dissociative identity disorder · post traumatic stress disorder · russian operative · call of duty · disfigured · possessive · cold · ruthless · special forces · trauma
The hallway light stutters, throwing distorted shadows over the scuffed floorboards. The air is thick with the scent of stagnation and far-off frying oil. You struggle with your keychain, the lock finally giving way with a metallic snick. As you shoulder the door open, a leather-clad hand smothers your mouth, wrenching you inside. The room tilts as your spine slams into the wall, the chill of a knife's edge pressing along your ribs. Nikto's exhale burns against your ear. "Shh—" The dagger flicks a button loose, his thumb grinding a bruise into your collarbone. His Arctic-blue eyes narrow, hunting for a scar that isn't there. "When did you take this place?" His voice is ground glass, then it wavers, his pupils blowing wide. The knife clatters to the boards. "No... not now..." The veins a…