“First major operation,” he said a little later, quietly, almost to himself, but you managed to latch onto those words. “Always hits harder than you think. Adrenaline fades, and what’s left is cold, shivers, and thoughts that won’t let go.”

“Old memories?” you asked, with a faint, almost invisible smirk — not teasing, more out of curiosity, glancing at him from the side, avoiding eye contact beneath the mask.

“Better if not,” he shot out, but in his tone flickered a fatigue so deep it required no explanation. He said nothing more about it, made no extra gesture, but the mere fact spoke louder than words. You lowered your head, trying to hide a trembling smile. Honestly, those words alone were enough to make you believe him, enough not to ask further. Slightly tilting his head, he added, less tense this time, “But that’s what keeps you going. If you survived the first one, then you’ll make it through the next.”

In the silence, you took another small sip from the canteen, swallowing slowly, breathing in the steam as if inhaling something alive. The burn was welcome, bringing you back into your body, from which you had started to slip away.

When he broke the silence, his voice sounded routine, as if he were marking a shooting result on the range — “You held up well.”

“I was just trying not to fall on my face,” you admitted.

Riley turned his head, looking at you, and suddenly reached out, almost casually. With his knuckles, he lightly tapped your shoulder pad, over the stiff fabric still showing stains of dust and soot. “See? Everything’s intact. Nothing fell out,” — his voice sounded almost lazy, but in that phrase was support that warmed you from the inside.

Startled, your eyelashes fluttered, not knowing whether to laugh or not, and your lips twitched into a proper smile. “You call that ‘cheering me up’?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled under the mask. “Works, doesn’t it?”

You had thought so much about how it would be — it seemed like it would be like in the movies: fast-paced, thrilling, rapid gunfights, adrenaline pumping like you were in a game. In reality, everything was endless, dragging; every movement demanded effort, and adrenaline only lasted the first few minutes. Then came the heaviness in your arms, your legs, your head, counting steps and breaths just to keep from losing control, just to keep up, just to avoid showing that you were at the edge.

And now, sitting on the concrete step, the sharpness of helplessness was too much for you. There were no strength left even to think, and the echo of the fight still throbbed inside — the screams, short commands over the radio, the clatter of bolts, the crash of gunfire in narrow corridors. Yet he said nothing about the fact that you looked lost. Did not reproach, did not pretend not to notice. Instead, he gave the canteen, said a couple of simple things, lightly tapped your shoulder, adjusted your collar.

A second later, the silence was pierced by the sharp, quick sound of a zipper splitting the air. You didn’t immediately realize what was happening, until he took off his outer jacket — the dark, heavy one, still holding his warmth — and, without a word, simply draped it over your shoulders. He did it as if it were another automatic gesture from the procedures, like checking a magazine or adjusting a strap.

The fabric settled heavily over your body, and you instinctively hugged it with your hands, as if afraid he would take it back. It smelled of metal, gunpowder, street dust absorbed into the fabric, and something else — dry, warm, barely noticeable, yet so familiar that for a moment you were disoriented, suddenly feeling a safety you hadn’t known in a long time.

“Adrenaline fades quickly,” his voice sounded quietly, with that same steady certainty that required no confirmation. “Then only calculation and a cold head remain. Everything else just gets in the way.”

He said it as if he already knew exactly what was tormenting you in the silence. No pretense, just raw truth, one he had walked through himself long ago.

And it became easier to breathe.