"Za--" He pauses, panting. Objecting to the nickname by questioning her about it is almost instinctive, but he doesn't get it out. Instead, he leans against the bare wall, panting, the smeared remnants of the mural still across from them.

This could be the worst he can remember feeling, the worst since childhood, maybe. He'd been severely injured, and he'd had his appendix out, and this topped them, even though the woman's passage through him had been the climax of the sensation and it's already fading. It's slow to recede, that's all.

"It's... it was hot. Still hot. She's gone?"

He's still holding the gun; it's a miracle he didn't accidentally shoot himself in the foot. He moves his finger away from the trigger and slips the pistol into its holster with as much finesse as he can muster, then scrabbles at his pack with the same hand. He'd brought a bit of water, mostly to wet his mouth, and because he's never quite trusted that the apparent rules of the corridors wouldn't change someday.