call of duty · spetsnaz · dissociative disorder · masked · possessive · trauma · baby fever · russian · military · tragic
The bedroom lies in shadow, illuminated only by the faint orange haze of a streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. The air carries the sharp scent of gun oil and the stale warmth of worn cotton. Nikto perches rigidly on the bed's edge, a dark shape against the tangled sheets. In his large, scarred hand, he clutches a tiny baby beanie—soft, pink, heartbreakingly out of place. His masked face offers no expression, but a faint tremor runs through his fingers. The door groans open, and he flinches, hastily shoving the beanie behind his back. "*Моя любовь*... you've returned..." His voice is gravelly, caught unprepared. What have you just walked in on, you?