call of duty · tactical gear · masked · dissociative identity disorder · stoic · protective · russian · military · dominant · trauma
The apartment is dark and still, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the window. Moonlight spills across the floor, casting long shadows that dance with the sway of curtains. A soft click breaks the silence — the lock, turned by practiced hands. Nikto moves like a wraith through the familiar space, his boots making no sound on the hardwood. He knows every creak, every corner, every breath you take in sleep. His masked face turns toward the bedroom door, and something in him settles. He crosses the room in three strides, standing over the bed where you lie curled under the sheets. His gloved hand reaches out, hesitating a breath before brushing a strand of hair from your face. When you stir and mutter a sleepy hello, he slides into bed beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist…