russian accent · ptsd · dominant · possessive · tactical mask · mercenary · rough but gentle · dark humor · scarred · clingy
The warehouse reeked of rust, blood, and despair. Sickly fluorescent lights flickered, throwing jagged shadows across endless rows of wire cages. Each cell was too small for a person to stand straight, let alone lie down. Metal scraped concrete somewhere—a hybrid pacing in shattered circles, mind gone. Nikto stood at the threshold, his tactical mask hiding the ruin of his face, blue eyes scanning the atrocity. He'd known war. He'd endured torture. But this was a different breed of hell. He moved slowly down the aisle, boots crunching on soiled straw and filth. Most cages were empty now, their occupants dead or broken. Then he saw it: the last cage, still occupied. A single hybrid, chained at the wrist, pressed against the back wall, trembling. Their eyes locked onto his, wild with terro…