."
I smile, but my fingers stay clenched on my thigh.
Beside me, Ilya keeps his hand on mine—anchored, firm, warm despite the cold. Not a caress—a reflex. A presence.
I squeeze back, just enough for him to feel I need it.
The landscape ghosts by. Pine trunks, flashes of ice, whiteness swallowing everything.
Cold leaks through the seams, into our bones.
I realize I've been holding my breath for miles.
Only when the factory's dark shape rises ahead do I let it out.
We made it.
Whole.
As soon as we stop, everything snaps into motion.
Gunther gives half-voiced orders, Tinka jumps from the tailgate to cover the outside, Piotr and Elijah unload crates.
Ilya doesn't waste a second: he grabs his bag and heads straight for the generator he'd rigged earlier.
I follow him with my eyes.
His movements are quick, precise, fever-bright. He pulls a cable, screws, solders, blows smoke from hot metal. Hair stuck to his forehead, eyes lit with a fierce intensity.
I sit on a crate nearby, half-fascinated.
His fingers move like they have their own memory.
— "If this works it's not a miracle," I murmur. "It's a masterpiece."
He gives a distracted smile, not looking up.
— "If it works, it's more luck than brains."
He tweaks two more leads, tightens a clamp, taps the gauge with his fingertip.
Then he powers on.
Static.
Nothing.
A flat hush.
His jaw tightens. He starts again. Changes frequency. Adjusts the feed. Raps the casing.
Silence keeps biting.
Elijah comes over, arms crossed.
— "Looks like me trying to bake a cake."
— "Except if I mess up, nobody laughs," Ilya says, eyes fixed.
I bite my lip.
Sound returns—chopped, thin.
Another crackle, clearer.
Ilya leans close, voice lower, controlled:
— "West Base, this is North Cell. Do you read?"
A scrape, then the void again.
Gunther steps up, silent.
Ilya repeats, louder:
— "West Base, this is North Cell. Do you read? Respond."
The quiet gnaws at his nerves. I see his breath deepen as he clamps down on anger.
And then—a tone. A breath.
A rough voice, unmistakable:
— "North Cell... yes, I read you."
Olivia.
A shaky laugh bursts out of me—half sob.
Ilya goes still a second, then shuts his eyes.
His hand drops to the set like he's afraid it might vanish.
— "Olivia? That you? Ilya here."
— "I know." (a small, tired laugh) "We were waiting for you."
Gunther lets out a relieved bark:
— "Jesus, it works."
Piotr throws in an amused "Amen." Elijah throws his arms up:
— "Hallelujah, holy shit!"
Olivia again, clearer:
— "Where are you?"
Ilya:
— "Old power plant, ten kilometers north. Temporary system, but stable."
— "Copy. You made the radio sing again, Ilya. Boris is going to bless you."
He chuckles softly, head down.
I don't think he's looked this alive in ages.
I move without thinking. My heart's still pounding like I'm on the run—but it's over, this time. It's a good noise in my ears. Real.
Ilya sets the mic down slowly, fingers trembling a little. He shuts his eyes, draws a deep breath, then lets it out, head low. His lips move without sound—a thank you, I think.
So I go to him without a word.
I stop right in front; my boots scuff the concrete. He opens his eyes, surprised, and before he can speak I grab his collar and kiss him.
Not stolen, not furtive. Long, full—everything we didn't get to say for days. Cold air on warm mouths, my hands in his coat, his breath catching against my cheek.
When I finally pull back, he cups my face, dark eyes locked on mine.
His prosthetic—still warm from work—vibrates faintly against my hip.
He smiles— that small smile that betrays him whenever he falls back in love with life.
— "Told you it would work, miss," he murmurs, low, threaded with tender amusement.
I laugh, shake my head, thumb away a smear of dust on his cheek.
— "You're a genius, that's all."
— "No," he says, suddenly serious. "It's us. It isn't over, Mira. But now... we're not alone."
I nod. My throat's tight.
Behind us Elijah whistles, mock-offended:
— "If you two could declare eternal love without shorting the gear, that'd be great."
Gunther laughs, a real one this time.
— "Let 'em be, Eli. First miracle since we started breathing underground."
Tinka, crouched on a crate, smiles half a smile.
— "Yeah. And the only miracle they won't be able to censor on TV."
The radio coughs one last breath, then Olivia again, clearer:
— "North Cell, hold position for the night. Tomorrow we'll send coordinates for next cells to link. And... congratulations, all of you. Hawk is reborn."
Ilya takes the mic, answers calm, professional:
— "Copy, West Base. Ending transmission for tonight."
Then he sets it down gently, like it's fragile.
Around us, no one moves much. We breathe, we laugh a little, we look at one another. It's like everyone realizes, at the same time, we just turned a piece of the world back on.
And this piece is ours.
---
The static fades for good, swallowed by the mine's wet walls.
The silence after is almost sacred—the kind that still vibrates with the sound it just took in.
Then, like a wave, joy arrives.
Olivia laughs first—warped, shaking, sliding into a sob. Her shoulders drop all at once, as if the world's weight slid off.
— "They did it. Damn it, they did."
Anya finally lets the breath go. Her eyes shine, mouth open like she wants to laugh and cry at once.
Mikel stands frozen, half-turned to the radio, unable to look away from the little light still blinking faintly.
It's over. Or rather, it's begun again.
Ilya's voice, the laughs he thought were gone, Mira's calm tone... alive.
He drags a hand over his face, starts laughing too without meaning to.
Not a full laugh yet—an airy burst, like air after a long dive.
Then he turns to Anya.
She's looking at him, still, one hand on the table. And in the yellow lamplight he realizes it's the first time he's seen her smile without strain, without hardness to bury fear.
That smile hits him dead center.
Simple. Real.
— "See?" he murmurs, a little breathless. "Told you."
She laughs too, shakes her head; a strand slips from her braid.
— "Yeah... you told me. And I was right to believe you."
Their eyes meet and before he thinks he's already moving.
Body before brain.
He pulls her in.
She barely startles—a fraction of a second—then her forehead finds the notch of his neck like it belongs there. Her hands find his jacket; her fingers hold tight.
The contact wipes him out.
Her warmth. Her smell. The quick beat of her heart against his chest.
He slides a hand into her hair without thinking, strokes lightly, hesitant, almost shy.
And she doesn't pull away.
Worse—or better—she answers.
Her arms fold around him, slowly, with that careful gentleness you use for gestures you haven't dared in a long time.
She leans in closer, breath warm against his throat.
The world drops away: radio, footsteps, laughter. Only this.
And in that suspended second, Mikel understands.
He's done for.
Completely, irrevocably lost.
Because he could live for that smile she gave him.
Because he won't forget the look she lifted to him before nestling in.
Because the way she holds him now, unhesitating, like she's handing him everything she's never said— that's it, he won't get free.
He holds her tighter, helpless to stop himself.
Fingers grip the rough canvas of her coat, nose in her hair. He murmurs, barely audible:
— "You've no idea... how much I needed you here."
Anya shifts, lifts her head. Her eyes are wet, but she's still smiling—that same smile that twists his gut.
— "I'm here," she says softly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
She rests her forehead back to his neck; her fingers tighten.
He closes his eyes.
And for the first time since the Citadel fell, he feels something other than fear.
A little ways off, Olivia watches in silence. Her face is peaceful, almost luminous in the lamplight.
She breathes, more to herself than to them:
— "At last... we breathe."
And in that cold mine, soaked with damp and shadow, Mikel finally feels a little warmth.
Not from the fire—no. From the kind that starts in your chest and doesn't go out.