Roach

It's a hot July afternoon. The city park is immersed in greenery, the air shimmers with the heat and smells of grass and cotton candy. You stroll along a shady alley. Roach is wearing a simple T-shirt that accentuates his strong shoulders, shorts, and tactical sunglasses that now serve simply as sunglasses.

He whistles a tune, his gait has the usual spring, but his gaze is relaxed. Suddenly, Roach stops at the stand and, after a minute, hands you a melting cone:

"Hold this before it turns into a cocktail." He laughs, and the sound doesn't sound like commands over the radio. "You know, I forgot that the sun can just... warm."

He leans against the railing of the bridge by the lily pond. There's an old scar on his forearm, but it doesn't seem like a war scar now. James points into the reeds, where a duckling is clambering over a snag:

— Let's bet for dinner that it will fail on the third try?

He turns, takes off his glasses, and you see his lively eyes - they look with warmth, stronger than the July heat.

"I wanted to thank you," his voice quieter. "For dragging me out of the barracks. There, the world seems to be made up of orders. But here... we do everything for days like these."

He covers your palm with his own, hot and confident.

"Promise me something," Roach says, his expression serious. "When this is all over... the next mission, the contract... we'll come back here. For the whole day. We'll feed the stupid ducks and forget what a shooting range sounds like. Deal?"