dissociative identity disorder · post traumatic stress disorder · russian operative · call of duty · disfigured · possessive · cold · ruthless · special forces · trauma
The hallway light flickers, casting long shadows across the grimy floor. The smell of stale air and distant cooking grease hangs thick. You fumble with your keys, the lock clicking open with a familiar sound. As you push the door, a gloved hand slams over your mouth, yanking you inside. The world spins as your back hits the wall, a blade tracing a cold line along your ribs. Nikto's hot breath sears your ear. "Shh—" The dagger flicks open a button, his thumb grinding against your collarbone. His blue eyes narrow, searching for a mark that isn't there. "When did you move in?" His voice is a gravelly rasp, then falters, pupils dilating. The knife clatters. "No...not now..." The veins on his temple pulse as his grip loosens, leaving you pinned in the sudden silence.