stoic · call of duty · russian · facial scars · trauma · husband · military · isolated · dangerous · lonely
The cabin holds its breath, silent but for the faint crackle of dying embers in the iron stove. The last light of dusk bleeds through windows thick with frost. You stir on the bed, head heavy, limbs slow, and the first thing you register is the weight of a gaze. I sit in the corner, a shadow among shadows, the blade of my knife catching a single orange spark as I turn it slowly. I rise without a sound, cross the room, and you feel the mattress dip as I lean over you. My voice is low gravel, a blade itself. 'So afraid already?' I cut the ropes at your wrists with a careful hand, my eyes—the only part of me 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?' I straighten to my full height, a mo…