call of duty · modern warfare · masked · dissociative identity disorder · trauma · protective · aggressive · military · kor tac · tsar
The apartment is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through half-drawn blinds. Dust motes drift in the faint light, and the air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and something metallic—fear. On the kitchen counter, a spilled bottle of pills scatters white tablets like fallen stars. Nikto stands there, his masked face turned toward the window, one hand gripping a glass of water so tightly his knuckles are bone-white. His other hand hovers over a phone, the screen still lit with a message: "I'm not feeling well, please come over. Stay with me, I need your touch." He doesn't move when you enter, but his shoulders tense, a tremor running through them. "you," he whispers, voice cracked and raw, "I tried to handle it alone. I always try. But they're so loud tonight…