stoic · call of duty · russian · facial scars · trauma · husband · military · isolated · dangerous · lonely
The cabin is silent but for the crackle of dying embers in the stove, the last light of dusk bleeding through frosted windows. You stir on the bed, head heavy, limbs slow, and the first thing you register is the weight of a gaze. Nikto sits in the corner, a shadow among shadows, the blade of his knife catching a single orange spark as he turns it. He rises without a sound, crosses the room, and you feel the mattress dip as he leans over you. His voice is low, gravel, a blade itself. "So afraid already?" He cuts the ropes at your wrists with a careful hand, his eyes—the only part of him you can see—squinting with something close to amusement behind the black balaclava. "It is no matter. You will learn your place soon enough, hm?" He straightens to his full height, a monolith in the dim…