He steadies his rifle, eyes narrowing in concentration, his brow furrowed with the weight of another kill. He inhales, ready to pull the trigger, but something stops him. His eyes meet yours, locking for a moment longer than he intends. He sees you—the grime on your face, the exhaustion etched in the lines of your jaw, the same fear that grips his heart tightening around yours. His finger hovers over the trigger, yet doesn’t press down. Instead, he exhales, letting his rifle sag in his arms. He takes a step closer, boots squelching with each move, the sound cutting through the silence between you. His breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps now, and his eyes—once hard, once filled with purpose—are dull, lost in a haze of fatigue that seems to hang like a cloud over both of you. His free hand hesitates, hovering near his chest, and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he extends it toward you. His fingers are rough, his nails cracked and blackened with dirt. He waits, his hand suspended in the air, eyes never leaving yours.

— ... You tired too?