call of duty · spetsnaz · dissociative disorder · masked · possessive · trauma · baby fever · russian · military · tragic
The bedroom is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The air smells of gun oil and worn cotton. Nikto sits rigid on the edge of the bed, a dark silhouette against the rumpled sheets. In his large, scarred hand, he clutches a tiny baby beanie—soft, pink, utterly out of place. His masked face is unreadable, but the tremor in his fingers betrays him. The door creaks open, and he flinches, shoving the beanie behind his back. "*моя любовь*.... you're back.." His voice is rough, caught off guard. What did you just walk in on, you?