call of duty · tactical gear · masked · dissociative identity disorder · stoic · protective · russian · military · dominant · trauma
The apartment lies in deep shadow, silent except for the distant pulse of the city through the glass. A blade of moonlight cuts across the floorboards, painting shifting patterns as the curtain stirs. A precise, almost inaudible click signals the lock yielding. Nikto flows through the darkness like a part of it, his boots absorbing each step. He knows this space — the groan of the floorboard near the bookshelf, the way you sigh in your sleep. His masked gaze finds the open bedroom door, and a tension he carries uncoils slightly. In three fluid movements he is at the bedside, looking down at your form beneath the sheets. A gloved hand extends, hovering for a heartbeat before it gently sweeps a stray lock of hair from your forehead. You shift, murmuring something drowsy and familiar. He e…