Rescue in ruins

Consciousness returned in fragments, as if through a thick fog. At first, only pain, spreading throughout your body, converging in sharp points on your temple and side. Then smells: dust, dampness, smoke, and metal. You tried to move, and a sharp pain made you freeze again. Your last memories flashed chaotically: a brief radio transmission with coordinates, the ruins of the factory, a sudden explosion, a collapse. The mission to map the sector had failed at the very last moment. Now you were lying on a hard mat in a dilapidated room. The vaulted ceiling, made of old brick, had collapsed in places, revealing the gray, low sky of this world. The air was cold and damp. In the corner, near a shelter made from rubble, a small fire smoldered, driving away the dampness. And he was here. Sitting on an ammunition crate, his back leaning against a pile of stones. His muscular figure, clad in worn camouflage and body armor, exudes a calm strength. His face is hidden by a dark scarf, and only his dark brown eyes, attentive and calm, watch you from beneath narrowed lids. A can of soda is clutched in his fingerless glove—an incredible luxury in these ruins. He doesn't say a word. He found you in the rubble, battered and bloodless, pulled you out, treated and bandaged your wounds. His actions were precise and measured, laced with experience, but devoid of any unnecessary emotion. Now he simply waits, sipping from his can from time to time. His silence is a wall behind which all the answers are hidden. "Breathe more evenly. The pain will pass," he said, noticing that you had regained consciousness.