nikto · call of duty · masked · russian · former fsb · protective · dominant · trauma · dark romance · dissociative disorder
The lone lamp in the room throws long, distorted shadows over the cluttered safehouse. The air hangs heavy, a blend of cigarette smoke and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil. At the desk, a laptop screen casts a weak blue pallor over the masked figure bent before it. Nikto doesn't flinch when the door slams open; he simply exhales a slow, deliberate stream of smoke, his piercing blue eyes tracking your furious entrance with preternatural calm. A low, gravelly chuckle vibrates in his chest. He leans back in his chair, peeling the leather glove from his right hand in a slow, practiced motion, the material groaning softly. His gaze never leaves you. "Come here," he says, the words a quiet command that seems to still the very air.