The Boy Who Still Believed
The helicopter lifted slowly, the city shrinking beneath us as the rotors carved violent circles into the ash-filled sky. From above, the streets looked strangely quiet, as if the destruction belonged to another place entirely. Buildings stood broken like hollow shells, their windows dark and empty, smoke drifting between them in slow grey rivers. War always looked calmer from a distance.
Luca sat across from me, one hand pressed carefully against the bandage on his forehead. The inside of the helicopter vibrated constantly, filling the cabin with a low mechanical roar that made conversation difficult. Around us, other survivors sat in silence. Some clutched injured limbs, others simply stared at the metal floor as if trying to understand how they had ended up here.
I leaned my head against the cold wall and closed my eyes for a moment. For weeks the ground had been shaking beneath my feet. Now it was gone entirely.
"You look like someone who has forgotten how to sleep," Luca said.
"That's because I have."
"That's unhealthy."
"So is war."
He studied me for a moment before glancing toward the small window beside him. Outside, the city faded into distant grey shapes. Beyond the smoke, forests stretched toward the horizon, dark and silent. Somewhere in those trees, animals were probably still moving through their routines, unaware of the borders humans had decided to destroy.
Before the war, I had spent mornings photographing birds along the riverbanks. I used to wait hours for the perfect moment—light breaking through branches, wings cutting across the sky. Now the only birds I saw were fleeing.
"You're angry," Luca said suddenly.
I opened my eyes. "That's a strange observation."
"It isn't strange if you listen."
"To what?"
"The way you talk about God."
I let out a quiet breath. "I don't talk about God."
"You just did."
I turned toward the window again. Clouds were forming above the coastline in the distance, pale against the fading afternoon light. For a moment the sky looked almost peaceful.
"Before the war," Luca continued, "I thought people turned to faith during difficult times."
"And now?"
"Now I think difficult times reveal what people already believe."
I looked back at him. "And what do you think I believe?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead he watched me carefully, as if trying to read something hidden behind my expression.
"You believe someone is responsible," he said eventually. "You just don't believe that someone is God."
"That's because if God is responsible," I replied quietly, "He's doing a terrible job."
Luca smiled faintly. "You're not the first person to think that."
"But you disagree."
"I think suffering doesn't prove God doesn't exist," he said. "It only proves the world is complicated."
"That sounds like something priests say when they don't have answers."
"That's exactly what it is."
Despite myself, I laughed. The sound felt unfamiliar in my chest.
"You're honest," I said.
"I'm tired," he corrected.
For a while we sat in silence, listening to the steady roar of the helicopter blades. Across the cabin, two soldiers spoke quietly near the cockpit. One of them occasionally glanced back toward us, his gaze lingering on the civilians as if trying to memorize our faces.
Adrian Volkov stood near the open side door, one hand gripping the metal frame while he studied the landscape below. Even from behind, he was impossible to ignore. Tall, still, controlled. The wind tugged slightly at the dark fabric of his uniform coat, but he barely moved. He looked less like a soldier and more like a statue someone had placed in the middle of a storm.
Luca followed my gaze. "That's the officer who pulled people out of the building."
"Yes."
"He seems calm."
"That's one word for it."
"What word would you use?"
I watched Adrian speak briefly to one of the pilots, his expression unchanged. "Dangerous."
Luca frowned. "He saved people."
"That doesn't make him safe."
At that moment Adrian turned slightly, his grey eyes sweeping across the cabin. For half a second they landed on me before moving on. The pause was deliberate.
Luca noticed. "He knows you lied."
"Yes."
"Are you worried?"
"Of course."
"Then why lie?"
I looked down at the thin gold necklace resting against my collarbone. Because my real name felt too heavy now. Because the world I belonged to before the war no longer existed. Because sometimes survival meant becoming someone else.
"Because the truth is dangerous," I said.
Luca didn't respond. Instead he looked out the window again. The coastline was closer now. Dark cliffs dropped sharply into the sea below, waves crashing against the rocks in violent white spray. Farther out, a small island appeared on the horizon.
Even from a distance it looked wrong. Too orderly.
Tall radar towers rose from the rocky ground, and long fences stretched across the narrow shoreline. Military vehicles moved slowly along the main road near the dock.
Luca leaned closer to the window. "That doesn't look like a hospital."
"It isn't."
The helicopter began to descend. As we approached the island, the sound of waves grew louder beneath the roar of the rotors. Soldiers were already waiting near the landing zone, their silhouettes sharp against the grey sky.
"Where are they taking us?" Luca asked quietly.
I watched the island grow larger beneath us—barbed wire fences, concrete barracks, watchtowers staring down at the coastline.
It looked less like a rescue and more like a cage.
"I don't know," I said.
The helicopter touched down hard, sending a vibration through the metal floor. The doors opened immediately, and cold sea wind rushed inside. Soldiers began directing civilians out one by one.
"Move," one of them said.
Luca stood carefully, still leaning slightly on my shoulder as we stepped onto the landing platform. The smell of saltwater mixed with fuel in the air. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, dark and restless beneath the fading sun.
For a moment I imagined how the scene would look through my camera lens; the harsh angles of the watchtowers, the line of frightened civilians walking toward the barracks, the officer standing perfectly still while everyone else moved around him.
Adrian Volkov waited near the edge of the landing zone. As each person passed, his eyes flicked briefly toward their faces.
When it was my turn, he stopped me with a small gesture.
"Jane," he said.
The name sounded strange in his voice.
"Yes?"
He studied me for a moment. "People usually lie for one of two reasons," he said calmly. "Fear or strategy."
I forced myself not to look away. "And which one do you think this is?"
His expression remained unreadable.
"That," he said quietly, "is what I intend to find out."
Behind us the sea crashed against the cliffs, and for the first time since the war began, I had the uncomfortable feeling that the most dangerous part of my story had only just begun.