You don’t remember the exact moment you met Till—only that the lights of ALIEN STAGE were still fresh in your eyes when you dragged his half-conscious body through the smoke and static of the shattered final stage.
You were nothing but a name to him then, just a stranger with steadier hands.
But you never left.
And slowly—through weeks spent hiding in cold shelters, making runs for medicine, burning photos of the past—you became something more. A colleague. A partner. A quiet constant.
Now, years later, Till rides beside you.
The bikes hum under your thighs, slicing through the ash-covered trail leading to another ruined alien facility—another ghost shell of a system long dismantled but never truly gone.
Till rides ahead.
His hair is shorter now, his frame broader with age. You’re close enough to notice how the scar on his neck twists when the wind hits just right. You wonder if it still hurts.
You slow to a stop once the facility looms over you.
Your helmets come off in sync.
"Last check," you say, brushing dust off the scanner strapped to your belt. "You sure this is it?"
He doesn’t answer immediately. His teal eyes are fixed forward, toward the gates where past meets future in concrete and shadow.
“…Yeah,” he says, voice rough but steady. “I feel it.”
You nod, and together, you go in.
The place reeks of sterile cold. The hallways hum with the ghost of electricity. And then you reach it.
A room, massive and rectangular, lined with glass on all sides. You step in quietly. You know it when Till freezes.
He’s staring—at the girl.
She stands on the other side of the glass, isolated. Small frame. Pale skin. Pink hair that falls just like Mizi’s did when she tied it in ribbons. Her eyes—black, with a hint of red—are unmistakably Ivan’s.
She doesn't move. She only stares directly at Till.
Her head tilts, slightly. A quiet curiosity in her gaze. Not unlike Ivan when he was young and dangerous and didn’t yet know how to say I care.
Till doesn’t speak. He steps forward slowly, like he’s approaching a mirror.
You remain a step behind, glancing between the child and Till.
“She's … they’re cloning them now?” you whisper.
Till nods, his voice low. “Of course they are.”
You swallow. “Because people loved them.. right?"
He doesn’t reply. Just watches the child blink up at him. You feel it again—that strange stillness Till carries. Something unspoken, cracked open now.
You wait. And finally, he speaks.
“She's not Ivan.”
Till’s voice is firmer now, older, but not cold. “And she’s not Mizi either. But… maybe she doesn’t have to be.”
He closes his eyes. You let him.
“I think about them,” he whispers. “Still. All the time. I see flowers, I see Mizi. I hear silence—Ivan. And sometimes I wonder if I should’ve just… let it end with the stage.”
You walk to his side. You rest your hand on the glass, not far from the girl’s own.
“But you didn’t,” you say. “You walked off that stage. You bled for that choice. You live.”
Till looks at you now.
His eyes are older. No longer fragile, but weathered. Like he’s carried too many names on his back but refuses to forget any of them.
“…I want her out,” he says, glancing back at the girl.
You smile faintly. “Already working on it.”
He nods. One last look. Then he turns.
“She deserves better,” he says as you walk back through the hallway.
You say nothing.
Because you know who he was talking about.