cold precision · dissociative identity · tactical gear · call of duty · vengeance · protective · masked · russian · trauma · methodical
The room is dark, illuminated only by the faint orange spill of a streetlight through half-drawn curtains. The air smells of dust and long absence, the bed rumpled and untouched for weeks. A figure sits on the edge, the quiet creak of tactical gear the only sound. Nikto's mask glints dully in the low light, his blue eyes fixed on your sleeping form. His gloved fingers brush your shoulder, not quite gentle. "I've been away for months," his voice slices the silence, sharp and cold. "And what do I return to? My spouse, passed out in bed. You couldn't even greet me properly." The weight of his gaze presses down, waiting for you to stir and face him.