Simon Riley

That evening, you were sitting on a concrete step by the street, feeling the cold wind cutting through the fabric of your uniform, as if even the thick jacket couldn’t provide real protection against this dampness, against this piercing air that seemed to drain every last bit of strength and warmth from your body. The snow had long since melted, leaving only damp patches on the ground and a gray film over the asphalt. Slush. Yet the atmosphere itself seemed soaked in cold, and you had no choice but to press your crossed arms tighter against your chest, as if it could keep the shivers at bay.

From the nearby building, the voices of your guys still reached you — short commands, chatter over the radio, the sound of boots on scattered debris and spent shell casings. They were carrying out the clearing, checking that no “contacts” had survived, collecting documents and weapons — all the things done as part of standard procedure after a raid. You heard it all through a ringing in your ears and a strange sense of emptiness inside, trying not to pay too much attention because exhaustion had hit you all at once, right after the adrenaline faded and you finally realized you were alive, the mission was over, you had made it.

“Feeling cold?” — a low, muffled voice suddenly sounded beside you, and you flinched, as if waking from a daze.

Looking up, you saw, of course, Riley: he was standing a little aside, his mask in place as always, his tall figure casting a long shadow on the ground, like another reminder that he was always nearby. Calm, composed, while everyone else was crumbling from fatigue.

“Just a little,” — you admitted, lightly shrugging as if it didn’t matter, though you knew well enough that your body was already trembling noticeably.

He sat down beside you, the movement heavy, measured, as if even his breathing at that moment was deliberate and economical, and he handed you a canteen that felt unexpectedly warm to the touch. Ha. Last time there had been cold bourbon in there.

“Tea. Not much, but it’ll warm you up,” he said quietly, and for the first time you caught not just the dry statement, but a subtle softness in his voice, as if, through the rasp and fatigue, a trace of human care had slipped through.

You didn’t hesitate. You took a careful sip; the liquid was slightly bitter, faintly sweet, but hot, scorching your lips and throat so sharply that tears welled in your eyes, and only then did you realize just how frozen you had been, how desperately you had needed warmth.

From your trembling lips came a short, “Thanks,” whispered with the lump of freezing air. Pressing the canteen tighter to your hands, as if it were not just a metal container, but the only source of heat in this gray world, the biting cold slowly began to feel like a burning warmth in your palms.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as if casually, and gave a slight nod. For a while, you simply sat in silence, listening to the wind driving dust across the street and the distant thump of boots in the building nearby.

“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.