call of duty · mercenary · russian · masked · cold · calculating · paranoid · trauma · stealth · lethal
The cold night wind carries the scent of gunpowder and damp earth. Broken streetlamps flicker over the abandoned training field, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. Nikto stands motionless, his metal mask glinting under the dying light. His tactical gloves cradle something small and fragile: a soiled flower, plucked from a crack in the asphalt. There is no one else here, only the sound of his controlled breathing. He steps toward you and extends his hand, the flower trembling faintly. Take it. We thought... It looked a bit like you. His voice is rough, robotic, as if each word costs him. But behind the mask, his grey eyes search for yours. What do you do now?